Slow Sculpture by Theodore Sturgeon Read Free Book Online

as wide as it would go, and self-consciously picked up the wastepaper basket and set it to hold the door open. She looked up from this task right into Sam’s twinkling eyes, and sent up a prayer that he wouldn’t tease her about it. One never knew what Sam was going to say; sometimes he wasbeyond understanding and sometimes he was just—awful. “The window,” she said. “The blind.”
    He looked at it. “Oh, that again. Durn things are always getting the cords frayed.” The venetian blind hung askew, the bottom slats almost vertical, leaving a lower corner of the window exposed. Sam tugged at the raising-cord. It was double; one part was jammed tight and the other ran free. He pulled it all the way out and ruefully exhibited the broken end. “See? That’s it, all right. Have to see if I can’t put in a new cord for you in the morning, if I can find one.”
    “In the morning? But— I mean, well, Mr. uh—Sam, what about now? That is, what am I going to
do?”
    “Why, just don’t worry your pretty little head about it! Get your beauty-sleep, little lady, and by the time you’re back from school tomorrow I’ll have it—”
    “You don’t understand,” she wailed softly, “I can’t go to bed with it like that. That’s why I waited up for you. I’ve tried everything. The drapes won’t go across it and there’s nothing to hang a towel to and the chair-back isn’t high enough to cover it and—and—oh,
dear!
”
    “Oh-h-h.”
    Struck by something in his single, slow syllable, she looked sharply at him. There was something—what was it? like a hum in the room. But it wasn’t a sound. He hadn’t changed … and yet there was something in his eyes she had never seen before. She had never seen it in anyone’s eyes. About Sam Bittelman there had always been a leisurely strength, and it was there now but easier, stronger, more comforting than ever. To her, with her multiple indecisions, unsurenesses, his friendly certitude was more wondrous than a halo might have been. He said, “Just what bothers you about the window?”
    Her usual self moved quite clearly to indicate, indignantly, that part of the window was uncovered and surely that spoke for itself; yet her usual self was unaccountably silent, and she gave him his answer: “Somebody might look
in!
”
    “You know what’s outside that window?”
    “Wh— Oh. Oh, the back of the garage.”
    “So nobody’s going to see in. Well now, suppose there was nogarage, and you turned out your lights. Could anybody see in?”
    “N-no …”
    “But it still bothers you.”
    “Yes, of course it does.” She looked at the triangle of exposed glass, black with night outside, and shuddered. He leaned against the doorpost and scratched his head. “Let me ask you something,” he said, as if her permission might make a difference. “S’pose we took away the garage, and you forgot and left your light on,
and
somebody saw you?”
    She squeaked.
    “Really bothers you, don’t it?” He laughed easily. And instead of infuriating her, the sound flooded her with comfort. “What exactly is bothersome about that, aside from the fact that it’s bothersome?”
    “Why … why,” she said breathlessly, “I know what
I’d
think of a hussy that would parade around that way with the lights on and—”
    “I didn’t say parade. Nor ‘prance,’ either, which is the other word people use, I don’t know why. So what really bothers you is what some peepin’ Tom might think, hm? Now, Miss Schmidt, is that really anything to worry about? What do you care what he thinks you are? Don’t you know what you are?” He paused, but she had nothing to say. “You ever sleep naked?”
    She gasped, and, round-eyed, shook her head.
    “Why not?” he demanded.
    “Why I— I—” She had to answer him; she had to. Fear rose like a thin column of smoke within her, and then a swift glance at his open, friendly face dispelled it completely. It was extraordinary,