Free Come and Join the Dance by Joyce Johnson Page B

I have too much ironing to do.” She expected him to laugh, but he only looked unhappy. It occurred to her that he might be serious.
    â€œOh, adopt him!” Peter had turned around to look at them. “Why don’t you adopt him? Just walk hand in hand into the Southwick Arms Hotel, have breakfast in Bickford’s. It would be awfully good experience, Susan.”
    Her anger surprised her. “Why don’t you watch the road!” she cried.
    â€œPerhaps I should.” With an infuriating smile, Peter turned away again.
    They left the West Side Highway and began to drive through Washington Heights, through endless streets of blond brick apartment houses and stores with names like “Foam Rubber City” and “Food-O-Thon” and women wheeling baby carriages home from the supermarkets. Edgecombe Avenue, Fort Washington Avenue—“There are too goddamn many avenues here,” Peter said. “Too goddamn many living rooms. You be a good girl, Susan, and they might let you live up here. You could have a living room with wall-to-wall carpeting and a dishwashing machine.”
    â€œI don’t want to be a good girl!”
    â€œToo bad. That’s your particular fate.”
    Peter was looking for a way to get down to a little dirt road he remembered that ran by the river—there was a mad Puerto Rican bar there, he told them, and a dilapidated yacht club. Once he had found the road by accident and looked at the water all night. “It’s the greatest place in New York, if we can just get there.” But all the streets led back to the highway. He began to drive too fast; the car was shaking and ticking. Kay sat rigid in the front seat, clutching her pocketbook. “It’s getting late,” she said.
    â€œIt’s four-thirty,” Peter said icily. “Why is that late?” He was forcing the car up a hill. “Why doesn’t someone sing, ‘ In the evening, by the moonlight, you can hear the darkies singing … ’? Kay, how does that one go?”
    â€œI don’t like that song.”
    â€œI knew you wouldn’t sing it.” He laughed and put one arm around her. “Kay, Kay … don’t be dull. Don’t be a self-conscious liberal.”
    â€œI am what I am,” Kay said sadly.
    â€œChrist! If I thought that, I’d kill myself.” The car screeched around a corner.
    â€œPeter! Don’t!” Kay cried.
    â€œWow—take it easy, man!” said Anthony.
    â€œWhat’s the matter with all of you? Don’t you want to fly? It’s the slow people who have accidents—you should know that. You want to fly, Susan, don’t you?”
    â€œI don’t want to get killed,” she said, but she almost shouted “Drive faster!” She wanted to ride in the front seat with Peter into night and emptiness, to a place where all the clocks had stopped and no one cared. She would sing for him if he asked her to… .
    Anthony had moved close to her again. Now he reached out and took her hand, which became an object, something someone else was holding. “We both have dirty hands,” he whispered. She pretended not to hear him. She was tired of the game. Maybe she would never say “Drive faster” to anyone, but only the frightened words she didn’t mean. But it must be beautiful to fly, even if it killed you. “Peter!” she called out desperately, “Peter!”
    â€œDo you want me to slow down?” he said. “All right, I’ll slow down.”
    â€œNo … I just—wondered where we were.” She couldn’t quite remember now what it was she had wanted to say, and she would drown if she thought about it. She laughed helplessly and leaned back against Anthony’s arm. “Peter, perhaps I will adopt Anthony,” she said brightly, trying to pick up the lost pieces of the game—it was safer, safer.
    â€œYes, go ahead—adopt