back. You must wear the best clothes you have and see that they’re pressed. And when you enter, you must be extremely careful to maintain the illusion that you are merely a tourist. Do not, and I must repeat this, do not under any circumstances request what the Canadianscall “landed immigrant status,” even though that’s what you want. Wait till you reach Montreal and get safely dug in before you open that can of worms.’ She gave him several more useful hints, concluding: ‘We’re sending a batch of you north with a faculty wife from MIT. She’ll claim she’s a professor of geology leading a field trip. She’ll take you in to Montreal, and from there on …’
There was an awkward pause, and she blushed again, uncontrollably, so Joe said, ‘I thought you were singing at a café.’
It was easy for her to construct the syllogism that had worked its way through his mind: This girl says she sings in public; girl singers don’t blush like teenagers; something’s wrong. She said, ‘I used to sing.’
‘You have trouble with the police?’
Now she blushed furiously, pressing her right hand over her face in an attempt to control herself.
Joe said, ‘They told me at the café. What was it?’
‘Didn’t they tell you that, too?’ Joe shook his head. Then, with an obvious effort to speak normally, she said brightly, ‘I suppose you’ll need some money.’
‘Nope,’ Joe said. ‘As a matter of fact, I was about to ask you to dinner.’
‘Oh, no!’ she cried.
‘Feel my head,’ he said half-jokingly. ‘I had trouble with the police too.’ He reached for her hand, but she recoiled. ‘Take my word for it,’ he concluded lamely.
She showed him to the door, but it was so apparent that she needed counseling more than he that he said impulsively, ‘Miss Cole, I don’t know what’s eating you, but you’re going to have dinner with me tonight,’ and he grabbed her by the arm.
She tensed up, resisted, then looked at the ground and laughed nervously. ‘Do you think I should?’
‘You must.’
She got a coat, and he took her into Boston on the bus and they found a corner bar in no way notable, where they had broiled shrimp and beer and much talk of students and politics and Vietnam.
‘I work at helping you boys get to Canada,’ she said, ‘because I approve of your attitudes. We live in a tragic era and must do what we can to humanize it.’
‘What happened with you and the police?’ he asked bluntly.
She weighed the question for some moments, then said evasively, ‘They did to me what they so often do to you fellows.’
‘You’ve got to decompress,’ he said.
‘I’ll learn,’ she said. ‘But right now I’ve had this scene. I’ve really had it.’
They talked like this for some hours, saying nothing consequential but alluding always to the malaise that infected so many of the best young people of this generation. Then, toward ten o’clock, a group of students from Harvard and MIT dropped in and one of them recognized Gretchen. Quickly they surrounded her table, asking about the police incident, and this caused renewed embarrassment. Sympathizing with her reticence, they switched to lesser gossip, and the young man who had first recognized her said, ‘We miss you at the Moth. You ought to sing again, Gret.’
‘These days are not for singing,’ she said, playing with the ends of her braids.
‘Maybe not in a formal café. But if we find a guitar, will you sing for us? Come on.’
She gave no assent, but one of the students disappeared and after a while returned with a guitar of sorts, which she strummed with a grimace. ‘You expect me to sing with this crate?’ she asked.
Joe noticed that she didn’t play coy. She did not require to be begged; in fact, she rather wanted to sing, as if she sensed that it would be therapeutic. She made herself comfortable on a high bar stool, crossed her attractive legs to form a kind of lap, and strummed the guitar thoughtfully for
There was an awkward pause, and she blushed again, uncontrollably, so Joe said, ‘I thought you were singing at a café.’
It was easy for her to construct the syllogism that had worked its way through his mind: This girl says she sings in public; girl singers don’t blush like teenagers; something’s wrong. She said, ‘I used to sing.’
‘You have trouble with the police?’
Now she blushed furiously, pressing her right hand over her face in an attempt to control herself.
Joe said, ‘They told me at the café. What was it?’
‘Didn’t they tell you that, too?’ Joe shook his head. Then, with an obvious effort to speak normally, she said brightly, ‘I suppose you’ll need some money.’
‘Nope,’ Joe said. ‘As a matter of fact, I was about to ask you to dinner.’
‘Oh, no!’ she cried.
‘Feel my head,’ he said half-jokingly. ‘I had trouble with the police too.’ He reached for her hand, but she recoiled. ‘Take my word for it,’ he concluded lamely.
She showed him to the door, but it was so apparent that she needed counseling more than he that he said impulsively, ‘Miss Cole, I don’t know what’s eating you, but you’re going to have dinner with me tonight,’ and he grabbed her by the arm.
She tensed up, resisted, then looked at the ground and laughed nervously. ‘Do you think I should?’
‘You must.’
She got a coat, and he took her into Boston on the bus and they found a corner bar in no way notable, where they had broiled shrimp and beer and much talk of students and politics and Vietnam.
‘I work at helping you boys get to Canada,’ she said, ‘because I approve of your attitudes. We live in a tragic era and must do what we can to humanize it.’
‘What happened with you and the police?’ he asked bluntly.
She weighed the question for some moments, then said evasively, ‘They did to me what they so often do to you fellows.’
‘You’ve got to decompress,’ he said.
‘I’ll learn,’ she said. ‘But right now I’ve had this scene. I’ve really had it.’
They talked like this for some hours, saying nothing consequential but alluding always to the malaise that infected so many of the best young people of this generation. Then, toward ten o’clock, a group of students from Harvard and MIT dropped in and one of them recognized Gretchen. Quickly they surrounded her table, asking about the police incident, and this caused renewed embarrassment. Sympathizing with her reticence, they switched to lesser gossip, and the young man who had first recognized her said, ‘We miss you at the Moth. You ought to sing again, Gret.’
‘These days are not for singing,’ she said, playing with the ends of her braids.
‘Maybe not in a formal café. But if we find a guitar, will you sing for us? Come on.’
She gave no assent, but one of the students disappeared and after a while returned with a guitar of sorts, which she strummed with a grimace. ‘You expect me to sing with this crate?’ she asked.
Joe noticed that she didn’t play coy. She did not require to be begged; in fact, she rather wanted to sing, as if she sensed that it would be therapeutic. She made herself comfortable on a high bar stool, crossed her attractive legs to form a kind of lap, and strummed the guitar thoughtfully for
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