Girls In 3-B, The (18 page)

"You're too young to be so narrow-minded."

"I am not narrow-minded. I'll try anything once. Almost anything, I mean."

"Okay. How about a show tomorrow night?"

She looked around for a door to the trap, and found none. "Well. All right." After all, she reasoned, he's not asking me to sign a lifetime contract. It's a long time since I had a date
--
August, and this is November. She smiled suddenly, not the wistful smile she had been trying to cultivate but the old Pat grin, with teeth. "All right. What time?"

"Oh
--
seven. Pick you up at your place." He got down off her desk and went back to unpacking office supplies. She couldn't help noticing how easily he lifted the big cartons and how deftly he pried out staples and untied string, but when he turned back to look at her, she was concentrating on her work. Nor would she have admitted that after he left for his afternoon classes she looked him up in the payroll file
--turn about's fair play,
she defended herself. Stanley Wyrzykowski, twenty years old, fifty dollars for a thirty-hour week. She figured that he made about the same as she did, hour for hour. She wouldn't have liked going out with a boy who made less
--
it made him seen unimportant. She put the folder back, guiltily, as Miss Miller came in on rubber heels.

It was good to be dressing for a date. She went home fifteen minutes early to escape the rush, both on the I.C. and in the bathroom. Annice came in while she stood undecided before a row of new dresses, mostly not paid for. "What's the matter, got so many clothes you can't make up your mind?" The overdue rent and unpaid grocery bill were implicit in her tone.

She thought she looked rather nice. She had the right hairdo and the right lipstick, and she had dieted off twelve pounds. Stan whistled when she came to the door. "You look good. Wyrzykowski can pick girls."

He was all dressed up
--
good gray suit, quiet tie, well-shined shoes. She introduced him to Annice proudly. You could see that his mother had brought him up right. Probably her mother would go for him in a big way, even with a name like that. She asked abruptly, "Are you Catholic?"

"Sure, what else would I be
?
I don't go to Mass as often as my mother thinks I should, though. You know how Polish Catholic mothers are."

"I know how Irish Catholic mothers are," Pat said grimly.

She thought,
It's a good thing mom hasn't seen this kid, she’d have the bridesmaids all picked out.
She held her full skirt up daintily, following him down the uncarpeted stairs. That crumb, Rocco, was lurking in the lower hall. He turned away without speaking when he saw them.

It was a cold night, with a snowy wind. Chill air crept in around the joints of Stan's Volkswagen. "Little bit cold," he said. "The heater's good, though. By and large it's a pretty good car." His tone was affectionate. He helped her in, slamming the door twice to make it stick shut. "I got tickets for
My Fair Lady,"
he said casually, looking sidewise at her to see if she appreciated his achievement

"Oh, that's wonderful."

And she was pleased. To be going to a big downtown theater with this polite good-looking boy, to see a highly advertised play
--
this was fun. She had almost forgotten how much fun it was. After they seated themselves in the big auditorium, and he helped her off with her coat, she slipped her hand into his. His fingers tightened on hers, but his profile, stern and serious, was intent on the stage. She giggled. It was like the old days
--
fun, and she could handle him if he got fresh, because he was like the boys she had gone with in high school.

Then she forgot him and lost herself in the play, the first live production she had ever seen.
Who'd have thought I'd ever go without a date four whole months?
she marvelled. Nobody wants to go with a bunch of girls, like the older women you find in every office who flock together and never have dates, but think they're having a big evening when they dress up for each other and go to the show together, with maybe a soda after. She had seen them, looking wistfully at couples. She was so thankful to be spared this fate that she leaned against Stan, and he put his arm around her shoulders. She settled down into it naturally, not diverting her attention from the stage but aware of the shattering warmth in the background of her thoughts.

They came out into lighted streets and talking crowds. Pat blinked. Stan said, "What would you like to do now
?
Like something to eat
?
"

"Not really. I'm too fat now."

