The Slipper (23 page)

“I'm telling you, Julie, I don't know what to
do
,” she said.

“You love him, don't you?”

“I don't know. I'm overwhelmed. I'm bedazzled. I've been in a daze ever since the first time he asked me out last September, but—love? I don't know. He makes me feel like—like there's music inside me. I know that sounds corny as hell.”

“I understand,” Julie said. I used to feel that way myself, she added silently.

“He's everything a girl could want—and more,” Nora said. “I guess maybe I
do
love him, but—Jesus, can you see me in New Rochelle? Brian would commute to the city five days a week and we'd live in a fancy house in a fancy neighborhood and belong to the country club and wouldn't they just love me? His parents almost had coronaries when he told them I'm Jewish but they rose nobly to the occasion and said if he really loved me that was all that mattered and they would give their blessing. Awfully white of them.”

They were in the library, in the labyrinth of stacks in the rear, and Julie was taking books from a cart and putting them on the shelves. When she had been selected to play the lead in
Summer and Smoke
in the spring production last year she had given up her job at the Silver Bell. Julian Compton had gotten her this job at the library, with flexible hours, and he had also made her his student assistant. She was bringing home fifty dollars more a month than she had waitressing, and the work was far more pleasant. Julie had also played the leading role in
The Philadelphia Story
last fall and in
Picnic
two months ago, her versatility nothing short of amazing, Nora thought. Some accused Compton of playing favorites, giving her all the leads, but no one could deny she was a brilliant actress. She really should have won the lead in
Daughter of France
, but, considering what had happened to Carol, it was a blessing she hadn't.

Julie picked up a heavy red-bound tome, checked the numbered tab glued onto the bottom of its spine and, standing up on tiptoes, placed it on a shelf.

“I don't see what being Jewish has to do with it,” she said.

“You wouldn't, sweetie, that's one of the reasons I love you.”

“I thought everything went well when he took you to meet them over the Easter holidays.”

“Oh, everything went swimmingly. He fetched me in Brooklyn and drove me to New Rochelle and we turned into this driveway and I saw this gigantic white mansion with white pillars in front and a pool in back and gorgeously groomed lawns and I almost wet my pants. A butler opened the front door—a
butler
, I kid you not—and I felt exactly like Kitty Foyle, only Jewish. His mother gave me this warm smile and a polite peck on the cheek and his father pumped my hand vigorously and asked me how I was at least four times and his kid sister stared at me as though I'd just landed from Mars.”

“You told me they were very gracious.”

“They were so goddamned gracious I wanted to die. Dinner was formal, Spode china and Waterford crystal and silver flatware, linen napkins, the works, every course served by a maid in uniform. Mr. Gregory wore a five-hundred-dollar suit and a fifty-dollar tie and talked about the business—he's retired now but still keeps his finger in. Mrs. Gregory, Adele, you must call me Adele, my dear, wore a little purple chiffon number she'd picked up in Paris and her second-best diamonds. Her hair is lavender, did I tell you? She was so fucking hospitable and broad-minded I wanted to shove a pie in her face only we didn't have pie, we had lemon mousse.”

Julie smiled and took another book from the cart and placed it on its proper shelf. Nora ran a hand through her short black curls and made a face.

“His little sister asked me if it was true I couldn't eat ham. She's fourteen and wears braces and looks exactly like a munchkin. I was so well bred you wouldn't believe it, didn't say ‘shit' once. Next morning we all had breakfast by the pool and the men went to play tennis at the club and me and Mom and Kid Sister made polite noises till they got back, Adele ever so discreetly asking about my background and visibly wincing at the word ‘Brooklyn.'”

Nora sighed, following as Julie pushed the cart over to another shelf. Although Nora had made other friends during the past two years Julie was still her closest friend, and they spent far more time together than they had been able to do when Carol was still at Claymore. Julie's jobs as a library aide and student assistant to Julian Compton kept her on campus five days a week, and she was not as reluctant to spend time away from Doug as she had been. Although still overly shy and sensitive, Julie had matured a great deal, Nora thought. The theater work had given her more confidence in herself and an identity other than that as Douglas Hammond's wife.

