Second Generation Read Free

there was the memory of Professor Franklin's Sociology II, where he made the point that the rich are incapable of understanding the rich. It had been a non sequitur then, and now suddenly it made sense. A gallon of ice cream, melted, could only be thrown away.
"Mother," she said, "the ice cream is melting."
Jean's slight smile remained unchanged. She was watching her husband, and Barbara realized that her mother heard nothing Whittier was saying, nothing she was saying. The ice cream continued to melt.
"As for Harry Bridges," Whittier was saying, "if there were law and order in this city, he'd be behind bars. Oh, yes, behind bars."
Barbara was in bed, reading Gertrude Stein's Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, intrigued, fascinated by a world so distant and different, when the door opened and Jean entered the room. She wore a dressing gown of pale pink velvet and she had removed her make-up, and as far as Barbara was concerned, it only enhanced her face. If she were as beautiful as her mother, she would never touch make-up. She put down the book, and Jean came to the bed and sat down beside her. Jean picked up the book and glanced at it.
"Like it?"
"I like to pretend I'm in Paris."
"The question is, darling, are you glad to be back in San Francisco?"
"I think so. Yes."
"You mustn't mind John. He's terribly upset. People in his position develop a tremendous feeling of power. I know the feeling, and now, with the waterfront closed down as it is, he's utterly frustrated. This is hardly the best side of him."
"Mother—"
"It used to be 'mummy.' "
"I know. I'm twenty years old."
Jean was smiling.
"So you mustn't laugh at me."
"I wouldn't dream of laughing at you. But you're so very serious."
"Yes," Barbara agreed. "I guess I'm forcing myself to be serious because I have been trying to get up the courage to talk about this—"
"Baby, we can talk about anything. You know that."
"We can't," Barbara protested almost plaintively. "You're my mother. It's just not true that we can talk about anything."
Jean stopped smiling. "Try."
"All right. I want a place of my own."
"What do you mean by a place of your own?"
"My own apartment. I can't live here."
Jean sighed. "The truth is, you don't live here—I mean in reality, my dear. Think about it. You're away at school. It's only the few summer months. And your horse is down in Menlo Park, and you can stay at the club there whenever you wish—and if I know you, you'll be practically living there. You do have your car, so I just don't understand what you mean."
"You don't want to understand what I mean."
"No, that's not fair. Put yourself in my position, Barbara. You tell me that you want an apartment of your own—but why? You're comfortable here. You have everything you could possibly want. You come and go as you please, and whatever you may feel about John, he certainly doesn't restrict your movements or impose any discipline on you."
"That's not it."
"Then tell me what it is."
"This isn't my home. It never has been my home."
"Why? Because you don't like John?"
"Please, please don't get angry with me, mother," Barbara begged her. "You said we could talk. It's not easy for me to explain what I feel. There's a teacher at school, Professor Carl Franklin, who conducts a seminar in sociology, and he said the Embarcadero was a slave market, different, but no better and no worse than the old Negro slave markets in the East, and I was so indignant I almost walked out of the class, because really, they don't think we're quite civilized out here."
"I don't see what that has to do with it," Jean said. "The Embarcadero is not a slave market. The longshoremen are well paid and their demands are utterly preposterous. And what on earth has this to do with your wanting an apartment of your own?"
"Like the ice cream at dinner," Barbara said hopelessly.
"What on earth! The ice cream at dinner?"
"Don't you see? There was that enormous brick of ice cream, and we just sat there and let it melt down while John