168th Street or 186th Street or one of those streets way the hell uptown. The one next to

  me, with the iron glasses, said she taught English and her friend taught history and

  

  American government. Then I started wondering like a bastard what the one sitting next

  to me, that taught English, thought about, being a nun and all, when she read certain

  books for English. Books not necessarily with a lot of sexy stuff in them, but books with

  lovers and all in them. Take old Eustacia Vye, in The Return of the Native by Thomas

  Hardy. She wasn't too sexy or anything, but even so you can't help wondering what a nun

  maybe thinks about when she reads about old Eustacia. I didn't say anything, though,

  naturally. All I said was English was my best subject.

  "Oh, really? Oh, I'm so glad!" the one with the glasses, that taught English, said.

  "What have you read this year? I'd be very interested to know." She was really nice.

  "Well, most of the time we were on the Anglo-Saxons. Beowulf, and old Grendel,

  and Lord Randal My Son, and all those things. But we had to read outside books for extra

  credit once in a while. I read The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy, and Romeo and

  Juliet and Julius--"

  "Oh, Romeo and Juliet! Lovely! Didn't you just love it?" She certainly didn't

  sound much like a nun.

  "Yes. I did. I liked it a lot. There were a few things I didn't like about it, but it was

  quite moving, on the whole."

  "What didn't you like about it? Can you remember?" To tell you the truth, it was

  sort of embarrassing, in a way, to be talking about Romeo and Juliet with her. I mean that

  play gets pretty sexy in some parts, and she was a nun and all, but she asked me, so I

  discussed it with her for a while. "Well, I'm not too crazy about Romeo and Juliet," I said.

  "I mean I like them, but--I don't know. They get pretty annoying sometimes. I mean I felt

  much sorrier when old Mercutio got killed than when Romeo and Juliet did. The think is,

  I never liked Romeo too much after Mercutio gets stabbed by that other man--Juliet's

  cousin--what's his name?"

  "Tybalt."

  "That's right. Tybalt," I said--I always forget that guy's name. "It was Romeo's

  fault. I mean I liked him the best in the play, old Mercutio. I don't know. All those

  Montagues and Capulets, they're all right--especially Juliet--but Mercutio, he was--it's

  hard to explain. He was very smart and entertaining and all. The thing is, it drives me

  crazy if somebody gets killed-- especially somebody very smart and entertaining and all--

  and it's somebody else's fault. Romeo and Juliet, at least it was their own fault."

  "What school do you go to?" she asked me. She probably wanted to get off the

  subject of Romeo and Juliet.

  I told her Pencey, and she'd heard of it. She said it was a very good school. I let it

  pass, though. Then the other one, the one that taught history and government, said they'd

  better be running along. I took their check off them, but they wouldn't let me pay it. The

  one with the glasses made me give it back to her.

  "You've been more than generous," she said. "You're a very sweet boy." She

  certainly was nice. She reminded me a little bit of old Ernest Morrow's mother, the one I

  met on the train. When she smiled, mostly. "We've enjoyed talking to you so much," she

  said.

  I said I'd enjoyed talking to them a lot, too. I meant it, too. I'd have enjoyed it

  even more though, I think, if I hadn't been sort of afraid, the whole time I was talking to

  them, that they'd all of a sudden try to find out if I was a Catholic. Catholics are always

  trying to find out if you're a Catholic. It happens to me a lot, I know, partly because my

  www.en8848.com

  

  last name is Irish, and most people of Irish descent are Catholics. As a matter of fact, my

  father was a Catholic once. He quit, though, when he married my mother. But Catholics

  are always trying to find out if you're a Catholic even if they don't know your last name. I

  knew this one Catholic boy, Louis Shaney, when I was at the Whooton School. He was

  the first boy I ever met there. He and I were sitting in the first two chairs outside the

  goddam infirmary, the day school opened, waiting for our physicals, and we sort of

  struck up this conversation about tennis. He was quite interested in tennis, and so was I.

  He told me he went to the Nationals at Forest Hills every summer, and I told him I did

  too, and then we talked about certain hot-shot tennis players for quite a while. He knew

  quite a lot about tennis, for a kid his age. He really did. Then, after a while, right in the

  middle of the goddam conversation, he asked me, "Did you happen to notice where the

  Catholic church is in town, by any chance?" The thing was, you could tell by the way he

  asked me that he was trying to find out if I was a Catholic. He really was. Not that he was

  prejudiced or anything, but he just wanted to know. He was enjoying the conversation

  about tennis and all, but you could tell he would've enjoyed it more if I was a Catholic

  and all. That kind of stuff drives me crazy. I'm not saying it ruined our conversation or

  anything--it didn't--but it sure as hell didn't do it any good. That's why I was glad those

  two nuns didn't ask me if I was a Catholic. It wouldn't have spoiled the conversation if

  they had, but it would've been different, probably. I'm not saying I blame Catholics. I

  don't. I'd be the same way, probably, if I was a Catholic. It's just like those suitcases I was

  telling you about, in a way. All I'm saying is that it's no good for a nice conversation.

  That's all I'm saying.

  When they got up to go, the two nuns, I did something very stupid and

  embarrassing. I was smoking a cigarette, and when I stood up to say good-by to them, by

  mistake I blew some smoke in their face. I didn't mean to, but I did it. I apologized like a

  madman, and they were very polite and nice about it, but it was very embarrassing

  anyway.

  After they left, I started getting sorry that I'd only given them ten bucks for their

  collection. But the thing was, I'd made that date to go to a matinee with old Sally Hayes,

  and I needed to keep some dough for the tickets and stuff. I was sorry anyway, though.

  Goddam money. It always ends up making you blue as hell.

  

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