The Slipper (2 page)

The grin came into full play. It was a most engaging grin. Carol knew she must seem ridiculous to him, must seem a silly, self-dramatizing child, but how could anyone his age expect to know how she felt? He was sleek and poised and had clearly never known heart-wrenching disappointment. One of those people to whom everything came easy—and in abundance. He had remarkable good looks, charm, wealth. Intelligence, too, Carol admitted. Most people in Ellsworth had never even heard of Ibsen or Strindberg.

“How do you know I'm seventeen?” she asked tartly.

“I know quite a lot about you,” he informed her. “After you dashed off like that, disrupting the oh-so-solemn exercises, I made it a point to find out about you. I talked to your speech teacher, Mrs. Epperson. She's a great admirer of yours.”

“Why—why would you be interested in me?”

“I have my reasons,” he said.

He might be over forty and terribly suave, but he was just like the horny youths of Ellsworth. He wanted to get into her pants. She despised him. She despised the whole world.

“I see,” she said.

“I doubt that you do, my child, but we'll leave it for the moment. Come on, I'll drive you home.”

“I'm not going home. I can't go home—not ever again.”

“You read Thomas Wolfe, too? A young man's writer, Wolfe. One idolizes him at twenty. At forty, alas, one finds him overwrought, excessive and shockingly self-indulgent. Like youth itself,” he added.

“You're making fun of me.”

“Would I do that? You can't go home, and I take it you're not going to the dance at the gym tonight. Can't say that I blame you—all those crepe paper streamers, all those balloons, that rock and roll band with the singer in the inevitable pink jacket caterwauling about Peggy Sue and blue suede shoes. Frightfully depressing under the circumstances.”

Carol scowled. She'd never met anyone who talked like him. He smiled and curled his fingers around her elbow, guiding her toward the car.

“We'll drive on a ways,” he said. “Maybe we'll find a bridge.”

“A bridge?”

“So you can jump off. Of course it would be much more dramatic to step in front of a train, like Anna Karenina, or take poison, like poor Madame Bovary, but I fear a bridge will have to suffice. I believe there's one a few miles this side of Wichita. Quite high, too, if memory serves.”

“You
are
making fun of me!”

“Come along, Carol.”

“Go to hell.”

“I probably shall, eventually. Right now I intend to go someplace quiet and dimly lit where I can have a very tall drink. You're underage, of course, but you could use a drink yourself and I imagine they'll bend the rules. Perhaps you'd prefer a milkshake?”

Carol didn't bother to reply. She climbed obediently into the car, knowing full well that he intended to get her drunk and have his way with her. It didn't matter. Nothing would ever matter again. He started the motor, pulled back onto the road, and they were cruising along at a steady speed, the motor purring gently, night falling fast now. He turned on the headlights, and they cut into the shadows like two pale silver spears. She felt another sob welling in her throat. She fought it back and closed her eyes. A fresh tear trailed slowly down her cheek. The man made no attempt at conversation. He drove the powerful car with casual ease, his hands resting lightly on the steering wheel. Carol could smell expensive cloth and lime shaving lotion and the faint, musky scent of male flesh. It wasn't at all unpleasant. Every girl had to lose her virginity eventually. It might as well be to someone who knew what he was doing.

Twenty-five minutes later he slowed the car and pulled into the drive of a low, dark building with a discreet blue neon sign glowing over the recessed front door. Carol sat up, smoothing down her skirt. Her companion eased into an empty parking space and cut off the motor. He looked at her for a long moment, then got out and came around to open the door for her. She felt apprehensive now, hesitating as his hand closed over hers. He tugged gently on her hand, pulling her out of the car. The night air was cool. Pale yellow-gold light spilled out of windows, making soft squares in front of the building. Crickets rasped. Carol could smell crushed milkweed.

“What—what is this place?” she asked nervously.

“In my day it used to be called a roadhouse. Discreetly located several miles outside the city, far away from prying eyes. Discreetly run by a staff who keep their eyes lowered and ask no questions. Soft music on the jukebox. A small, intimate dance floor. Secluded booths and tables. Excessively high prices to keep out the riffraff.”

