may not live to make it, but it's fun trying." Frances liked the girl's quick self-deriding smile. "I'm Mary Baker, by the way. I have a crazy jobtelevision promotion."
"That sounds exciting."
"It's a living."
"Anything is better than washing dishes," Frances said. "Miss Bakeror is it Mrs. Baker?"
"Miss. My friends call me Bake."
"I'm Frances Ollenfield." And what did names matter, Frankie Kirby or Mrs. William Ollenfield, when you met someone you really liked? "Look," she said, "why does the instructor start with Lawrence?"
"He said why. Because Lawrence was the first to express what other people knew but were afraid to give words to," Mary Baker said. "Sex, of course, but other things too. He knew how people really feel about things, not how they think they ought to feel. He helped smash the old taboos. That's why he's great, even if he did write badly sometimes."
"He's dated."
"Yes." Bake's face hardened. "Not as much as you think, though. We've got a long way to go."
Frances looked down at her hands. "Did you get to the place where Mrs. Morel sits in the garden, wondering where her life has gone tofeeling as though her whole life had been lived by somebody else?"
"I remember it. Do you feel like that?"
The question came so simply that she had no time to be embarrassed. "Sometimes."
"It's a great pity," Bake said softly. "Life is so short, it's too bad not to get the most out of every single second."
Easier said than done, Frances thought.
Through the class hour she kept stealing looks at the girl beside her. A stranger. But not a stranger somehow; like someone known before, and to be better known. She liked Bake's clear firm profile under the short hair, her good nose and solid chin, the way her neck rose out of the white collar. She liked the way Bake sat with her shoulders back and her feet firmly planted. By contrast, Frances felt colorless and insipid.
It seemed natural to have Bake suggest that they go out for a drink when the class hour was over. This was like high schoolgirls wandering off to the snack shop or soda fountain after hours. (But not skinny shabby little Frankie Kirby from the mines, ever.) They went to a little place just off campus, and Bake ordered Martinis.
"But I don't drink."
"You'll have to learn. You need to loosen up."
The drink was cold and faintly bitter. It made Frances feel alert and relaxed at the same time. She listened while Bake talked about books, about Lawrence. "Read The Rainbow . It's not on Kemper's list, but it's one of the best." She mentioned an argument she had had with a man who had known Lawrence in New Mexico, a newspaperman whose syndicated column Frances read every week. "You meet all kinds of people on a job like mine. Some of the famous ones are slobs. But some are fascinating.”
"It sounds wonderful."
"It's all right."
Four girls came in together and sat down at the next table. One gave Bake a curious look, raised a hand in greeting, then turned away. Bake's mouth hardened. "I've got to be going. Can I drop you somewhere?"
"Oh no, the bus is handy."
"Come on, I'll drive you home."
She drove fast and well. Frances, who usually sat clutching the edge of the seat if Bill went over fifty, realized that they were well over the speed limit, but she felt no anxiety. They took the short drive in companionable silence. When they drew up in front of her house she found herself looking at it through Bake's eyes: a stodgy middle-class dwelling for dull people.
"I hate this place," Frances said. "But what can you dowith the housing shortage."
"It doesn't matter. I'll see you Friday."
Frances felt her face grow warm. "I'll buy you a drink then."
"Good enough."
Bake waved, turned the car around skillfully, and sped away, her left arm hanging negligently out of the open window. Frances stool watching until she turned the corner. Then she went inside, feeling more exhilarated than one drink could account for, and knelt down in front of the bookcase to look
"That sounds exciting."
"It's a living."
"Anything is better than washing dishes," Frances said. "Miss Bakeror is it Mrs. Baker?"
"Miss. My friends call me Bake."
"I'm Frances Ollenfield." And what did names matter, Frankie Kirby or Mrs. William Ollenfield, when you met someone you really liked? "Look," she said, "why does the instructor start with Lawrence?"
"He said why. Because Lawrence was the first to express what other people knew but were afraid to give words to," Mary Baker said. "Sex, of course, but other things too. He knew how people really feel about things, not how they think they ought to feel. He helped smash the old taboos. That's why he's great, even if he did write badly sometimes."
"He's dated."
"Yes." Bake's face hardened. "Not as much as you think, though. We've got a long way to go."
Frances looked down at her hands. "Did you get to the place where Mrs. Morel sits in the garden, wondering where her life has gone tofeeling as though her whole life had been lived by somebody else?"
"I remember it. Do you feel like that?"
The question came so simply that she had no time to be embarrassed. "Sometimes."
"It's a great pity," Bake said softly. "Life is so short, it's too bad not to get the most out of every single second."
Easier said than done, Frances thought.
Through the class hour she kept stealing looks at the girl beside her. A stranger. But not a stranger somehow; like someone known before, and to be better known. She liked Bake's clear firm profile under the short hair, her good nose and solid chin, the way her neck rose out of the white collar. She liked the way Bake sat with her shoulders back and her feet firmly planted. By contrast, Frances felt colorless and insipid.
It seemed natural to have Bake suggest that they go out for a drink when the class hour was over. This was like high schoolgirls wandering off to the snack shop or soda fountain after hours. (But not skinny shabby little Frankie Kirby from the mines, ever.) They went to a little place just off campus, and Bake ordered Martinis.
"But I don't drink."
"You'll have to learn. You need to loosen up."
The drink was cold and faintly bitter. It made Frances feel alert and relaxed at the same time. She listened while Bake talked about books, about Lawrence. "Read The Rainbow . It's not on Kemper's list, but it's one of the best." She mentioned an argument she had had with a man who had known Lawrence in New Mexico, a newspaperman whose syndicated column Frances read every week. "You meet all kinds of people on a job like mine. Some of the famous ones are slobs. But some are fascinating.”
"It sounds wonderful."
"It's all right."
Four girls came in together and sat down at the next table. One gave Bake a curious look, raised a hand in greeting, then turned away. Bake's mouth hardened. "I've got to be going. Can I drop you somewhere?"
"Oh no, the bus is handy."
"Come on, I'll drive you home."
She drove fast and well. Frances, who usually sat clutching the edge of the seat if Bill went over fifty, realized that they were well over the speed limit, but she felt no anxiety. They took the short drive in companionable silence. When they drew up in front of her house she found herself looking at it through Bake's eyes: a stodgy middle-class dwelling for dull people.
"I hate this place," Frances said. "But what can you dowith the housing shortage."
"It doesn't matter. I'll see you Friday."
Frances felt her face grow warm. "I'll buy you a drink then."
"Good enough."
Bake waved, turned the car around skillfully, and sped away, her left arm hanging negligently out of the open window. Frances stool watching until she turned the corner. Then she went inside, feeling more exhilarated than one drink could account for, and knelt down in front of the bookcase to look
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