Myra-Breckinridge-Gore-Vidal

her in my arms, reveling in the full rounded warmth of thatbody, so reminiscent of the early Lana Turner. In a curiousway, though she is so much younger and more vulnerablethan I, she suggests a mother figure to me, which ismadness since in our relationship I am, necessarily, theone who is wise, the one who comforts and directs. Idaresay my hatred of my own mother must have had somepositive element in it since I am now able to feel genuinewarmth for another woman, and a mere girl at that. I mustdiscuss the matter thoroughly with Randolph. Soon thesobbing ceased, and I poured her a glass of gin which shedrank neat. This seemed to steady her. "Rusty's goneagain." She sat on the daybed, and blew her nose. Her legsare every bit as beautiful as Eleanor Powell's in the last reelof Rosalie, on those drums. "Gone where?" I was about tosay that any boy on parole is not apt to take a long trip, but Ithought better of it. "I don't know. It happened last night."She dried her eyes. "Yes?" I was cautious. "You were withhim last night?" She nodded. "We were supposed to havedinner but he said you wanted to see him at ten......" "Aroutine chat." I was casual. "I'm sorry I picked such an oddhour and ruined your dinner but I was busy with Miss Cluffand... She was, happily, not interested in his visit to me."Anyway he didn't pick me up till after eleven, and I've neverseen him in such a bad mood... "Strange," I added to theofficial record, "he seemed quite cheerful when he left me.In fact, he thanked me profusely for the help I'd given him." "Iknow you were nice to him. You always are now. Anyway hedidn't mention you. He just picked a fight with me, over