The Theoretical Foot. M. F. K. Fisher
and tilted her head proudly. They’ll all probably be horribly smart and clever—Joe was always quoting what had been said or done or eaten at La Prairie. The only thing she could think of was to try not to sniff and to pretend that her green tweed skirt had just been whisked out of an enormous wardrobe trunk, after much pondering by her of what to wear. If she held herself well she’d look taller and more unwrinkled and it was—as she remembered—always wiser not to talk.
“Look, Sue!” Joe tried to jiggle her on his cramped knees. “Do you see? There! You can see the roof now.”
Sue nodded silently.
To their left, a little past the tree and hidden by the bulk of the old monestery, a driveway forked from the road and sank rapidly out of sight between two plain and heavy gateposts. Sara flicked the car expertly through them, cut off the engine, then coasted slowly down a short steep incline to the open garage.
On the right and above their heads was the road wall. The ground sloped downward so abruptly that on their left they looked into the tops of aged apple trees heavy with green fruit and the feathery empurpled bows of prune and plum. Under them wound a steep path past an old square basin-like watering trough. Sue could hear the steady trickle of its spout.
Susan sighed. Joe was right. It was lovely, lovely. She felt that this might really be the place where all her turmoil would be calmed, where she could find help for her every present need and trouble and worry.
“Hey! Where is everyone? Isn’t anybody hungry?” Sue listened to Sara’s calling out to the others, then lay back in Joe’s strong arms looking at the house as avidly as if she might never see it again.
The garage was attached to the house, then it dropped with the slope of the land so that the front was almost two stories below, facing a terrace where there was a steadily flowing fountain. There were only two windows, one on either level, each filled with a luxuriant splash of tumbling, flickering petunias, white and deep purple. The walls were almost dust-colored, the shutters a muted green, above was the soft clay-red of the tiles of the roof. Sue felt a fastidious pleasure that the tones were right, as right as her own intuitive selections of greens and whites to blend with her gray eyes and her brown skin and her wild and sun-bleached hair.
Which room would I have, she wondered, if I were a good woman and could stay here? Joe says the house is long, stretched out facing the lake. Where is the lake? It must be very far below. What about this horrid woman who was making life difficult, making Sara Porter and me into whores? That’s too funny. I wonder if she really means it?
Sara banged on the auto’s horn, almost crossly, then sat back. Nothing happened. The fountain sounded clearly in the silent air and a little puffing breeze filled their nostrils with the scent of bees and rotting fruit.
“I don’t know where everybody is. I thought they’d be out in the road looking starved . . .”
“How about my carrying all this in anyway, Sara?” Joe asked and flicked open the door with his elbow, shoving Sue off his lap and out gently, then unfolding himself rather stiffly from the small, low car. He looked with exaggerated amazement at the piles of paper bags and the heaped bundles in the back.
“My God! Well, at least we’ll eat!”
“Don’t rub it in,” Sara told him mildly. “I can’t help it if the house is full. Or if you and Sue are shameless. Or if one of my guests . . .?”
“Hell, I’m sorry, Sara. I’m the rat.”
“Yes, you are,” she said.
Sue listened with astonishement as the two talked quietly, all the while Sara piling packages on Joe’s enormous outstretched arms. He was blinking beatifically about him like a happy dog. She followed to look over the tiles of the sloping roof again and into the dark exciting squares of the flowered windows, on into the fruit-filled treetops.
She had never before heard him talk in such a relaxed way. With her he was almost always making love, fervent, demanding, and, with the people they had met this summer in the south of France and in the little taverns of Bavaria, he had always been passionately angry or excited or upset. His low voice—although it had never grown either loud or shrill—had always rushed and pressed upon her, whether with its own desires or with its angers against the extreme injustices others were witnessing on a daily basis. But now it was somnolent and amused.
She knew that if she were not so filled with shyness and the certainty of having to sniff or blow her nose within the next few minutes she might be jealous of Joe’s happiness being found in something besides Sue herself, jealous too of Sara Porter and all these surroundings that made Joe so beamish.
She wondered why Sara called him Giuliano, as she did occasionally. Did it mean something secret between them? Sara seemed simple but was she, beneath her quiet manners, actually a grasping woman, a bitch?
Oh, please don’t let Sara be a bitch, Sue prayed frantically. She’s got to be nice! She’s got to help me. The boat sails in seven days and I know Joe wants me to be on it, so why does he keep begging me not to go? And why do I want him to beg me not to leave him? It’s too cruel, cruel. She’s got to help me and soon.
“Here, Susan, give a hand,” Sara was telling her.
Sue flushed. How could she have stood there so stupidly while they worked? What would they think of her? She sniffed and picked up a bag of tomatoes with awkward haste. As the bag split open, she stood staring in horror at a dozen round red devils rolling merrily down in to the dim garage.
But Sara laughed and said, “Don’t you mind, Sue! They’re that much nearer the kitchen. Here, take these instead.” She piled three packages expertly in Sue’s arms and said, “Come on, we’ll let Daniel get the rest.”
Instead of taking the steep path past the watering basin, Sara now led them into the cool garage and through a door in the far wall.
Sue and Joe followed her gingerly down some twisting steps, peering as best they could over their bundles into the cool darkness of the unfamiliar stairway. The house smelled fresh and airy and was quite without signs of life.
Sara stopped at the bottom of the stairs and they stood for a minute, listening. Susan stirred, hoping that they would not notice how her heart was thumping. Who would appear in this strange place? What would happen next? She felt like a lost child waiting for goblins from the depths.
Suddenly a door crashed open in the little hall in which they stood. Susan looked at the tiled floor, soft green and light gray, and then at the green wooden door and then let her eyes ride up the interminable length of legs of the one who stood there, legs hung with mussed thin cotton pajamas. They did not move. The hips were small and properly tied about with crumpled cloth and the thin lank torso was brown and wide-shouldered and as naked as it was born, and now Susan felt herself to be staring into blinking and bloodshot green eyes.
In the half-second before he’d stut the door with a mumble that sounded rather like jzza en sczzmhm, Susan had decided that this was the darlingest, but the darlingest, boy she had ever seen.
She stood, ecstatically blank, seeing clearly against the soft green wood the rangy figure who’d been standing there, and she could easily imagine his half-shut eyes, as the sleepy garble of astonishment rang again in her ears with all the clarity of a French train whistle, all the magic sonority of an organ in a dim cathedral.
She flattened her flat little belly and reached with her one free hand, without even knowing it, for Joe’s handkerchief. She needed a good blow. Her heart thumped delightedly.
“We’ll put these things in the kitchen,” Sara muttered. “Damn that lazy boy anyway! Oh, hello, Nor.” She nodded at the tall girl who was arising slowly from the blue velvet chaise longue upon which she had been stretched. “We’ll drop these