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The weather was fine and the mood was sunny, and he took a few shots: workmen in their Sunday suits and hats; a car festooned with banners; a young cop biting his nails. There was still no sign of Joanne, and he began to think she would not appear. She might have a headache this morning, he guessed.
The march was due to move off at noon. It finally got going a few minutes before one. There was a heavy police presence along the route, Woody noted. He found himself near the middle of the procession.
As they walked south on Washington Street, heading for the city's industrial heartland, he saw Joanne join the march a few yards ahead, and his heart leaped. She was wearing tailored pants that flattered her figure. He hurried to catch up with her. "Good afternoon!" he said happily.
"Good grief, you're cheerful," she said.
It was an understatement. He was delirious with happiness. "Are you hungover?"
"Either that or I've contracted the Black Death. Which do you think it is?"
"If you have a rash, it's the Black Death. Are there any spots?" Woody hardly knew what he was saying. "I'm not a doctor, but I'd be happy to check you over."
"Stop being irrepressible. I know it's charming, but I'm not in the mood."
Woody tried to calm down. "We missed you in church," he said. "The sermon was about Noah."
To his consternation she burst out laughing. "Oh, Woody," she said. "I like you so much when you're funny, but please don't make me laugh today."
He thought this remark was probably favorable, but he was far from certain.
He spotted an open grocery store on a side street. "You need fluids," he said. "I'll be right back." He ran into the store and bought two bottles of Coke, ice-cold from the refrigerator. He got the clerk to open them, then returned to the march. When he handed a bottle to Joanne she said: "Oh, boy, you're a lifesaver." She put the bottle to her lips and drank a long draft.
Woody felt he was ahead, so far.
The march was good-humored, despite the grim incident they were protesting about. A group of older men were singing political anthems and traditional songs. There were even a few families with children. And there was not a cloud in the sky.
"Have you read Studies in Hysteria?" Woody asked as they walked along.
"Never heard of it."
"Oh! It's by Sigmund Freud. I thought you were a fan of his."
"I'm interested in his ideas. I've never read one of his books."
"You should. Studies in Hysteria is amazing."
She looked curiously at him. "What made you read a book such as that? I bet they don't teach psychology at your expensively old-fashioned school."
"Oh, I don't know. I guess I heard you talking about psychoanalysis and thought it sounded really extraordinary. And it is."
"In what way?"
Woody had the feeling she was testing him, to see whether he had really understood the book or was merely pretending. "The idea that a crazy act, such as obsessively spilling ink on a tablecloth, can have a kind of hidden logic."
She nodded. "Yeah," she said. "That's it."
Woody knew instinctively that she did not understand what he was talking about. He had already overtaken her in his knowledge of Freud, but she was embarrassed to admit it.
"What's your favorite thing to do?" he asked her. "Theater? Classical music? I guess going to a film is no big treat to someone whose father owns about a hundred movie houses."
"Why do you ask?"
"Well . . ." He decided to be honest. "I want to ask you out, and I'd like to tempt you with something you really love to do. So name it, and we'll do it."
She smiled at him, but it was not the smile he was hoping for. It was friendly but sympathetic, and it told him that bad news was coming. "Woody, I'd like to, but you're fifteen."
"As you said last night, I'm more mature than Victor Dixon."
