The catcher in the rye

She practically jumped off the bed, and then she waited while I took my shoes off, and then I danced with her for a while. She’s really damn good. I don’t like people that dance with little kids, because most of the time it looks terrible. I mean if you’re out at a restaurant somewhere and you see some old guy take his little kid out on the dance floor. Usually they keep yanking the kid’s dress up in the back by mistake, and the kid can’t dance worth a damn anyway, and it looks terrible, but I don’t do it out in public with Phoebe or anything. We just horse around in the house. It’s different with her anyway, because she can dance. She can follow anything you do. I mean if you hold her in close as hell so that it doesn’t matter that your legs are so much longer. She stays right with you. You can cross over, or do some corny dips, or even jitterbug a little, and she stays right with you. You can even tango, for God’s sake.

We danced about four numbers. In between numbers she’s funny as hell. She stays right in position. She won’t even talk or anything. You both have to stay right in position and wait for the orchestra to start playing again. That kills me. You’re not supposed to laugh or anything, either.

Anyway, we danced about four numbers, and then I turned off the radio. Old Phoebe jumped back in bed and got under the covers. “I’m improving, aren’t I?” she asked me.

“And how,” I said. I sat down next to her on the bed again. I was sort of out of breath. I was smoking so damn much, I had hardly any wind. She wasn’t even out of breath.

“Feel my forehead,” she said all of a sudden.

“Why?”

“Feel it. Just feel it once.”

I felt it. I didn’t feel anything, though.

“Does it feel very feverish?” she said.

“No. Is it supposed to?”

“Yes — I’m making it. Feel it again.”

I felt it again, and I still didn’t feel anything, but I said, “I think it’s starting to, now.” I didn’t want her to get a goddam inferiority complex.

She nodded. “I can make it go up to over the thermoneter.”

“Thermometer. Who said so?”

“Alice Holmborg showed me how. You cross your legs and hold your breath and think of something very, very hot. A radiator or something. Then your whole forehead gets so hot you can burn somebody’s hand.”

That killed me. I pulled my hand away from her forehead, like I was in terrific danger. “Thanks for telling me,” I said.

“Oh, I wouldn’t’ve burned your hand. I’d’ve stopped before it got too — Shhh!” Then, quick as hell, she sat way the hell up in bed.

She scared hell out of me when she did that. “What’s the matter?” I said.

“The front door!” she said in this loud whisper. “It’s them!”

I quick jumped up and ran over and turned off the light over the desk. Then I jammed out my cigarette on my shoe and put it in my pocket. Then I fanned hell out of the air, to get the smoke out — I shouldn’t even have been smoking, for God’s sake. Then I grabbed my shoes and got in the closet and shut the door. Boy, my heart was beating like a bastard.

I heard my mother come in the room.

“Phoebe?” she said. “Now, stop that. I saw the light, young lady.”

“Hello!” I heard old Phoebe say. “I couldn’t sleep. Did you have a good time?”

“Marvelous,” my mother said, but you could tell she didn’t mean it. She doesn’t enjoy herself much when she goes out. “Why are you awake, may I ask? Were you warm enough?”

“I was warm enough, I just couldn’t sleep.”

“Phoebe, have you been smoking a cigarette in here? Tell me the truth, please, young lady.”

“What?” old Phoebe said.

“You heard me.”

“I just lit one for one second. I just took one puff. Then I threw it out the window.”

“Why, may I ask?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“I don’t like that, Phoebe. I don’t like that at all,” my mother said. “Do you want another blanket?”

“No, thanks. G’night!” old Phoebe said. She was trying to get rid of her, you could tell.

“How was the movie?” my mother said.

“Excellent. Except Alice’s mother. She kept leaning over and asking her if she felt grippy during the whole entire movie. We took a taxi home.”

“Let me feel your forehead.”

“I didn’t catch anything. She didn’t have anything. It was just her mother.”

“Well. Go to sleep now. How was your dinner?”

“Lousy,” Phoebe said.

“You heard what your father said about using that word. What was lousy about it? You had a lovely lamb chop. I walked all over Lexington Avenue just to—”

“The lamb chop was all right, but Charlene always breathes on me whenever she puts something down. She breathes all over the food and everything. She breathes on everything.”

“Well. Go to sleep. Give Mother a kiss. Did you say your prayers?”

“I said them in the bathroom. G’night!”

“Good night. Go right to sleep now. I have a splitting headache,” my mother said. She gets headaches quite frequently. She really does.

“Take a few aspirins,” old Phoebe said. “Holden’ll be home on Wednesday, won’t he?”

“So far as I know. Get under there, now. Way down.”