“Yes, I do. It’s something you could live with.” She wished she had phrased her opinion better. He might think she was hinting for him to give it to her.
But apparently the idea that somebody would actually like to own his work never occurred to him. He slouched off toward the office. “Come on, you’d better register. What do you think of the school?”
“It scares me a little.” She was surprised to hear herself admitting the fact; but somehow, one had to be honest with Alex. “We didn’t have anything this size where I come from. How many students are there?” “About seven hundred.”
“And there are half a dozen other art schools in Boston. And this is just one city out of a whole country. How many kids want to be artists?” She had never thought about it before. The idea was rather shocking.
“Too darn many, is all I can say,” replied Alex soberly. “Of course, not all of them are serious. Some just want an excuse to hang out a few years on the old man’s money and think an art school would be a fun place to do it. They don’t generally last long around here. Then there are the ones whose Aunt Maggie in East Cupcake thinks they draw real nice pictures. They get weeded out fast, too. And plenty of the real sincere kids start out okay, but don’t have what it takes to get established. The girls get married, and the guys wind up selling raincoats. A lot of good talent gets lost that way. You can’t get anywhere in art unless you work like a dog and have the guts to sweat it out. Still want to sign up?”
“Yes. Even if I can’t design fabrics,” she could not resist adding.
“Oh, that.” Alex looked a bit sheepish. “I guess I ought to apologize or something. Only it made me sore, because the thing was so close to being good.”
“It’s all right,” said the girl rather stiffly. “Criticism is what I’m here for.” She might as well face the fact that nobody in this school was going to stand around telling her how clever she was. Anyway, she tried to persuade herself, close to being good was almost praise from someone like Alex.
The registration line had stretched all the way across the reception room by the time she took her place in it. To her surprise, the shaggy upperclassman stayed with her, telling her about the school, the faculty, the courses she would be taking. He waited while she filled out the required forms and paid her fee. Then he helped her choose supplies from the school store, find her locker, and stow them away.
“Okay, you’re set to start work tomorrow. Want to grab a sandwich somewhere?”
“I’d love to. Oh, but darn it, I can’t.” Corin glanced at her watch. “Jack asked me to meet him at the City Room, and I forgot all about it. He said one o’clock, and it’s almost half-past now.”
The lanky artist shrugged and turned away. “Have a ball.”
She went down the stairs feeling angry with herself. In the first place, she didn’t want to leave the school at all. In the second, she had a suspicion it was a mistake to waste her time on Jack. Alex might not be such a flashy escort; but he could teach her things. And she was beginning to realize what a terrible lot she had to learn. Now he probably wouldn’t ask her again. He was so darn moody. Artistic temperament. Well, he could afford it. She couldn’t, yet. She arranged her face in a properly apologetic expression and hurried up to Jack, who was waiting by the door of the restaurant, tapping his foot with impatience.
“I’m so sorry to be late. It took me longer to register than I expected.”
“I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.” He took her by the elbow and steered her into the dimly-lighted restaurant.
The City Room was even grander than she had pictured it. She wished she had taken time to comb her hair and check for possible charcoal smudges on her nose.
However, Jack thought she looked great, and said so. “Hey, I like that outfit. It’s real Fifth Avenue.”
“It’s plain old Proctor’s Crossing, Pennsylvania,” Corin smiled.
“Must be a great little town. Care for a cocktail?”
Here was a dilemma. In Proctor’s Crossing, you only drank if you were That Kind of Girl, and drinking usually meant a six-pack of warm beer in the back of some boy’s car. Corin had never tried it, partly because she hated anything that looked cheap, and partly because her father would have whaled the daylights out of her if he ever found out. Maybe it was different in Boston; but she had better play safe.
“No, thanks. I’d rather have food. I’m starving.”
“Food it is, then. See anything that appeals to you?” All she could see were the prices on the menu, and they looked staggering. “What’s good here?” she asked cautiously.
“Let’s see, now. How about a shrimp cocktail, then the filet mignon? They do a pretty good steak here. Do you like it rare, medium, or well-done?”
