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Updated: June 2, 2025
It may have been that suddenly she was so extremely tired tired of the lay of the week ahead, suggested by the smells and the noises and the consciousness of that front box pleat. The little surrender, even though she drew back immediately, was wine to him and as truly an intoxicant. "Marylin," he cried, wild for her lips again, "I can't be held off much longer.
Once on the sand, which ran away, tickling each step she took, her spirits, it must be admitted, went just a little crazily off. The window, you see, where Marylin sewed her buttonholes six days the week, faced a brick wall that peeled with an old scrofula of white paint. Coney Island faced a world of sky.
Laughter holding both his sides? How Marylin, had she understood it, would have kicked the high hat off of such Miltonic phrasing. Ah, she was like herself! And yet, if there must be found a way to convey her to you more quickly, let it be one to which Marylin herself would have dipped a bow.
"Can't you trust me, Marylin, for a day or two, until it goes through? Sometimes just talking about it is enough to put the jinx on a good thing." "You mean " "I mean I'm going to have money in my pockets." "What kind of money?" "Real money." "Honest money?" "Honest-to-God money. And I'm going to dike you out. That's my idea. Pink! That's the color for you.
Looking up at the napkin of sky let in through the walls of the vertical city, Marylin had learned to greet it almost every clear evening. It did something for her. It was a little voice. A little kiss. A little upside down pool of light without a spill. A little of herself up there in that beyond that little napkin of beyond that her eyes had the lift to see.
Somebody has to feel it inside of him, just like I do, before he can understand. Can't you feel it? Please! Listen." "Aw, that's an old jew's-harp. I'll buy you one. How's that?" "All right, I guess," she said, starting off suddenly toward the bathhouse. He was relieved that she had thrown off the silence. "Ain't mad any more, are you, Marylin?" "No, Getaway not mad."
And what if I were to tell you that this phantom of a delight of a Marylin, whose hair was a sieve for sun and whose laughter a streamer of it, had had a father who had been shot to death on the underslinging of a freight car in one of the most notorious prison getaways ever recorded, and whose mother but never mind right here; it doesn't matter to the opening of this story, because Marylin, with all her tantalizing capacity for paradox, while every inch a part of it all, was not at all a part of it.
To Marylin, whose neck very often ached clear down into her shoulder blade and up into a bandeau around her brow, and to whom city walls were sometimes like slaps confronting her whichever way she turned, her enjoyment of Coney Island was as uncomplex as A B C. Untortured by any awarenesses of relative values, too simple to strive to keep simple, unself-conscious, and with a hungry heart, she was not a spectator, half ashamed of being amused.
In spite of herself, his bay-rummed nearness was not unpleasant to her. "Cut it out here, Getaway," she said through a blush. He hooked her very close to him by the elbow, and together they crossed through the crash of a street bifurcated by elevated tracks. "You hear, Marylin," he shouted above the din. "Marry me and you'll wear diamonds." "Getaway, you're up to something again!"
That is why, up through the wells of men's walls, one glimpse of sky can twist the soul with oh, the bitter, the sweet ache that lies somewhere within the heart's own heart, curled up there like a little protozoa. That is, if the heart and the eyes have a lift to them. Marylin's had. Marylin! How to convey to you the dance of her!
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