"Oh, that." He grinned rather sfully. "They do us a grand favor, Rusty andMag. We ugh over it: how they think they break our hearts when all the time wewant them to run away. I assure you, we were ughing when the sadness came."His eyes searched the litter on the floor; he picked up a ball of yelloer. "This,"he said.It was a telegram from Tulip, Texas: Received notice young Fred killed in aoverseas stop your husband and children join in the sorrow of our mutual loss stopletter follows love Doc. Holly never mentioned her brain: except once.Moreover, she stopped calling me Fred. June, July, all through the warm months shehibernated like a winter animal who did not know spring had e and gone. Herhair darkened, she put o. She became rather careless about her clothes:used to rush round to the delicatessen wearing a rain-slicker and nothingunderh. José moved into the apartment, his name repg Mag Wildwoods onthe mailbox. Still, Holly was a good deal alone, for José stayed in Washington threedays a week. During his absences she eained no one and seldom left theapartment -- except on Thursdays, when she made her weekly trip to Ossining.Which is not to imply that she had lost i in life; far from it, she seemedmore tent, altogether happier than Id ever seen her. A keen sudden un-Holly-likeenthusiasm for homemakied in several un-Holly-like purchases: at a Parke-Ber au she acquired a stag-at-bay hunting tapestry and, from the WilliamRandolph Hearst estate, a gloomy pair of Gothic "easy" chairs; she bought theplete Modern Library, shelves of cssical records, innumerable. MetropolitanMuseum reprodus (including a statue of a ese cat that her own cat hatedand hissed at and ultimately broke), a Waring mixer and a pressure cooker and alibrary of cook books. She spent whole hausfrau afternoons slopping about in thesweatbox of her midget kit: "José says Im better than the y. Really, whowould have dreamed I had such a great natural talent? A month ago I couldntscramble eggs." And still couldnt, for that matter. Simple dishes, steak, a propersad, were beyond her. Instead, she fed José, and occasionally myself, outré soups(brandied bck terrapin poured into avocado shells) Nero-ish ies (roastedpheasant stuffed with pomegranates and persimmons) and other dubious innovations(chi and saffron rice served with a chocote sauce: "A Indian cssic, mydear.") Wartime sugar and cream rationiricted her imaginatio cameto sweets -- heless, she once managed something called Tobacco Tapioca:best not describe it.Nor describe her attempts to master Puese, an ordeal as tedious to me as itwas to her, for whenever I visited her an album of Linguaphone records neverceased rotating on the phonograph. Now, too, she rarely spoke a sentehat didnot begin, "After were married -- " or "When we move to Rio -- " Yet José had neversuggested marriage. She admitted it. "But, after all, he knows Im preggers. Well, Iam, darling. Six weeks gone. I dont see why that should surprise you. It did un peu bit. Im delighted. I want to have at least nine. Im sure some of themwill be rather dark -- José has a touch of le nègre, I suppose you guessed that?Which is fine by me: what could be prettier than a quite y baby with brightgreeiful eyes? I wish, please dont ugh -- but I wish Id been a virgin forhim, for José. Not that Ive warmed the multitudes some people say: I dont bmethe bastards for saying it, Ive always thrown out such a jazzy line. Really, though, Itoted up the ht, and Ive only had eleven lovers -- not ting anythingthat happened before I was thirteen because, after all, that just doesnt t.Eleven. Does that make me a whore? Look at Mag Wildwood. Or Houcker. OrRose Ellen Ward. Theyve had the old cp-yo-hands so many times it amounts toappuse. Of course I havent anything against whores. Except this: some of themmay have an hoo they all have disho hearts. I mean, you tbang the guy and cash his checks and at least not try to believe you love him. Inever have. Even Benny Shacklett and all those rodents. I sort of hypnotized myselfinto thinking their sheer rattiness had a certain allure. Actually, except for Doc, if youwant to t Doc, José is my first non-rat romance. Oh, hes not my idea of theabsolute finito. He tells little lies and he worries eople think aakesabout fifty baths a day: men ought to smell somewhat. Hes too prim, too cautious tobe my guy ideal; he always turns his back to get undressed and he makes too muoise whes and I dont like to see him run because theres something funnylookingabout him when he runs. If I were free to choose from everybody alive, justsnap my fingers and say e here you, I wouldnt pick José. Nehru, hes hemark. Wendell Wilkie. Id settle farbo any day. Why not? A person ought to beable to marry men or women or -- listen, if you came to me and said you waohitch up with Man o War, Id respect your feeling. No, Im serious. Love should beallowed. Im all for it. Now that Ive got a pretty good idea what it is. Because I dolove José -- Id stop smoking if he asked me to. Hes friendly, he ugh me out ofthe mean reds, only I dont have them muy more, except sometimes, ahen theyre not so hideo that I gulp Seal or have to haul myself to Tiffanys: Itake his suit to the er, or stuff some mushrooms, and I feel fine, just great.Ahing, Ive thrown away my horoscopes. I must have spent a dolr on everygoddamn star in the goddamarium. Its a bore, but the answer, is goodthings only happen to you if yood. Good? Ho is more what I mean. Notw-type ho -- Id rob a grave, Id steal two-bits off a dead mans eyes if Ithought it would tribute to the days enjoyment -- but unto-thyself-type ho.Be anything but a coward, a pretender, aional crook, a whore: Id rather havecer than a disho heart. Which isnt being pious. Just practical. cer maycool you, but the others sure to. Oh, screw it, cookie -- hand me my guitar, and Illsing you a fada in the most perfect Puese."Those final weeks, spanning end of summer and the beginning of another autumn,are blurred in memory, perhaps because our uanding of each other hadreached that sweet depth where two people unicate more often in silehanin words: an affeate quietness repces the tensions, the unrexed chatter andchasing about that produce a friendships more showy, more, in the surface sense,dramatients. Frequently, when he was out of town (Id developed hostileattitudes toward him, and seldom used his name) we speire evenings togetherduring which we exged less than a hundred words; once, we walked all the wayto atown, ate a ein supper, bought some paper nterns and stole a boxof joss sticks, then moseyed across the Brooklyn Bridge, and on the bridge, as wewatched seaward-moving ships pass between the cliffs of burning skyline, she said:"Years from now, years and years, one of those ships will bring me back, me and mynine Brazilian brats. Because yes, they must see this, these lights, the river -- I loveNew York, even though it isnt mihe way something has to be, a tree or a streetor a house, something, anyway, that belongs to me because I belong to it." And Isaid: "Do shut up," for I felt infuriatingly left out -- a tugboat in drydock while she,glittery voyager of secure destination, steamed down the harbor with whistleswhistling and fetti in the air. So the days, the st days, blow about in memory,hazy, autumnal, all alike as leaves: until a day unlike any other Ive lived.