“What happened then?” Julie asked.

“The men came back, and Brian looked so gorgeous in his white tennis shorts and white sweater with blue-and-red stripes I wanted to jump his bones that very minute but I managed to restrain myself. After a light lunch of chilled asparagus consommé and lobster salad Daddy Gregory took Brian and me to see the property he'd bought and plans to build a house on as soon as Brian settles down. The house will be a wedding gift. Kid Sister tagged along and kept staring up at my nose. ‘I had it done, dear,' I finally told her. She seemed quite relieved. I longed to slug the slut.”

“How do
your
parents feel about Brian?”

“When I first told Sadie about him she shrieked, ‘My God! A goy! He's never had lox in his life!' When I added that his father was worth several million dollars she turned six somersaults, yelled ‘Yippee!' and told me mixed marriages were all the rage today. When he came to pick me up and she finally met him she fell all over him and started sobbing like he was a long-lost son and got him to promise to stay for dinner when he brought me back from New Rochelle. It was an evening to remember, believe me, Sadie pulling out the family album and bragging about how cute, how sweet, how smart I am and what a catch I'd be for some lucky man—and the crazy thing is, he
still
wants to marry me.”

“What about your father?”

“Irving thinks Brian's very nice. ‘Are you serious about him, pumpkin?' he asked, and I said, ‘Yeah, Pops, I guess I am.' He looked kinda bothered and began to scratch his head. ‘What about your writing?' he asked. ‘I thought that was the most important thing in the world to you. You going to give up all of those dreams?' It made me stop and
think
, Julie.”

“I imagine it did.”

“What
about
my writing?
Am
I going to give up all those dreams?”

Julie looked at her with disillusioned eyes and then placed another book on the shelf. “You still believe in the slipper, don't you?” she asked quietly.

“Carol got it. We're gonna get it, too. Maybe not as
soon
as she did, but it—it's gonna happen, Julie.”

Julie didn't answer. She pushed the cart over to yet another shelf, removing a book, putting it in its place. Nora didn't follow her at once. She stood where she was, looking doubtful, looking frightened and very young, and then she snapped back to herself and sighed, trotting over to where Julie was working.

“I do love Brian,” she said, “I'm almost certain I do, but it's scary, Julie. He's perfect and I'm a neurotic mess. He's white bread and I'm rye. He's cool and confident and I'm always fretting, always worrying. If I married Brian
he
'd be my life and the next thing you know I'd be driving the kiddies to school in my very own station wagon and picking Brian up at the train depot and cooking pot roasts and reading
Ladies' Home Journal
every month.”

“It's the American dream,” Julie said.

“Not for me. Not for
us
.”

“You—you're lucky to have someone who loves you so much, Nora.”

“I suppose I am,” Nora said thoughtfully. “I—I still can't believe it's happened. All those boys—and then someone like Brian comes along and he wants to marry me and make me a respectable woman. I
do
love him, and I know he loves me, but—Jesus, I can just see myself at forty, sitting by the pool at the country club, working on my third martini and eying the lifeguard and—and telling myself I coulda made it, I coulda written that best-seller, I coulda been a contender if only I hadn't copped out and given up my dream. It's a tough decision to make.”

“Is he pressing you?”

“He popped the question before the Easter break, as you know, and I refused to accept the ring. I told him I'd think about it, told him I'd give him my answer as soon as he gets his degree and I get my diploma, and that's just two and a half weeks away. He's not pressing me, no, he's being wonderfully patient and understanding, but he fully expects to slip that diamond ring onto my finger the minute I get my diploma.”

Julie started to say something and hesitated, frowning, looking strange indeed, and then she dropped the book she was holding and pressed her hand against her brow, leaning against the bookshelf.

