You Can't Go Home Again Read Free

at the scornful twist of his mouth and the mocking tone of his comment as he bit off the phrases.
    “‘Elvishly sly!’ Now isn’t that too God-damned delightful!” he said with mincing precision. “‘Made these old eyes shine!’ Why, the quaint little bastard!...‘That sometimes too ungrateful jade!’ Oh, deary me, now!...‘And need we add—!’ I am swooning, sweetheart: pass the garlic!”
    He threw the papers on the floor with an air of disgust and turned to her with a look of mock sternness that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
    “Well,” he said, “do I get fed, or must I starve here while you wallow in this bilge?”
    She could control herself no longer and shrieked with glee. “I didn’t do it!” she gasped. “I didn’t write it! I can’t help it if they write like that! Isn’t it awful?”
    “Yes, and you hate it, don’t you?” he said. “You lap it up! You arc sitting there licking your lips over it now, gloating on it, and on my hunger! Don’t you know, woman, that I haven’t had a bite to eat all day? Do I get fed, or not? Will you put your deft whimsey in a steak?”
    “Yes,” she said. “Would you like a steak?”
    “Will you make these old eyes shine with a chop and a delicate dressing of young onions?”
    “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
    He came over and put his arms about her, his eyes searching hers in a look of love and hunger. “Will you make me one of your causes that is subtle, searching, and hushed?”
    “Yes,” she said. “Whatever you like, I will make it for you.”
    “Why will you make it for me?” he asked.
    It was like a ritual that both of them knew, and they fastened upon each word and answer because they were so eager to hear it from each other.
    “Because I love you. Because I want to feed you and to love you.”
    “Will it be good?” he said.
    “It will be so good that there will be no words to tell its goodness,” she said. “It will be good because I am so good and beautiful, and because I can do everything better than any other woman you will ever know, and because I love you with all my heart and soul, and want to be a part of you.”
    “Will this great love get into the food you cook for me?”
    “It will be in every morsel that you eat. It will feed your hunger as you’ve never been fed before. It will be like a living miracle, and will make you better and richer as long as you live. You will never forget it. It will be a glory and a triumph.”
    “Then this will be such food as no one ever ate before,” he said. “Yes,” she said.-“It will be.”
    And it was so. There was never anything like it in the world before. April had come back again.
    So now they were together. But things were not quite the same between them as they had once been. Even on the surface they were different. No longer now for them was there a single tenement and dwelling place. From the first day of his return he had flatly refused to go back to the house on Waverly Place which the two of them had previously shared for work and love and living. Instead, he had taken these two large rooms on Twelfth Street, which occupied the whole second floor of the house and could be made into one enormous room by opening the sliding doors between them. There was also a tiny kitchen, just big enough to turn around in. The whole arrangement suited George perfectly because it gave him both space and privacy. Here Esther could come and go as she liked; here they could be alone together whenever they wished; here they could feed at the heart of love.
    The most important thing about it, however, was that this was his place, not theirs , and that fact re-established their relations on a different level. Henceforth he was determined not to let his life and love be one. She had her world of the theatre and of her rich friends which he did not want to belong to, and he had his world of writing which he would have to manage alone. He would keep love a thing apart, and safeguard to himself