Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me Read Free Page B

Fruit-of-the-Loom underwear from a foraging at Bloomingdale’s, an extra pair of corduroy pants, a 1920’s baseball cap, a Hohner F harmonica, six venison loin chops, and an arbitrary number of recently severed and salted rabbits’ feet.
    Flipping through the ads of the unbought Athené
Globe
at the bus terminal, he had come across the number 109 in the list of apartments available for the spring term. He hovered before it now, panting from the climb, evaluating, doing the geometry of escape routes, counting windows and doors. The house was a red frame structure, American Gothic, freshly painted, white trim, Swiss drolleries carved around the window boxes. Touch of the pastoral, pleasant to wake in May with a scalding hangover, lean back your head and breathe forget-me-nots.
    He knocked timidly and was greeted by the thinnest bone of a girl he had ever seen. Terrycloth robe with kitty-fluff on the collar, long brown pigtails tied with yellow rubberbands, no eyebrows.
    “You came about the flat?”
    British. Murderess of Cypriot peasants; innate antagonist, be careful. Lie: “My name is Ian Evergood, miss, you’re quite correct. Could I have a look?”
    “It’s a mess; we’re just moving up over Student Laundries, you know where that is?”
    My God, wearing high heels with the robe, anything under? Be discreet. “I’m not sure, I’ve been away for over a year, they’re always shifting things about. Splendid flat, this.”
    “It does me.”
    Devilishly clever, flat in there instead of pad. She’s looking at me. “Been on a bit of a hunting trip. The Adirondacks. You’ll have to forgive my appearance.”
    “Hunting? You mean animals?”
    “Rather.”
    “How appalling. Killing small things that can’t fight back?”
    “There was a wolf, you see. A marauding bear.”
    “A bear? Really? Won’t you come all the way in, no sense standing in the hall.”
    “Quartered three children before I got him. Ghastly business. Made a topping shot, though.”
    “Are you British?”
    “Greek.”
    “Oh.”
    Too late, could have said anything. Have another try, “Mountbatten blood in the family. Is the place furnished?”
    “Two of the bucket chairs belong to them,” she said, nodding at the bolted French doors that led into the neighbors’ quarters. “One is mine, and that butterfly thing. I could sell it if you really wanted, they’re not comfortable; at least not for sitting.”
    For what, then? The flesh over her eyes arching the way her eyebrows might have arched. Worth a try. I hear water boiling, free food. “I’d need it, all the same. Here, you’re not making tea? I only came by to see—”
    “That’s quite all right. Take a look ‘round, you’re the first to come.” Going off into the kitchen, Jesus, wearing stockings as well. “You take cream and sugar?”
    “Everything.” There was no bedroom but a section at the far end of the room had been partitioned off with bamboo shades, a bad sign. Still, everything else looked good, rice-paper globes on the lamps, white walls, a Navajo rug, roomy couch, fireplace. Have a look at the kitchen.
    “My name’s Pamela,” she told him, pouring through a wooden sieve into handleless cups. The robe open slightly at her throat, kitty-fluff parting enough to reveal a blond chest hair, which caused a spasm of lust.
    “What school are you in?” between cups.
    “Astronomy,” he lied. “Theories of origin, expanding galaxies, quantum mechanics, that sort of thing. You?”
    “Architecture.”
    “How come you’re not living in the dorms?” Hopefully.
    “I’m fifth-year. Do you like the kitchen? There’s an enormous fridge, and they give you all your silver. Is your name truly Evergood?”
    “Took Mother’s name when Father entered the Benedictines.”
    “Ah. I didn’t mean to pry.”
    “Not at all. Sends me brandy, monk-bread, you know. Smashing tea, this. Pamela what?”
    “Watson-May. But did you really kill a marauding bear? I mean, isn’t