"You're too thin. Look good with a little meat on your bones." He looked her over, not unkindly, but appraisingly. "Like to go for a ride? I put in all day Sunday overhauling the heap. It runs pretty good."

Barby's friend Jonni was right
--
city or country, they were all alike. She had two ones in her billfold, emergency money, just in case
--
not that she didn't trust Stan, but on general principles. He was a nice boy, but the nicest boy in the world doesn't just want to sit around and talk after he's spent his money on a girl. "Let's not go too far," she said, with a double meaning.

Stan grinned. "I won't go any farther than you want me to. That's a promise."

They drove south and turned into a little park
--
the same park where Alan and Annice had gone on their first date. Other cars stood beside the curving drive, parking lights glowing dimly. Stan turned off the motor. "Sounds pretty good. If I had the time and the dough I'd give her a complete overhauling." He sounded proud, like a little boy with a new baseball bat. She said, "It's a nice car."

He lit a cigarette. His hand shook a little, which reassured her. She looked at him, smiling a little. He put a tentative arm across her shoulders, and she relaxed into it. Next the kiss, she thought, and was ready for it when it came, a brush of the lips across hers. She remembered Johnny Cutler and the long, moist kisses that had held them spellbound for hours, parked on back roads, longing to go farther but afraid to.

Stan said huskily, "You know something? I noticed you the first day I came into the office. I thought, there's a girl I'd like to go out with."

That was a lie, of course, because if he had noticed her at the beginning of the school term in September he wouldn't have waited until November before asking for a date. But it was a good polite lie and she accepted it at its face value. He kissed her again, and this time it had more authority in it. She reminded herself that at a certain point she'd have to start objecting
--
still, that point hadn't been reached yet, and in the meantime she was having a kind of fun she'd almost forgotten. She snuggled closer.

"No kidding, I didn't have the nerve to ask you before. I figured a girl as good-looking as you would have a dozen fellows."

"How do you know I haven't?"

"Hope you haven't anyhow. I'd like to see more of you." She couldn't decide whether that was a crack or not, and let it pass.

He held her closer, and this time his free hand reached for the buttons at the front of her dress. His fingers, chilly from the night air, slipped inside her neckline. She felt an instant and perilous response and moved away a little. He said, "Aw, don't be like that."

A car turned in behind them. He let her go, and they sat upright without speaking until it passed and drew off to the side of the road. Smoochers, not cops. This time he tried another attack
--
standard approach number two, starting from the bottom. He slid a hand under her skirt, not high enough for her to object but high enough to feel the soft flesh at the top of her stockings. He moved the hand a little higher, and she pushed it away. He tried it again.

They're so unoriginal,
Pat thought, pushing his hand away again and wrapping the skirt of her coat around her legs.
If they don't try, then your feelings are hurt and you go home and look in the mirror to see what's the matter with you. If they do, then you have to keep fighting them off.
She said, "Don't get rough, son."

Presumably some time you wouldn't want to keep fending a boy off, and then you crossed the line dividing good girls and bad girls, as ruled off by your mother when you were about twelve. It wasn't so bad to go all the way with a man you loved, or thought you did. In the moral code of her mother and most of the girls she knew, it was taken for granted that young people are subject to temptation and that it isn't really so bad as long as they get married in the church at least six months before the baby comes, and lead sober hard-working lives forever after. You didn't take chances with a married man or anybody who couldn't or wouldn't marry you, if that became necessary. And you certainly didn't go all the way with a man on your first date. She said, "Don't be fresh."

He said, "Aw, don't be that way." If you were a decent fellow you didn't force a girl, especially if you thought she might be a virgin. Never start a girl. You wanted to, of course; when you got hot for a girl you sort of forgot about everything else, and if a girl let you go too far then, well, you couldn't blame a fellow for the way he was made. Girls were supposed to know that.

He said, "I didn't mean to be fresh. I think you're a swell girl, and it's been a wonderful evening."

She said, "It has been nice, hasn't it
?
Only I ought to go home pretty soon. We both have to work tomorrow."

