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for her to ignore his request and her mind sagged with his. “I’ve had a tough time,” she said. “From the beginning, I’ve had a tough time. When I was a child, I saw my mother die. She had cancer of the breast and the pain was terrible. She died leaning over a table.”
    “Sleep with me,” he said.
    “No, let’s dance.”
    “I don’t want to. Tell me about your mother.”
    “She died leaning over a table. The pain was so terrible that she climbed out of bed to die.”
    Mary leaned over to show how her mother had died and he made another attempt to see the medal. He saw that there was a runner on it, but was unable to read the inscription.
    “My father was very cruel to her,” she continued. “He was a portrait painter, a man of genius, but…”
    He stopped listening and tried to bring his great understanding heart into action again. Parents are also part of the business of dreams. My father was a Russian prince, my father was a Piute Indian chief, my father was an Australian sheep baron, my father lost all his money in Wall Street, my father was a portrait painter. People like Mary were unable to do without such tales. They told them because they wanted to talk about something besides clothing or business or the movies, because they wanted to talk about something poetic.
    When she had finished her story, he said, “You poor kid,” and leaned over for another look at the medal. She bent to help him and pulled out the neck of her dress with her fingers. This time he was able to read the inscription: “Awarded by the Boston Latin School for first place in the 100 yd. dash.”
    It was a small victory, yet it greatly increased his fatigue and he was glad when she suggested leaving. In the cab, he again begged her to sleep with him. She refused. He kneaded her body like a sculptor grown angry with his clay, but there was too much method in his caresses and they both remained cold.
    At the door of her apartment, she turned for a kiss and pressed against him. A spark flared up in his groin. He refused to let go and tried to work this spark into a flame. She pushed his mouth away a long wet kiss.
    “Listen to me,” she said. “We can’t stop talking. We must talk. Willie probably heard the elevator and is listening behind the door. You don’t know him. If he doesn’t hear us talk, he’ll know you’re kissing me and open the door. It’s an old trick of his.”
    He held her close and tried desperately to keep the spark alive.
    “Don’t kiss my lips,” she begged. “I must talk.”
    He kissed her throat, then opened her dress and kissed her breasts. She was afraid to resist or to stop talking.
    “My mother died of cancer of the breast,” she said in a brave voice, like a little girl reciting at a party. “She died leaning over table. My father was a portrait painter. He led a very gay life. He mistreated my mother. She had cancer of the breast. She…” He tore at her clothes and she began to mumble and repeat herself. Her dress fell to her feet and he tore away her underwear until she was naked under her fur coat. He tried to drag her to the floor.
    “Please, please,” she begged, “he’ll come out and find us.”
    He stopped her mouth with a long kiss.
    “Let me go, honey,” she pleaded, “maybe he’s not home. If he isn’t, I’ll let you in.”
    He released her. She opened the door and tiptoed in, carrying her rolled up clothes under her coat. He heard her switch on the light in the foyer and knew that Shrike had not been behind the door. Then he heard footsteps and limped behind a projection of the elevator shaft. The door opened and Shrike looked into the corridor. He had on only the top of his pajamas.
    Miss Lonelyhearts on a Field Trip
    It was cold and damp in the city room the next day, and Miss Lonelyhearts sat at his desk with his hands in his pockets and his legs pressed together. A desert, he was thinking, not of sand, but of rust and body dirt, surrounded by a back-yard fence