The Theoretical Foot Read Free Page B

looked at her watch and smiled at Sue and Joe before she turned to the waiter, “. . . and then in exactly seven minutes, three more, please.”
    Susan stirred herself to protest, permitting herself a quiet, rather unsatisfactory sniff, the sound covered, she hoped, by Joe’s laughter.
    â€œWe haven’t seen anyone order beers in such a lordly way for weeks, have we, Sue?”
    â€œMaybe the beer in Munich tasted thin because of your politics, Joe, you don’t suppose?”
    â€œWell, no,” he said. “Not even the political rape and treason that we’ve witnessed there could spoil my fine appreciative taste for beer. I swear, Sara, even French beer tastes better than that stuff in Germany now! And the food? Do you know that if you order butter in a restaurant . . .”
    Susan listened to their voices flowing on wordlessly. She raised her glass as they did theirs, then sat sipping at it, wishing it was water. How could a thin woman like Sara hold her liquor so well? Wasn’t beer bad for your figure? Maybe Sue should drink more of it before Joe began to think she was too skinny. But now there were only a few days more. Or would she be going home?
    She looked with sudden spectulation in her enormous dark eyes at Sara Porter’s face. Would Sara be able to help her? Why was it that in spite of her inexplicable shyness, Sue felt that this older woman—almost unknown to her—could tell her what was good and right to do? Maybe it was because Joe liked Sara so well—Joe, who had never really had a home or parents and few real friends like Sara and herself.
    Sue sat watching Sara talk with him. They leaned back in their chairs, their voices murmurred. Sara had a light, soft way of saying words, her tone faintly pedantic, perhaps because of her crisp enunciation. Sara sounded all her r s. She didn’t have a typical Western accent.
    Sara was thirty but her face looked very young to Sue, perhaps because it was round in shape, the skin very smooth beneath theseverely drawn-back hair. Sara wore a rather crumpled green linen dress and white cotton gloves obviously darned. How in hell was it that Sara—with her rumpled dress and her holey white cotton gloves—always succeeded in making other women feel dowdy?
    Sue started, surprised to realize that Sara was now speaking to her. She flushed painfully when she understood that she had no idea of what had gone before. She gulped her beer, wiped one splashed drop off her cheek with unhurried dignity.
    â€œSorry! I’m really terribly sorry, Mrs. Porter, but I was looking at the lake through the trees and wasn’t paying close attention.”
    â€œPoor Sue,” she said. “I don’t blame you. You must be absolutely worn out. Joe told me you’ve walked here from Munich.”
    â€œOh no, I’m not a bit tired from that,” Sue hurried to defend her beloved from what might be criticism. “It’s the sun, I think. But what were you saying, please?”
    She looked calmly from Sara to Joe, then was horrified to hear herself erupt in a loud sneeze that pounced on her with snarling suddenness. She sneezed so violently it rocked the little table upon which a beer glass spilled. She reached wildly for the handkerchief Joe was now offering her. Through her stinging eyes she saw Sara move away from the flooding path of beer before looking at Sue compassionately.
    â€œGod bless you,” she said. “ Gesundheit ! Poor child, I think you’re catching cold. Here, Jean, mop up a bit, will you? And tell me what I owe you. We’ll have more beer at La Prairie—it’s time I get there and start lunch.”
    By the time the bill was paid and Sue had given her nose a thorough—and delightful—blow, she felt almost human again. She stood watching Sara pull on her disreputable gloves.
    â€œI’m sorry, Sue, I’ve forgotten to finish what I was saying. I’ve told Joe