"Okay." But he kissed her again, instead of starting the car, and this time it was a real kiss. She collapsed against him, hanging on to him with both hands. He put his hand up inside her skirt, feeling her shallow excited breathing against the front of his shirt. Goddam panty girdle in the way. He stretched the lastex edge, making the kiss last to distract her attention from his maneuverings.

"Looking for something?"

"Oh, hell."

She wriggled out of his grasp and sat up, arranging her dress modestly. "I'm sorry. I'm not that kind of a girl."

"None of 'em are." He reflected bitterly that no girl ever admitted that she wanted to make love. Even when they were undressed and in bed with you, moaning with pleasure and biting and scratching
--
like that little bitch from the Art Institute he'd gone with for a while
--
they always talked like it was all your idea and they were pushed into it. The only girl he had ever known who frankly wanted it was a kid back in high school
--
in fact, she suggested it, on the way home from a dance, and he was so startled he was afraid for a while he wouldn't be able to do anything.

He swallowed. "I'm sorry. You can't blame me though, can you?"

"I guess not." She sounded small and timid. "I like you, too. Only I don't want to start something we're not going to finish."

"We could finish it," he suggested.

"No."

She meant it. He kissed her again, lingeringly, and started the car.

She peeked at him to see if he was angry. He didn't seem to be. He seemed to think that was the right way for her to act. If she'd said yes, he wouldn't have liked her nearly so well after he cooled off. This way, he would ask her out again
--
and try again, too.

Besides, she admitted to herself, she was scared. Suppose you got caught, or suppose it wasn't as wonderful as you thought it was going to be
?

"Come on in when we get home; we'll make some coffee."

"Sure, that would be fun."

The lights were on and the radio was giving out rock and roll, so they went in. Annice came out of the bedroom to meet them. She had been crying again, and her face was pasty. Pat made a mental note to ask a few tactful questions after Stan left. She wasn't sure where the line was between being friendly and interfering, but now that she stopped to think about it, Annice had been acting depressed a lot lately. She stayed home a lot, and she hadn't mentioned Alan. Pat hoped that they'd quarreled; she thought, No good can come to her running around with that crumb, and looked at Stan with new regard.

It wasn't until he had gone home and she'd washed the cups and plates that she remembered Blake Thomson. She curled up under the half-cotton blanket and settled down to the fantasy of love that had become a nightly habit, and then it occurred to her that she hadn't given him a thought all evening. She felt shocked, as though she had caught herself in some disloyalty.

But it wasn't Blake Thomson's face that glimmered through the closing fog of sleep. Drowsy in spite of unfulfilled desire and two cups of coffee, she thought about Stan Wyrzykowski's hand on her leg, under her skirt, and in half-sleep she felt the rise of response and stirred and smiled.

It was no day for unhappy errands. A thin rainy snow fell and melted as soon as it reached the sidewalks, and the crossings were slushy and gray. The wind whined around corners and reached inside the neck of Annice's thin coat as she walked, head bent against the blow. She shuddered.
Maybe I'll die of pneumonia,
she thought, reaching a lighted drugstore and stepping into its doorway for shelter;
maybe it would be a good thing if I did. Solve all my problems. Somebody else could worry about the funeral bills.

She lifted one high-heeled sandal, then the other to judge the damage done by melting snow. The thin soles were soaked, her feet were wet, and a line of muddy spots up the back of each leg marred her nylons. She tried to wipe the spots off with her handkerchief, but it was no use; the dirt was well mixed with city grease, and only spread and blurred.

There was no reason she couldn't write home for her winter clothes. No reason, that is, except this idiotic feeling that she was only safe as long as she avoided all communication. The folks would see through any letter she wrote, no matter how short and noncommittal. She knew she was being silly. But the idea had taken a firm grip on her, and she couldn't shake it off; every time she thought about writing home she was convinced that she would somehow give herself away.
Maybe it's my condition,
she thought,
they say pregnant women get silly ideas. Or maybe I'm going crazy. That would be a solution too--not as good as dying, though.