“Medium rare, please,” she answered, trying not to look shocked at the prospect of spending more on one lunch than she would for a whole week’s groceries. Jack must be able to afford it, or he would have chosen a less expensive place.
He certainly seemed to be prosperous enough. His clothes were straight out of a men’s fashion magazine. He had on the most impressive wristwatch she had ever seen, and his tiepin and cuff links were, she suspected, real platinum. He was ordering with an assurance that proved him no stranger to such luxurious surroundings.
The girls back at State Teachers College would certainly be envious if they could see her now. Yet Corin herself still rather wished she had gone with Alex after all. This would be fine for a girl who was just out for a good time; but where was it going to get her? She was a girl who intended to go places and accomplish something with her life. And Jack Banks, she’d bet, had no further ambition than to live it up on his father’s money.
Of course, she could be wrong. Maybe he had inherited an income of his own. Maybe he had a well-paid job. If he did, he showed no sign of anxiety about getting back to it. He dawdled over dessert and coffee, chatting about nothing in particular. She was amused at first, but had begun to feel bored by the time he beckoned for the check.
“Want to take a little ride?”
“But, Jack, don’t you have to get back to work, or classes, or anything?”
“Not me, kid. All I’ve got is a lit class, and you don’t catch me wasting an afternoon like this on the minor English poets. Come on, let’s go get our bathing suits and find a beach somewhere. We won’t get many more chances to swim this year.”
“I’d love to; but I have a million things to do.”
“Oh, come on. I’ll bet you’re just too stuck-up to ride in a Morris Minor.”
“Don’t be silly. I’d ride in a kiddie car if it would get me to the ocean. But I’ve got to buy some things for my room. If I have to look at that pink-and-green chenille bedspread much longer, I’ll go right up the wall.”
“Can’t you stand it till tomorrow?”
“Classes start tomorrow.”
“So what? You can run uptown after school, can’t you?”
“But what if I have homework?”
“Oh, for the cat’s sake,” Jack exploded. “Don’t tell me you’re another one of those!”
“Another one of what?”
“A mad genius, like Alex.”
“Not like Alex, I’m afraid,” she sighed. “But if you mean did I come here to work, the answer is yes.”
“What the heck is it with you artists?” Her escort shook his handsome head. “You’re all nuts about work. Well, if you’re mean enough to abandon me to the minor English poets, all right for you, you old meanie, you.”
“Give them my regards,” said Corin callously. “And thanks for the lunch.”
“We’ll do it again soon, shall we?”
“That would be nice.”
“Do you get a day off from being a genius on Sunday?”
“I might.”
“It’s a deal, then. Beach if it’s not too cold. Then dinner somewhere special. Check?”
“Check.”
Jack was certainly free with his invitations
. Well, it would give her something to write home about. And save on the grocery bills. Corin was a very practical girl.
Chapter 4
Classes started the following morning; and the rest of the week passed in one great blur. Corin found the art classes she had taken at State were going to be of little help to her. She was just another freshman, and not even the most gifted in the class.
But if hard work could put her at the top, that was where she intended to be. After class, she lugged her materials back to her room, propped her drawing board on the inadequate little desk, and slaved away at her assignment until hunger drove her down to the kitchen. She would throw together a quick meal, too preoccupied to notice whether or not the place really did have a spooky atmosphere, and then go upstairs to work some more. She hardly ever saw any of the other tenants, except for the daily meeting with the twins to scream at Angela through the bathroom door. It was almost a shock when Jack Banks hailed her on the stairs and reminded her that they had a date for Sunday.
“But I was going to stencil my lampshade.” The words popped out before she could stop them.
Jack only laughed. “Nothing doing. I’m not getting stood up for a lampshade.”
After that, there was nothing she could do but smile back. “Right, then. No lampshade. When shall we start?”
“Crack of dawn. Let’s say eleven o’clock.”
“That’s your idea of dawn?”