“I—I can't go in there. My dress is all rumpled and soiled. I've lost the heel on one of my shoes.”

“Your dress is fine. You can take off your shoes.”

“But—”

“No one will say a word,” he assured her.

Carol hesitated again and then, feeling very bold, pulled off her shoes and tossed them into the car. The man smiled and closed the car door and led her toward the recessed entrance. The neon light cast pale blue shadows over her skirt as they passed beneath it. A maître d' in dark jacket greeted them and led them toward a booth in back of the large, dim room. “Moonglow” was playing quietly on the jukebox, and a single couple danced on the floor, the woman in clinging red silk jersey, the man in business suit and horn-rimmed glasses. No one paid the least attention to Carol's wilted white dress and stockinged feet.

“Scotch and soda,” her companion told the waiter who came promptly over to their booth, “and—uh—I think a glass of white wine for the lady. We'll order dinner later.”

The waiter nodded and departed. The room was all shadowy, candles burning in tiny red glass jars on all the tables and booths, no direct lighting whatsoever. It was quite wicked-looking, Carol thought, like something out of an Ida Lupino movie. She felt quite wicked herself and, yes, excited, too, despite the anguish inside. She looked at the man sitting across from her, his handsome face thoughtful now.

“What were you doing at commencement?” she asked. “Are you related to one of the seniors?”

He shook his head. “You might say I was there in an official capacity. My wife usually takes care of the duties, but she left for Europe early this year, and I was stuck with the job.”

“Official capacity? Job? I don't—”

“I'm Norman Philips, Carol.”

She could feel the color leaving her cheeks.

“Junior,” he added. “It was my father who established the scholarships for students of his old alma mater. I drove up from Wichita to present the checks to the scholarship winners.”

Carol didn't say anything. The waiter brought their drinks. She looked at the glass of white wine. Although she had never had an alcoholic beverage in her life, she took up the glass and downed half of it in one gulp. Norman Philips looked alarmed.

“Hey,” he said. “Take it easy. That's not soda. You're supposed to sip it.”

“Fuck you,” she said.

She had never used that word before. It felt strange on her lips.

“I'm not the one who selects the scholarship winners, Carol. In fact, I have nothing to do with it. I understand they're selected by members of the school board.”

“And Janette Anderson's mother is on the board. Fuck her, too.”

She finished the wine in another gulp, and Norman Philips shook his head and signaled the waiter and ordered another. He took a sip of his scotch and studied her with dark-brown eyes. Carol felt dizzy, felt she might burst into tears again, and she mustn't do that, must have some pride. When the waiter brought her second glass of wine she toyed with the stem and stared down at it and listened to “Moonglow” and cried in spite of herself, quietly, tears flowing down her cheeks. Philips waited patiently and, when she was finished, handed her a clean white handkerchief.

“Ready for dinner?” he inquired.

“I—I suppose so. I might as well get a good meal out of this.”

He looked askance at that, but he made no comment. He ordered their meal without consulting her, and it was strange and exotic. Carol had never tasted shad roe before or asparagus with hollandaise sauce, either. There were so many things she had never had, never done, but that was going to change, she vowed. Somehow, some way, she was going to get out of Kansas and start living in earnest, and if she had to be bad, she'd just be bad. Mr. Philips was a very wealthy man, and there was much he could teach her.

“Mrs. Epperson told me you're a superlative young actress,” he said over dessert. “She said your performance in
Stage Door
last month was brilliant, worthy of a professional. I wish I'd been there to see it.”

“It was a silly class play by a bunch of high school students. I seriously doubt you'd have enjoyed it.”

“You're a very beautiful girl, Carol.”

“My cheekbones are too high. My mouth is too full. I'm too tall.”

“Very beautiful,” he repeated, “and Mrs. Epperson is right—there's a luminous quality about you, an undeniable presence. I noticed you up there on the platform long before you made your dramatic exit.”

“Did you?”

“You stood out. I couldn't keep my eyes off you. The sun was shining on your hair. Your hair was like dark golden wheat.”

