Making Do

Making Do

Making Do

Making Do


Amos, Meg's husband, swore he'd come back one night and shoot her, and we felt that this was probably for real. Amos was crazy, more than the average, and he did have a gun. Yet we couldn't call the police as other people would, because we were anarchists and pacifists and didn't believe in policemen, we did not want them messing in our lives which were innocent but in many ways illegal. We knew from experience that if you call a cop, one thing leads to another.

Harold and I agreed to stand guard on alternate nights. But supposing Amos did come with his gun, what were we supposed to do then? What exactly? It was hard for people like us to be practical.

I was too old for these strenuous games. I had too much real work to do in America to be exhausted by the inevitable fuck-ups of my young friends and these hang-ups of my older friends who should have known better than to marry crazy persons. Yet I could not stay away from their fuck-ups and hang-ups, because any vitality that there was in my work came from my contact with my friends, such as they were.

Monday night, both Harold and I were there when she whispered, "There he is!"

"No!" I denied it, and went to the window. "Where?"

"On the corner. Just outside the light."

Her coarse hair was hanging down in strings. I was looking at her in distaste. She was looking out the window too often, as if she wanted Amos to come back and make love. This put Harold and me in an awkward position.

Slowly she put her nails to her teeth and became speechless.

Peering nearsightedly out the window, I didn't know whether it was Amos or not. The middle-aged glasses for my overworked eyes ought to have been bifocals but they . . .

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