For Esme- With Love and Squalor by J.D. Salinger by Salinger J. D

Author:Salinger, J. D. [Salinger, J. D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Author), Classics, stories, Fiction, (Single, Adult, Short
Amazon: B004M61ZQ6
Goodreads: 130461611
Publisher: Hamish Hamilton
Published: 1953-04-06T08:00:00+00:00

Pretty Mouth and Green My Eyes

WHEN the phone rang, the gray-haired man asked the girl, with quite some little deference, if she would rather for any reason he didn’t answer it. The girl heard him as if from a distance, and turned her face toward him, one eye—on the side of the light—closed tight, her open eye very, however disingenuously, large, and so blue as to appear almost violet. The grayhaired man asked her to hurry up, and she raised up on her right forearm just quickly enough so that the movement didn’t quite look perfunctory. She cleared her hair back from her forehead with her left hand and said, “God. I don’t know. I mean what do you think?” The gray-haired man said he didn’t see that it made a helluva lot of difference one way or the other, and slipped his left hand under the girl’s supporting arm, above the elbow, working his fingers up, making room for them between the warm surfaces of her upper arm and chest wall. He reached for the phone with his right hand. To reach it without groping, he had to raise himself somewhat higher, which caused the back of his head to graze a comer of the lampshade. In that instant, the light was particularly, if rather vividly, flattering to his gray, mostly white, hair. Though in disarrangement at that moment, it had obviously been freshly cut—or, rather, freshly maintained. The neckline and temples had been trimmed conventionally close, but the sides and top had been left rather more than just longish, and were, in fact, a trifle “distinguished-looking.” “Hello?” he said resonantly into the phone. The girl stayed propped up on her forearm and watched him. Her eyes, more just open than alert or speculative, reflected chiefly their own size and color.

A man’s voice—stone dead, yet somehow rudely, almost obscenely quickened for the occasion—came through at the other end: “Lee? I wake you?”

The gray-haired man glanced briefly left, at the girl. “Who’s that?” he asked.

“Arthur?”

“Yeah—I wake you?”

“No, no. I’m in bed, reading. Anything wrong?” “You sure I didn’t wake you? Honest to God?”

“No, no—absolutely,” the gray-haired man said. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been averaging about four lousy hours—”

“The reason I called, Lee, did you happen to notice when Joanie was leaving? Did you happen to notice if she left with the Ellenbogens, by any chance?”

The gray-haired man looked left again, but high this time, away from the girl, who was now watching him rather like a young, blue-eyed Irish policeman. “No, I didn’t, Arthur,” he said, his eyes on the far, dim end of the room, where the wall met the ceiling. “Didn’t she leave with you?”

“No. Christ, no. You didn’t see her leave at all, then?”

“Well, no, as a matter of fact, I didn’t, Arthur,” the gray-haired man said. “Actually, as a matter of fact, I didn’t see a bloody thing all evening. The minute I got in the door, I got myself involved in one long Jesus of a session with that French poop, Viennese poop—whatever the hell he was.

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