Free The Girl Who Passed for Normal by Hugh Fleetwood Page A

dollars from Catherine on eating out.”
    Barbara smiled. “What did you do before I —”
    “Took over?” David said. “Oh — I managed.”
    “Why,” Barbara said hesitantly, “do you live with me?”
    “Rephrase the question. Why do you live with me?” He paused, and grinned. “Well, we get on O.K. mostly. Don’t we?”
    “Is that all?”
    “All?” David laughed. “That’s a lot. What more do you want!”
    While she was in England, Barbara received two letters from David. The first arrived a week after she had left Rome.
    Dear Barbara,
    Greetings from the Emersons, madre e figlia. How are you, and how’s your mother? Life here is hot. I am not thinking at all. I go to Catherine in the afternoon and we sit and drink Pepsis, and in the morning I go to the beach. Everyone is away at the moment, though Marcello should be back next week.
    Catherine is very interesting. I’m convinced that she is, above all, sly. We sit and I give her word games and I get her to read to me and she brings out the words like they were Chinese. But two days ago I thought I’d have some fun and I took along a book of Greek myths, and got her to read the bit about Electra; she stumbled and crashed along in her usual way, and at the end I asked her what she thought of it and she said she didn’t know, so I told her the whole story of the Trojan War and Agamemnon and the House of Atreus. She sat and listened, and then I told her about Orpheus and various other gods, and, just as I was about to go, she said, really intelligently, “Electra was quite right to want to kill her mother, wasn’t she?” I said, “I guess so,” and then she said, “You know my mother killed my father.”! Oh, Jesus! I said, “Did she, Catherine?” and then I said good-bye and got out of there quick. But yesterday she was all blank and wantedto read Beatrix Potter, so I didn’t ask her any more about her mother — just as well probably.
    I wouldn’t put it past our lady from Charleston however. She’s a strange number, though I must say I don’t see her famous cruelty. She’s just rather casual. I think you must make her nervous, and she gives a show for you, and Catherine gets it. She does have one unfortunate habit I’ve noticed; she wanders into the room while Catherine and I are reading, and leans over me and strokes my hair; she does it like it was completely natural, as if she wanted to see what the book was, but it is not guaranteed to turn me on, and it makes Catherine mad — she glares at mother as if she were the Gorgon . She’s such a big thing, too — you were right about that, and I can picture her smiting the enemy host (or a husband or two) with a mighty sword. Also I don’t know what she does all day except wash her hair — she’s always announcing that she’s going out, and then turns up again after five minutes. I guess she goes out to water the Spanish moss and check the plantation. Oh, well. As you see I have no real news, so will stop this, but please hurry back and save me from the House of Emerson.
    Look after yourself.
    Love, David.
    She received the second letter six weeks later.
    Dear Barbara,
    Sorry not to have written before, and thank you for all your letters, but you know how I am. Sorry to hear your mother’s no better. All’s well here; everyone has returned from their holidays and I’ve been writing articles, but must say I’m getting tired of this work — it’s frivolous in the wrong way. One day I guess I’ll just chuck it. What I shall do then, God knows.
    The Emerson circus goes on. All well, and no more great revelations — no progress either. It’s not that it all goes in one ear and out the other — rather it goes in one ear and gets all confused and choked up inside. Mother has stopped the hair stroking bit — I’ve hardly seen her recently, in fact. When we do speak she usually just says something that she thinks is hilariously funny about Catherine, and then vanishes . But cruel or