Larque on the Wing Read Online Free Page B

climaxed epically, which she didn’t always, though it did not matter to her unduly whether she did or not; sex with Hoot was always good, the holding, the kisses, the ultimate closeness, it was an act involving her naked soul as much as her naked body. But this time, as she lay under him, her soul felt hollow, hungry, cavernous, even though the most exciting orifice in her body was sublimely filled.
    Mid-life was fun, all right. Funny, rather. It was just one big joke, ha ha. A bad joke. So funny it hurt.
    Still in her nightgown, Larque shut herself in her studio early the next morning, letting the boys get themselves off to school while she confronted the terrifying whiteness of the blank paper. An hour later she could stand it no longer. She had to do something, and she knew she was on her own.
    She slammed the studio door behind her. Put on blue jeans, a chambray shirt. No makeup. Suddenly she felt sick of the daily tyranny of foundation and blush and lipstick and mascara. What a waste of time. Why in the world should she have to cover her face with cosmetics, mask her real self with makeup, in order to be considered presentable? Men never did; they just went around with their faces hanging out, and nobody ever thought the worse of them for it. To hell with makeup from now on. Perm, too. Why should she sit still for three hours of slow torture of the scalp just to be what some unidentifiable authority had decreed attractive? Now where the hell were those boots? She owned a pair of expensive Western boots left over from her college days—their silver-tipped toes and ridiculous heels, not to speak of the cactus flowers stitched on their shafts, had always made her feel self-conscious in them, so that she had not worn them in years, but now she dug them out from the back of her closet, dusted them off, and pulled them on. Nor were they boots made for walking. She limped in them. Nevertheless, out the door she went in them, afoot because Sky was afoot, striding painfully toward the country west of town, the way Sky might have gone.
    She knew, or remembered now, how Sky had felt when adults were angry, how Sky had dreamed of being free, of running away to the wild wild West.
    Town had to be gotten through first: Soudersburg, Pennsylvania, a place with small-town thoughts and big-city problems, with beveled glass bay-windowed Victorian mansions on one side of the tracks, boarded-up crackhouses on the other. Soudersburg liked to keep its blond children and colonial charm well separated from what went on in the back streets. The Historical Riverside, with its Shot Tower and Old Stone Inn and petting zoo and Williamsburg-colored gift shops where the tourists bought, where Larque’s paintings were sold, stood well away from the sections where the “Drug Watch” signs were posted and the dark people lived.
    On those rare occasions when she emerged from her studio and went into town, Larque didn’t usually walk—some of the streets between hers and the Riverside were dangerous.
    To hell with danger.
    On impulse, or maybe instinct, Larque turned onto a street she’d never walked before, a place where narrow row houses were crowded like Sky’s teeth and where people escaping the narrow indoors sat out on their front steps even on the coldest days of the year. This wasn’t a balmy day, but not cold either. Just fresh, whispering of warmth to come, of bare-chested boys and young love. Ah, April, the cruelest month for people who were past forty or paying self-employment income tax.
    Larque walked up to the first stoop-sitter, a stout housedressed woman with her nylons down around her ankles, and asked, “Have you seen a funny-looking little girl? Maybe yesterday, maybe the day before?”
    The woman peered at her out of eyes that were creases riding on heavy cheeks.
    â€œSkinny,” Larque elaborated. “In a skirt and blouse like they used to make us wear in the fifties.” The