“Well, wudga marry him for, then?” Mary Jane said.
“Oh, God! I don’t know. He told me he loved Jane Austen. He told me her books meant a great deal to him. That’s exactly what he said. I found out after we were married that he hadn’t even read one of her books. You know who his favorite author is?”
Mary Jane shook her head.
“L. Manning Vines. Ever hear of him?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Neither did I. Neither did anybody else. He wrote a book about four men that starved to death in Alaska. Lew doesn’t remember the name of it, but it’s the most beautifully written book he’s ever read. Christ! He isn’t even honest enough to come right out and say he liked it because it was about four guys that starved to death in an igloo or something. He has to say it was beautifully written.”
“You’re too critical,” Mary Jane said. “I mean you’re too critical. Maybe it was a good—”
“Take my word for it, it couldn’t’ve been,” Eloise said. She thought for a moment, then added, “At least, you have a job. I mean at least you—”
“But listen, though,” said Mary Jane. “Do you think you’ll ever tell him Walt was killed, even? I mean he wouldn’t be jealous, would he, if he knew Walt was—you know. Killed and everything.”
“Oh, lover! You poor, innocent little career girl,” said Eloise. “He’d be worse. He’d be a ghoul. Listen. All he knows is that I went around with somebody named Walt—some wisecracking G.I. The last thing I’d do would be to tell him he was killed. But the last thing. And if I did—which I wouldn’t—but if I did, I’d tell him he was killed in action.”