'What do you mean by that?' He spoke in a voice that was low and ugly. 'What do you mean?**
'Nothing, Lance. I-'
'What do you mean?'
She whimpered and pulled back ineffectually. With an angry snarl he shoved her away and drew himself up to his full height. 'You seem to forget our college days, Gwen. You looked up to me then, remember?'
'I still look up to you, Lance.' Gwen backed up slowly, until she bumped into a wall and could go no farther. She waited, panic stricken, for Lance to advance on her, but he did not.
Instead he said, 'Remember those days, huh? I was somebody then. All the English teachers knew me. They said they wished I'd never leave.'
They said they thought you'd never leave, Gwen wanted to scream at him. You flunked bonehead English, twice. Creative writing teachers said you were incomprehensible. She thought all of this, but didn't say it. Instead she said, 'I remember, Lance. I remember. Lance, I can't quit my job. We need the money. And Arthur's going to be the next mayor. You'll see....'
Lance guffawed and waved his hands about as he spoke. He bumped the single bulb that hung overhead in the kitchen, and it tossed up wildly distorted shadows on the wall. 'Mayor, is he? Has he been out canvassing for votes? Has he even got the signatures of people who say they want him to run for mayor? Gwen, the man is a loser. You always hook yourself up with losers. You have a streak of self-abuse that...'
His voice trailed off as he realized she was looking at him in an assessing manner, and he realized also exactly who he had described so accurately. With a snarl he stormed over to the front door of the apartment, yanked it open, and barreled out into the hallway, down the stairs to the next landing, and eventually out the door of the building.
In the past Gwen would have chased him down the stairs, risking a battering of life and limb just to throw her arms about his legs and get him to come back. But this time she watched him go. He stopped at street level and looked up at the window. She glanced down at him briefly, then turned away.
With a roar he pushed his way into the crowd and vanished from Gwen's sight... had she been looking, of course.
Instead she was looking elsewhere-at the shape and course of her own life.
AH she knew was one thing-that over the past several years she'd been living in limbo. A lady in waiting. Waiting for Lance to complete his book and sell it (he'd made it sound so easy!). Waiting for her life to take some direction.
A lady in waiting.
She pulled herself up with a smile. That's what she liked about Arthur Penn, she decided. He didn't make her feel like a lady in waiting. He made her feel like a queen.
Chaptre the Seventh
The couple was walking briskly down Fifth Avenue near the park, the woman's heels clacking merrily on the cobblestones, when the mugger leaped from behind a tree.
Instinctively the man pushed the woman behind him. His desperate gaze revealed, naturally, that there was not a policeman in sight, so he pulled together the shards of his shattered nerve and held up his fists.
The mugger stared at them for a moment, puzzled, and then slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand in self-re-proachment. 'Right!' said Chico. 'Money! You think I want money!'
The man, who was somewhat portly and in his late fifties, peered over the tops of his fists.
'You ... you don't?'
'Nah! I mean, in the vast, general socioeconomic strata of the world, yeah, sure I want money. I mean, it makes the world go around.' He paused. 'Or maybe that's gravity or something.'
'Yes. Well. We have to be going.'
'Fine. Well, you have a nice day.'
'You bet. Same to you.'
'Real soon.'
The couple was slowly backing down the street. Chico stood there, waving the filthy fingers of a filthy hand, his beat-up army poncho blowing in the breeze. They turned quickly then, but had only taken several steps when a voice screamed out from behind them, 'Hey!'
'This is it, Harold,' muttered the woman. 'We're going to die now.'
Chico came barreling around them and faced them for a moment, his shaggy head shifting its gaze from one of them to the other. Then he thrust a clipboard forward. 'I'm getting signatures for an election.'
Harold looked at him incredulously. 'What ...' He cleared his throat, 'What are you running for?'
'Who, me? Oh, geez, no. It's for mayor. I'm helping one hell of a guy become mayor of the city.'
'Which... which city?'
Chico paused a moment and frowned. 'Holy geez, I never asked. You think it's this one?'
'With my luck,' muttered the woman.
'Look, we don't want any trouble,' Harold began again. He noted the fact that people were walking right past without offering any aid to two older people, obviously in distress. Indeed, they seemed to pick up their pace. 'If you want me to sign this--'
'Harold!'
'Hey, man, you're great.' Chico thrust the clipboard forward once again, and this time Harold took it, holding it gingerly between his fingers.
'Urn,' Harold said, and patted down his pockets. 'I, uh, I don't seem to have a pen.'
'Not to worry,' said Chico, who patted all the pockets in his limply hanging poncho and then in his tattered pants. With a frown he checked the hair behind his ears and then his beard. It was from that unchecked growth of facial hair that he finally extracted a Bic pen and extended it to the couple.
'I'm going to be sick,' said Alice between clenched teeth. 'I swear, God as my witness, I'm going to be sick.'
'Shut up, Alice,' muttered Harold as he took the pen and signed the petition. 'Maybe you would have preferred it if he had assaulted your virtue.'
Chico and Alice exchanged glances. Neither seemed particularly enthused with the idea.
'Harold!' she said after a moment. 'You're putting our address!'
'Yes. So?'
'So . . .' Her eyes narrowed as she inclined her head toward Chico. 'What if he tries to, you know, come to the house.'
'Oh, I'd never do that,' said Chico. Then he gave the matter some thought. 'Unless you invited me.'
Harold tried to smile pleasantly. What he achieved was the look of a man passing a kidney stone, but he continued valiantly, 'What a . . . what a marvelous idea. We have to do that, real soon.'
'When?'
'What?'
'When do you want me to come over?' He looked eagerly from one of them to the other.
'I'm . . . I'm not sure. It's going to be pretty hectic for us, too hectic to make social plans.'
'Oh.' Chico looked crestfallen, but he brightened up. 'Well, 1*11 give you a call, okay?' He smiled ingratiatingly.
'Okay. You bet.'
They walked at double-time down the street. Chico watched them go, and when they were almost out of earshot he screamed, 'Are we talking dinner or just coffee and cake here?'
He shrugged when he got no response, and looked down proudly at his first signature. Only a few thousand more and he could knock off for the day.
Then he reached into his beard and moaned. 'Crud! The sons of bitches took my pen.' He shook his head in disillusionment. 'You just can't trust anyone these days. There's freaks everywhere.'
Professor Carol Kalish, noted geologist, was emerging from the depths of the New York University subway stop on the BMT when a shadowy figure materialized in front of her.
In one hand was a switchblade. In the other was a clipboard.
'Hello,' growled Groucho. 'I'd like your support for Arthur Penn, who would like to run as an independent for
