And then it was clear to me why I could hate myself. I realized at first that there had been a sadness in Dave, a trouble, a disturbance, but now a voice had concurred, had spoken from everyday and in front of my very eyes I saw his lips turn down, his eyes change, and the words slide out with what was only hatred.

"Don't look so upset. I know this guy well. I spent time with him. I tried to help him. They don't want to be helped, that crowd-" And he waved his hand with futility. I saw the gesture and read it well. It was the hand, I felt, of the multitudes and the gesture meant done with, finished, over, no responsibility. It was done in a gesture-man once again cast apart. I felt the scream of protest taking shape deep inside me. It was 1956 and the "clean" were still casting out the lepers.

"Don't tell Sel," he said, "I don't want to turn her stomach. She thinks he's such a sweet guy. Ugh." And the man made the ballet gesture of the wrist again and I could look at him no more. "I'll think of something to tell her before Saturday... don't you worry about it." And he scratched his head in agitation.

"Just look at him!" Sel said coming into the room with little Davie wide awake in her arms. "This is what being a woman is, Rita. You better hurry up before you're too old." Then the mother nuzzled her infant.

I stood up feeling a little shaky for my high heels. "I've got to fix my face and be off," I said briskly and went out of the room. I heard Dave's voice full of love and gentleness talking baby talk to his son. In the bathroom I looked in the mirror and the person there looked back at me without pity and let the tears run down her face and I held on to the wash basin and let the sobs come.

When I came back to the living room Sel had cleared up the table and Dave was sitting on a blanket playing with the baby. I said goodnight to them. "Don't forget Saturday," Sel said brightly.

I said I wouldn't, and Dave and I did not look at each other.

Outside the spring night came down and surrounded me with its specialness. It was exactly 11:30. Eve was home already, expectant and needing. People moved leisurely in the streets and someone in the dark said "Hi baby" from a car. In front of me two teenage boys in black leather jackets and startling haircuts were singing and swinging at each other with their belts. At the curb two people in an automobile were having a loud and terrible row. I listened to my heels on the pavement and thought of the special click of Eve's when we walked together. There was a peculiar April sweetness and heat in the air. I almost reached out to touch the night. I walked faster. Something had begun to sing over the disappointment and hurt inside me, something that was surely the most beautiful thing in the world. I could feel my body relaxing. I could feel the specific of the night which was spring. I could feel all my strength and all my happiness rising strong in me and that it was only the anticipation of Eve. I thought of all the things I might have said to Dave, good things, heroic things, true things which I might someday say to him and and then I did not care at all. Shame and confusion fled and mingled with the night and I could think only of flowers growing lovely and wild somewhere by the highways; of every lovely melody I had ever heard. I could think only of beauty-isolated and misunderstood, but beauty still, and only beauty. Someone had spoken to me of something they thought was unclean and sick and I could think only of beauty and spring nights and flowers and lovely music... Someday perhaps I might hold out my secret in my hand and sing about it to the scornful, but if not, I would more than survive.

By the time I reached our block I was running.

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