which to burrow at Lucy's regard for Clem. Did high-lighted noses and cheekbones that shone in the sepia prints of Rembrandt paintings, dismissed in passing glances when first seen on classroom walls, the Beatrice profile, or the violent angles of which Clem spoke with such respect, have the importance of any well-turned phrase? The books on art insisted painting was more important than literature but, looking at the reproductions, he felt nothing. Naturally, one couldn't admit this.
Chapter 11
THE BLUE HEPATICAS
A small square basket of twisted shavings—Made in Japan stamped purple on its bottom—held a bouquet of blue hepaticas. A May Day gift from Clem to Lucy. Her eyes were the deep pure cobalt at the end of the flowers' harmonic scale.
"I never knew," she said, sniffing the woody freshness, "you're supposed to give spring flowers May first."
In Denver boys didn't give you presents on certain days, just wanted to kiss you any day. A present from you to them. Perhaps Miss Shaver knew about May Day because one day there was a glass of these same blue flowers on her desk. She could have found out a lot from Miss Shaver if that woman with the cat's eyes hadn't been there. How weak these flowers were at the end of their thin long stems. Weak the way boys liked girls to be. Blow on them and they bend over.
A playful puff nodded the heads in delicate agreement.
"They're pretty and have such nice juicy stems—stronger, I'll bet, than they look."
"Yes." Why was it that up to now he had focused only on the blooms? Lucy's legs were not the bunchy solids of Degas's girls. How about painting her as a flower? People would think he was crazy. A phalanx of cubists, futurists, surrealists, lined up to jeer. What a horrible fate to be ostracized as a Romantic! Perhaps, he thought, I know her too well. I can't get beyond her physical beauty.
