The Polka Dot Nude Read Free

love modern poetry,” I said encouragingly.
    “By modern poetry, I don’t mean contemporary poetry,” he pointed out. “The modern era in poetry begins at the time of World War I.”
    “I know. Yeats, Eliot, Auden—I love them all. Much better than the contemporary poets. Of course Hopkins precedes the usual date given. The father of them all, in my opinion,” I added firmly. An inner wince stabbed me. I was doing it again, as if I were back in college, staking my claim to intellectual equality, and depressing any hope of romantic involvement in the process. Why couldn’t I gush, like other women?
    “Right. Naturally.” He drained the bottle of beer and rose to that glorious height of six feet, two or three inches. In my moccasins, I hardly came to his neck. It wasn’t often I could physically look up to a man. “It was nice to meet you, Audrey. We’ll be bumping into each other from time to time, being neighbors.”
    I had a sinking feeling any meetings would be purely accidental. Gush, dammit! You don’t learn to gush in two minutes. The voice that came out of my mouth was as cold as frost. “I’ll be hunched over my typewriter most of the time.” I could feel my damned eyebrow lift in that way that makes me look haughty.
    He smiled easily—almost intimately. “I’ll know where to find you then.” It must be wonderful to be so full of yourself you didn’t recognize a putdown when you heard one.
    I made another stab at gushing. “Great. If you want to borrow anything, feel free to call. A cup of sugar, typewriter, dictionary . . ."
    “I brought all those things with me. Bye.” He smiled again and ducked his head out of the door.
    Idiot! How long has it been since you met a man taller than you, with a job, and a clean shave and a car newer than 1970? A man who speaks real English, and gets his butt off the chair when you come into the room? Not since last June, when you met Garth Schuyler. But do you know enough to smile? No, you meet him at the door in dirty jeans and falling-apart slippers, and can’t let him patronize you a little. You have to go dragging in Gerard Manley Hopkins. You couldn’t name one poem Hopkins wrote. You hated Hopkins worse than Eliot. Helen was right: You shouldn’t let your brains go to your head. You should detour them to your hormones; big sister knows best.
    I went to the window and stood behind the curtains to watch him unpack his car. Beautiful matching bags. Vuitton luggage, for God’s sake. A case of wine, more cartons than you’d think that little trunk could hold. A hi-fl, no TV. Records—probably Beethoven. The trunk of my own rusty Ford had come full of research, typewriter, TV, and one plaid soft-walled suitcase of clothes. I hadn’t even brought a coffeepot, and I planned to survive largely on coffee. Luckily Simcoe’s cottage came equipped with an antique aluminum pot, with a little glass bubble on top.
    These feelings of inadequacy weren’t good for me. I went back to the table and started to read over the five pages of Queen of Hearts written so far. That was the working title of Rosalie’s book. I had about umpteen compound sentences in a row, and marked them for revision. When I looked at my watch, it was five o’clock. I had intended to call Bell about getting a phone installed, but Brad’s visit put it out of my mind. An editor (or a handsome neighbor for that matter) couldn’t call me if he wanted to. Nobody else would. The family were the only other ones who knew where I was.
    The next thing to consider was food—whether to fry a couple of eggs here or drive into town for a hamburger. While I stood staring at the carton of eggs, there was a wrap at the door, and Brad peeked his head in.
    “Me again. Have you eaten?”
    I was startled that he’d come back, and so soon. “No.”
    “Good—don’t. I’m simmering a boeuf bourguignon. It should be ready in a couple of hours. Why don’t you come over around six-thirty and we’ll have a