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Show 27, Jeffries, Islamorada [Section 4] The other birds, their singing irresistible--and in his gray plainness, understated, the state bird came flitting across the turnsole. To the porch roof, to the ant hill, and under his window. Alert in this music, the mocker, listening. "I'll be. . ." the young man said, "I'll be getting married. . ." Outside the louvred jalousies, the mockingbird began his detailed song. A proposal of marriage. And of course the women would come. Mobile as gypsies. February, with her sea bag, hitching up from Big Pine, and, hatboxes and haut couture, Diamond in her DeTomaso somehow outstripping Row's night coach. And he'd reserved the restaurant table with the view. Three's a crowd, but there would be three of them, in that room. Picture it. A brunette. Blonde and a redhead. Like some corny fictive device, like maybe Mickey Spillane had staged it, with the gullible blond, the hot-tempered redhead. . . Yet he needed them all there. For marriage just might work, for a while, anyway, if he got the impulse, a little message from the color-wheel of eyes, and hair and skin. |
