Free Rumors of Peace by Ella Leffland Page B

pleasantly from her paper.
    â€œAnd this is Rudy!” cried Rochelle, stooping down as a brown dachshund barreled into her arms, barking wildly. After setting him down with smacking kisses between his eyes, she went to a cupboard and took out two plates. But I could see that the table was meant for only two people, not three or four, let alone five. Yet it was a big kitchen and could have held a banquet table. Rochelle was trying to cram the plates in.
    Dr. Hatton looked up again. “Dear,” she asked me, “would you mind eating at the drainboard? Peggy, make your friend a nice sandwich.”
    â€œRochelle. And she brought her own lunch.”
    â€œFine,” murmured the doctor, pushing up a pair of rimless spectacles that had slipped down her nose and returning to her paper.
    â€œIs that okay, Suse?” my new friend asked, flopping down very hard next to her sister.
    I nodded and went to the drainboard. I sat down on a high stooland opened my lunch pail. I felt very nervous because I could feel the insane girl’s eyes boring through me.
    Suddenly, sharply, she spoke. “Why is your hair green?”
    â€œIt’s—it’s from swimming. The chlorine—”
    She stood up. She was slim and wore a beautiful wine-colored dress of the sort you would expect to see on a grown-up person and black open-toed pumps. Across her shoulder was draped a silk shawl with a fringe. Quickly, intently, she crossed the room to my side.
    â€œIs it a permanent condition?” she asked. She had a strong British accent.
    â€œNo. It—it’ll fade—”
    She stood studying my head. I squinted sideways at hers. The eyes were the same green as Rochelle’s, but brilliant rather than luminous. The features were finely chiseled, framed by loose auburn curls. It was a deadly serious face.
    â€œWhat are you staring at?” she asked.
    â€œWell, you—you’re staring at me—”
    â€œThat is an entirely different matter. Your hair is green. An attractive enough shade, but patently abnormal.”
    â€œWhy don’t you shut your trap?” Rochelle yelled. “She can have any color hair she wants, it’s a free country, we’re all born equal!”
    â€œOh God!” cried the girl. “This is the stale commentary we have to live with! What a threadbare repertoire! What a—”
    â€œWell, you—” Rochelle began.
    â€œDon’t speak to me!” she snapped, returning to her seat.
    After a moment Rochelle turned to her with a smile. “You’ve got mayonnaise on your sleeve.”
    The girl recoiled, clutching her arm. “Estelle, she’s gotten mayonnaise on everything!”
    â€œWell, wipe it off, dear,” her mother murmured.
    â€œShe is a complete and utter swine!”
    Mr. Hatton lowered his newspaper. “I would like some peace and quiet,” he said in a low voice, and the kitchen fell silent. The sister wiped her sleeve with angry swipes of a napkin. Rochelle was busy eating. She was eating a great deal, including large spoonfuls of mayonnaise,which she downed with a sharp eye on her parents, who were not looking in any case. They both wore tan windbreakers, his with trousers, hers with a straight skirt. Their hair was similar, hers coppery and his carroty, and the same length, since hers was shingled. After a while, putting out their cigarettes, they got up and left the room, discussing Stalingrad.
    The older girl rose too, abruptly. “Rudolph will now give his celebrated imitation of a frankfurter.” She clapped her hands smartly, and the dog fell over. “Bravo, Rudolph!” she cried, and glanced at her watch. “I must dash or I’ll miss my train.” And with her hurried, intent walk, she left us.
    I hardly knew what to say. “Why does she talk like an English movie?”
    â€œShe thinks she sounds better that way. She’s insane. Listen.”
    I listened but