Friend of My Youth

captive-princess kind. It was the beauty of storybook illustrations. Long, waving, floating light-brown hair with golden lights in it, which was called blond hair in the days before there were any but the most brazen artificial blondes. Pink-and-white skin, large, mild blue eyes. “The milk of human kindness” was an expression that came mysteriously into Joan’s head when she thought of Matilda. And there was something milky about the blue of Matilda’s eyes, and her skin, and her looks altogether. Something milky and cool and kind—something stupid, possibly. Don’t all those storybook princesses have a tender blur, a veil of stupidity over their blond beauty, an air of unwitting sacrifice, helpless benevolence? All this appeared in Matilda at the age of twelve or thirteen. Morris’s age, in Morris’s room at school. But she did quite well there, so it seemed she wasn’t stupid at all. She was known as a champion speller.
    Joan collected every piece of information about Matilda that she could find and became familiar with every outfit that Matilda wore. She schemed to meet her, and because they lived in the same block she often did. Faint with love, Joan noted every variation in Matilda’s appearance. Did her hair fall forward over her shoulders today or was it pushed back from her cheeks?Had she put a clear polish on her fingernails? Was she wearing the pale-blue rayon blouse with the tiny edging of lace around the collar, which gave her a soft and whimsical look, or the starched white cotton shirt, which turned her into a dedicated student? Matilda owned a string of glass beads, clear pink, the sight of which, on Matilda’s white neck, caused a delicate sweat to break out along the insides of Joan’s arms.
    At one time Joan invented other names for her. “Matilda” brought to mind dingy curtains, gray tent flaps, a slack-skinned old woman. How about Sharon? Lilliane? Elizabeth? Then, Joan didn’t know how, the name Matilda became transformed. It started shining like silver. The “il” in it was silver. But not metallic. In Joan’s mind the name gleamed now like a fold of satin.
    The matter of greetings was intensely important, and a pulse fluttered in Joan’s neck as she waited. Matilda of course must speak first. She might say “Hi,” which was lighthearted, comradely, or “Hello,” which was gentler and more personal. Once in a while she said “Hello, Joan,” which indicated such special notice and teasing regard that it immediately filled Joan’s eyes with tears and laid on her a shameful, exquisite burden of happiness.
    This love dwindled, of course. Like other trials and excitements, it passed away, and Joan’s interest in Matilda Buttler returned to normal. Matilda changed, too. By the time Joan was in high school, Matilda was already working. She got a job in a lawyer’s office; she was a junior clerk. Now that she was making her own money, and was partway out of her mother’s control—only partway, because she still lived at home—she changed her style. It seemed that she wanted to be much less of a princess and much more like everybody else. She got her hair cut short, and wore it in the trim fashion of the time. She started wearing makeup, bright-red lipstick that hardened the shape of her mouth. She dressed the way other girls did—in long, tight slit skirts, andblouses with floppy bows at the neck, and ballerina shoes. She lost her pallor and aloofness. Joan, who was planning to get a scholarship and study art and archeology at the University of Toronto, greeted this Matilda with composure. And the last shred of her worship vanished when Matilda began appearing with a boyfriend.
    The boyfriend was a good-looking man about ten years older than Matilda. He had thinning dark hair and a pencil mustache and a rather unfriendly, suspicious, determined expression. He was very tall, and he bent toward Matilda, with his arm around her waist, as they walked along the streets. They walked on the streets so much because Mrs. Carbuncle had taken a huge dislike to him and would not let him inside the house. At first he didn’t have a car. Later he did. He was said to be either an airplane pilot or a waiter in a posh restaurant, and it was not known where Matilda had met him. When they walked, his arm was actually below Matilda’s waist—his spread fingers rested securely on her hipbone. It seemed to Joan that this bold, settled hand had something to do with his gloomy and