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"I hate to let you go, Murray. You're good for me." He would have walked all night.
Sometimes on Sunday they'd go to Long Beach, away from the overheated city. She wore a big straw hat to protect her face from sunburn, and watched Rudy while he swam. His arms were strong and brown stroking the water. When he found a big dog on the beach he would race it, wrestle with it for a stick, fight hard as if he meant it, pummel the dog lovingly, and let it go. Then he'd lie in the sand beside her, toying with the red satin laces of her bathing shoes. The heat made him ardent and dreamy. You knew always how it was with Rudy. He was as open as a child; and as a child mysteriously spiritual. Without the panther's spring, he might have been a priest of some occult faith. There was a mystical quality in him; he listened for a voice. Little things pleased him: a hot dog and milk out under the sun, a sand castle, sandpipers stepping gingerly about stabbing at the sand with their sharp beaks.
He was delighted that she had Italian origins. Irish and a little bit of North Italy, she said; that item in the paper about her people being Austrian and Belgian was nonsense. Everyone knew that Northern Italians were blonde and fair. Rudy came from the warm dark South, from Castellaneta. He told her of the farmhouse where he'd been born, low built with thick whitewashed stone walls and heavy blinds that were barred at night. It was a house full of sunlight, with crucifixes and madonnas in every room. He told her of afternoons in the shaded patio, his mother sewing and speaking of her home in Paris, where her father had been a distinguished doctor. Sometimes Rudy and his brother Alberto duelled with swords while the sisters, Beatrice and Maria, listened, watched. Once, to impress Maria he had smoked corn silk; she wasn't impressed, so he'd smoked a cigarette; she still wasn't impressed, so he had then filched his father's pipe and smoked that, and was caught in the act. His father had been a captain in the
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