“It is atrophied,” said Docky. “But let’s watch the dance.”
Sophie, who had waited until all attention was centered upon her, now leaped from the doorway, flinging out the pigeon which was tied to her wrist by a string. Upon alighting, one of her thin legs bent under her, then she began to dance. She pirouetted and waved her flabby hips while the bird tried desperately to escape. Once it descended upon her head and lifted the transformation. The guests had a fleeting glimpse of a pink, bald dome. Occasionally Sophie’s joints cracked. The effect was macabre.
“Mercy!” said Beulah. “If my bones were in that condition, I’d have brought my little can of lubricating oil. She positively drowns out the orchestra!”
“‘Little’ can, did you say?” timidly questioned Daisy, who had rejoined the group.
Beulah did not turn her head. Only the bulges on her neck seemed to stiffen and bulge out further.
But Sophie was now in difficulty. The pigeon had become terrified and was jerking at the string. All pretense of dancing stopped and Sophie stood there, feebly waving her arms. Pitying her, Drewena stepped to her side, closed one hand gently around the panicky bird and slipped the noose from its leg. Out in the dim corridor she opened a window, touched her cheek to the bird’s soft, rumpled feathers and, with a sigh, tossed it into the darkness.
Miriam had returned to the powder room when Sophie came in, near to hysteria, weeping.
“Oh, heavens!” she cried, while the mascara streamed down her cheeks. “It stooled on me!” And she wiped the top of her bare head with a handkerchief.
“That’s nothing—a seagull once did the same for me,” said Miriam. “You can’t get it off that way. Why don’t you stick your head under the shower?”