His husky voice seemed to caress each word. Oh yes, he wanted to get into her pants. He wasn't stiff in his jeans, didn't have damp palms like boys at school, and he wouldn't paw, wouldn't plead, but he wanted her. Every female instinct told her that, and Carol felt a curious sense of power that was entirely new. She found it vaguely alarming. Something had happened to her back there in the cornfield. Somehow she had changed. She was a good girl, a virgin, had never even considered going all the way, but now … now she was utterly intrigued by this man old enough to be her father. It must be the wine, she thought. She had had two glasses before their meal arrived, another while she ate the shad roe.

“You want to become an actress?” Philips asked.

“Is—is that so foolish?” she asked defensively. “Is that so wrong?”

“There's nothing foolish about it, nothing wrong, either. If one has no ambitions, one never succeeds.”

“I—I don't intend to vegetate in Ellsworth, Kansas, for the rest of my days.”

“I doubt that you shall,” he said. “Mrs. Epperson tells me you had your heart set on attending Claymore University in Indiana. They have a very fine drama department, I understand. I remember reading an article about Julian Compton in
Time
a few years ago—noted director gives up the bright lights of Broadway for the groves of academe.”

“Claymore was a dream,” Carol said quietly, gazing down at her dessert plate. “I should have known it—it would never come true. My Aunt Jessie says going to college is nonsense. She says I should meet a nice young man and get married as soon as possible. Uncle Edgar thinks I should go to work at his drugstore immediately. Good clerks are hard to come by. I've helped out there several times.”

“You don't want to get married?” he asked.

“I—I want to
do
something with my life,” she said, and there was a passionate tremor in her voice. “I want to
be
somebody, accomplish things. Most people—most people exist. I want to live.”

Norman Philips heard that passionate tremor in her voice, that conviction found only in the very young before life has stripped away so many illusions. It saddened him, for those full of passion and conviction were invariably hurt by life, and he didn't want this girl to be hurt. She was so very beautiful, so radiant, and there was a touching vulnerability as well. How long would that last out in the cold, cruel world? Trapped in a loveless marriage all these years, blessed with all the material comforts and plagued with a sense of time gone by, opportunities lost, potentials unfulfilled, he longed to warm himself at the altar of her youth, longed for the temporary reassurance a girl like this could give, but his decision was already made. Life might hurt her, but he didn't intend to.

“Finished?” he inquired.

Carol nodded. He signaled the waiter and paid the bill and helped her to her feet. “Some Enchanted Evening” was playing on the jukebox now. Norman Philips felt a tightness at the back of his throat. Fingers curled about her elbow, he led the girl toward the door. She was just a little unsteady on her stockinged feet. How easy it would be. How easy. There had been so many young women in his life—smooth, sleek, pretty creatures who accepted his expensive presents with greedy eyes and hinted for more while dispensing their favors—but there had never been one like this, one so innocent, so young. His manner became brusque as they stepped outside. The air was almost chilly. He was grateful for that. It helped.

“I'll take you home now,” he said, guiding her toward the car.

“No,” she said.

“What do you mean—‘No'?”

“I told you earlier. I can't go home.”

“That's nonsense. Your aunt and uncle—”

“I humiliated them today. Aunt Jessie will never live it down. Uncle Edgar couldn't care less what I do. They—they'll be glad to be rid of me at last.”

“You're drunk, Carol.”

“No. I may have been. I'm not now.”

“What will you do?”

“I—I'll go to Wichita and get a job. I'll work at the Dairy Queen. I worked at the Dairy Queen in Ellsworth last summer. I—somehow I'll earn some money and—and if I can't go to Claymore I'll go to Kansas State, wait on tables, do anything I have to do to—to escape.”

“And tonight?” he asked.

“I'll go home with you. You said your wife is in Europe.”

“She is, but—”

Carol steadied herself against the side of the car and looked up at him with imploring eyes.

“You care,” she said, and that tremor was in her voice again. “I sense that. You—you actually care what happens to me. You're kind. You're compassionate. I sense that, too. It—it's been so long since anyone actually cared. Please let me go with you. I won't be any trouble, I promise.”