“It’s close enough. Don’t forget your bathing suit. The weatherman says it’ll be in the low eighties. That isn’t too cold for you, is it?”
“Anything higher than sixty-five is warm enough for me. Ay bane Norsk, you know.”
“What’s Norsk? It sounds like a brand of sardines.”
“Could be. It means Norwegian.”
“Do you know anything about Scandinavian design?” It was Alex, who had come up behind her unnoticed.
“A little. My mother has some wonderful old stuff she brought over with her. I’ve been fascinated by it ever since I could remember. The Norwegians are great for decorating things, you know. They go in for a lot of pattern and color.”
“I know, and it’s quite unlike the feeling you get in some of the other Scandinavian design. I saw some Swedish glassware—”
In a moment, the two artists were deep in shop talk. Jack fidgeted around them for a few minutes, tried to get in a couple of cracks to which they paid no attention, then wandered off. It was a while before Corin even noticed he was gone.
“There I go again,” she said ruefully.
“Go where?”
“Giving Jack the brush off. I don’t mean to do it; I just sort of forget he’s there. I don’t know why he keeps coming back for more.”
“Neither do I. Now take Finnish handweaving—”
“You take it,” she snapped. “I’ve got work to do.”
She left Alex blinking at her from under his shaggy eyebrows. “Neither can I.” Could you beat that for rudeness? Well, if Alex Bodmin didn’t think she was worth a boy’s time, she certainly was not going to waste any more of hers on him, genius or no genius.
As she went down the kitchen stairs, she could hear Madame Despau-Davy’s voice. “That’s it, Sheba. Come on, Sheeta, your turn now. Houp! Good boy. All right, Betty Lou. Houp!”
What on earth is she doing, the girl wondered.
The back door was open. Corin stepped to it and looked out into the fenced-over yard. Her landlady was standing in the center like a ringmaster. Around her, on four red plastic laundry tubs, perched the four ocelots.
“Hello, my dear. Come to catch the act? All right, pusses, let’s do our ring-around-a-rosie for Miss Johansen. One, two, houp!”
In a wink, the air was full of ocelots. Faster and faster they leaped from one tub to another, around and around the circle. All at once, Madame snapped her fingers, and the circling changed to crisscross leaps, the lithe bodies weaving over and under one another in the center with a grace and precision that were breathtaking. Then their trainer clapped her hands. Immediately, they froze, each sitting demurely on its own tub like a magnificent spotted statue.
Corin stared, “How did you ever get them to do that?”
“Patience, my dear. Patience and training and love. Did you enjoy it?”
“It was unbelievable!”
“Then would you mind telling them so? Cats do like their applause, you know.”
Feeling like a complete idiot, Corin clapped her hands until they smarted. “I think you’re great, kids.”
“All right, sweeties.” Madame Despau-Davy nodded to her remarkable pets. “Go to the lady.”
Suddenly the girl found herself surrounded by ocelots. She put out a hesitant hand, wondering how long she was going to keep it, and scratched the nearest head. Then four wet-nose, prickly-whiskered, purring, spotted heads were pushing against her, trying to share her caresses.
“Why, you’re just a bunch of old pussycats,” she laughed, dodging a pink tongue that rasped like a file.
“Of course they are. So sensible of you to have realized it,” beamed her landlady. “But mind, you mustn’t spoil them.”
“I wouldn’t know how to go about it. I thought cats were fairly unspoilable.”
“Yes, but their tummies aren’t. I’ve caught Jack Banks feeding them hot dogs and hamburgers. Terribly bad for their little insides. He meant well, of course. Jack’s a nice boy. It isn’t his fault he doesn’t understand cats.”
“I suppose not,” said Corin lamely.
“One is either born with the gift, or one is not,” the trainer went on. “Personally, I have always felt more at home with cats than humans. I do not understand human animals very well. Do you?”
“I—I don’t know.” Corin was slightly aghast at finding herself chatting familiarly with the old lady. She had meant to keep her distance. “I guess it depends on the human.”
