The Dark Descends Read Online Free Page A

a job was a job. And what a lift to the spirit to have landed one the very first try (so much for
you
, Irene McCarthy!). They had asked her to start the very next day, and she had agreed. Not that she had taken their eagerness to have her as much of a compliment—no doubt they had been caught short-handed by a sudden departure—but what the hell, even a poor excuse for a compliment could make you feel good, if you kidded yourself a little.
    In the meantime, she had a whole afternoon to play lady of leisure, and she decided to spend it exploring Greenwich Village, to which she had been a virtual stranger for the past few years. Armed with
New York Places & Pleasures
, she started out by having a roast beef sandwich at The Bagel, only to regret so conventional an opening almost immediately, as soon as she began passing eating places redolent of Italian and Middle Eastern cookery. The prominence of kabobs and souvlaki was something she didn't remember from earlier days. The Village had changed, no doubt about it. The scene was dominated by a generation much more flamboyant than her own, what with their macram6 vests and shirts like chain mail, their ponchos, kaftans, burnooses, and monks' robes. Their elders appeared to be trying either to conform (was there ever a sight so ludicrous as a well fleshed grandmother wrapped in a horse blanket?) or to efface themselves. Had the Village been so youth-centered in the days when she had frequented it? Probably. But she had been young herself then, and now she was a back number, boo-hoo-hoo.
    Joyce took the Greenwich Village ramble recommended by Kate Simon and enjoyed herself thoroughly, particularly on Bleecker Street, where Italian foodstuffs overflowed from the shops onto the sidewalk. But the best treat of the afternoon awaited her in the old Jefferson Market Courthouse, now a branch of the New York Public Library. Stepping inside to confront stained-glass windows and a spiral staircase was like stepping into the time capsule for a trip back to a vanished age. An illusion, lasting only a moment or two, but somehow that was long enough.
    The stern-faced brunette who handled registration looked a veritable bluestocking, in spite of her up-to-the-minute Aran sweater and flaring trousers. She peered through her granny glasses at Joyce's application and frowned.
    "
Ms
. Chandler?" The query was frosty.
    "
Ms
. Chandler," Joyce said firmly.
    The librarian grinned, and every trace of the bluestocking was gone. "A fledgling. I can always tell a fledgling from a wise old bird by the intonation. Am I right?"
    "Right," Joyce admitted. "But are there really many wise old birds in the Women's Lib movement?"
    "Not many. Mostly the very, very old. The ones who threw the bricks and went to jail to get the vote. The issueS were a lot clearer for them, of course. For us there's a hell of a lot of clutter."
    "Well, that's a straight answer anyway."
    "A good question deserves a straight answer. If you didn't expect one, why did you ask the question?"
    "I don't actually know. Impulse, I suppose. You sent a challenge, I sent one back. It's always seemed to me that all the shouting and striking of attitudes camouflages a lot of uncertainty."
    "You're dead right there." The librarian scribbled something on a piece of paper and held it out. "You might be interested in this. Particulars of my rap group. We meet once a week at my place. Why don't you drop around for the next meeting?"
    "I don't really think—"
    "You're not obliged to do a striptease. I mean that literally—some groups require taking all your clothes off. Ours doesn't. We don't pressure anybody to do anything. Not even talk. You can just sit and listen if you want to. Drop around. What have you got to lose but your chains?"
    What indeed? “I might do that. Thank you"—Joyce glanced at the paper—"Ms. Shanks."
    "Kitty." The grin flashed again. "You're welcome, Joyce."
    Joyce left the library humming the "Osanna" from Bach's B-minor Mass