“A very proper answer, my dear. But you have all your life ahead of you to learn. I never shall, I expect. And really, you know, I find that when I make the effort, things are apt to turn out worse than when I don’t even try. I expect I should be quite an unhappy old woman actually, if I ever stopped to think about it.”
“I don’t believe that. I can’t picture you ever being sad.”
“Can’t you, my dear? I do wish you were right. I have had my moments of despair, I assure you. When Hanning Brothers struck the big top for the last time—oh, what a bitter day that was!”
“Big top? That’s a circus tent, isn’t it?”
“Bless you, child, what else could it be? I was their star, my dear. Daring Dina Despau, that was my billing. Of course I wasn’t daring at all; but the audience never knew that. I used to go into the cage with Selim and dear old Tommy carrying nothing in my hand but an artificial rose. I used real ones at first, but they bothered Selim’s asthma. Then I’d put the darlings through their little tricks, and everybody would applaud like mad, and they just adored it. Dreadful hams, both of them.”
“Didn’t you say Selim was a black leopard?” gasped Corin.
“Of course, my dear. And Tommy was the sweetest old bushy-maned love of a lion. We were so happy together, the three of us. We had our own wagon with Daring Dina Despau painted on the side in fancy gold letters a foot high. I wish you could have seen it. But it went with the rest when the circus was sold. So then I moved to the country, thinking the pusses would enjoy being out in the fresh air; but they hated it. They missed the noise and the lights and the applause, and so did I. Then my poor old Tommy got pneumonia and died, and Selim and I moved back here with our dear friend Rosie Garside. Rosie had been the Fat Lady; but of course there just aren’t any bookings for Fat Ladies any more, so she slimmed down to two hundred pounds and took in roomers.”
She sighed and straightened her rhinestone bracelets. “I could have gone with Barnum, but I didn’t have the heart without Tommy. And Selim was growing old and I knew he’d hate working with a new kitty. So we settled down here. I’d
saved a little, you know. And we were so happy until—. But why talk about it? What’s done can’t be helped. So now I have my four little spotted sweeties, and I must get them brushed and tucked in for their nap. Come, angels.”
Corin tried to tell herself the old woman was out of her mind; but in spite of herself, she felt a certain warmth for the retired animal trainer. It must be grim, having to settle down in a rooming house after having been a circus star. And losing her—she supposed they’d been the woman’s pets. Some pets! Corin wondered if she had let Selim roam all over the house as she did the ocelots. Rosie Garside must have had a heck of a time keeping her boarders.
She wandered back to the kitchen, still thinking about Madame Despau-Davy. Why hadn’t she wanted to talk about what happened to Selim? Maybe she was still grieving for the old leopard. He must have died about the same time as the Fat Lady. Well, it was no concern of Corin Johansen’s.
“I guess I’ll make some cookies. It would be nice to have something sweet to nibble on next week. And I can take a few along to the beach tomorrow,” she mused. “It’ll be fun getting a ride and a swim. But I was sort of looking forward to doing that lampshade.”
She puttered around hunting out mixing bowls and cookie sheets. “What kind should I make? Oh, what a nice, big old rolling pin. Maybe I’ll make Jack a gingerbread boy. He’s kiddish enough to get a bang out of it, in spite of that man-about-town act he puts on.”
She sifted and stirred, set the dough in the refrigerator to chill, and lit the oven, which she found as immaculately clean inside as everything else about the house.
“I wish I knew how the old girl keeps this place so spotless. I haven’t seen a maid or a cleaning woman since I’ve been here. She must come while I’m at school. It’s almost as if she dodges the boarders.”
Corin spread waxed paper on the clean oilcloth table top, sprinkled flour on the rolling pin, and began to roll out her cookie dough.
“What’s the matter with this darn thing?” she fussed a moment later. “It doesn’t steer straight.” She tilted up the end of the rolling pin. Sure enough, the handle was screwed on crooked. She struggled to get it out, and finally managed to free the jammed threads.
The Fat Lady's Ghost Page 3