“Jesus!” Nora exclaimed. “What is it? What's the matter?”

“I—” Julie straightened up and shook her head. “I—I just felt a little dizzy. All that reaching and stretching, the—the dust—I—I'm all right now, Nora.”

“You scared the hell out of me!”

“Everyone gets a little dizzy now and then. Don't look so concerned.”

“Sure you don't want to sit down for a few minutes? Sure you don't want me to get you some water or something?”

“I'm fine. I really have to get the rest of these books shelved, Nora, and then I have to straighten the card catalogue. It's after six. Don't you have a date with Brian tonight?”

“Yeah, he's taking me to the Cellar tonight. Big deal. Kerouac and Cassady are supposed to be passing through, are supposed to stop by and listen to the bongos, but I'm not holding my breath. I'd as soon skip it, but Brian has never been before and he's curious. I've got a nifty beatnik outfit to spring on him, and I told him to be sure and dress down and skip the deodorant. Julie, are you sure you're all right?”

“Positive.”

“Let's go to lunch tomorrow, okay? Unless Compton needs you you'll be free until two, right? I only have one class in the morning, and it's over at eleven o'clock. We might even go to the Silver Bell for old times' sake.”

“That'll be fine, Nora.”

“And it's my treat, too, kid. I just sold another epic to
True Confessions
last week. You'd think they'd be sick of my stuff by this time, but they're always clamoring for more and a girl always needs a few extra bucks. I'll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

“See you,” Julie said.

Nora left the library and hurried back across campus to Thurston Hall. She had a choice room all to herself now, and she was rather fond of the place, even if she didn't spend a hell of a lot of time there. Seniors had special privileges, and if sometimes they didn't come back to the dorm in the evening Pattie Dillon tactfully failed to notice. The place was full of chattering girls in curlers and bathrobes, as usual, and someone was banging on the piano in the lounge. Nora waved at Pattie, stopped to chat for a minute with a couple of girlfriends and then went to her room. Only six-thirty, she had worlds of time. Brian wasn't going to pick her up until nine. No sense getting to the Cellar early. The place didn't really start grooving until ten at the earliest.

The mail had arrived while she was out this afternoon, and one of the girls had slipped Nora's under the door. She picked it up, going through it with that eager anticipation she'd felt for the last three weeks. Two bills. A circular. Pay the bills, dump the circular. A letter from Sadie. Read it later when you're ready for a load of guilt. A postcard from Carol. Sandy white beach, indigo sky, quaint old buildings in faded multihued pastels. She had completed the Claude Bouchet film and was spending a few days in St. Tropez with Gaby Bernais. Long letter to follow soon. A catalogue from Brentano's. Look through it later. A brief note from the editor at
True Confessions
. Check enclosed. Send us more stories like the last one. Nothing from Ross Sheridan. Not a word. Shit. Maybe he lost the fucking manuscript. Maybe he
burned
it. A postcard acknowledging receipt of manuscript six weeks ago and then dead silence.

Nora put the mail on her desk, disappointed, feeling that familiar letdown. Why do you keep building your hopes up? You know it's shit. Bradley
told
you it was shit. It's shit, Nora, he said, but it's damned readable shit. Couldn't put it down. You might just have something here, kid. Yeah, sure, she thought glumly. I might just have something. Four hundred and seventy-eight pages of unmitigated crap. Nine months I spend on that book. Nine bloody months, so the people at Julian Messner could laugh their heads off. So Bennett Cerf could mail me a poison-pen letter. So some asshole at Doubleday could send me a form rejection letter that wasn't even
signed
, for Christ sake. So Mr. Ross Sheridan, the hotshot New York literary agent, could stuff my manuscript away in a desk drawer and forget its existence. Who the hell needs any of 'em? There's not a girl in this dormitory who wouldn't give both eyeteeth for just one evening with Brian Gregory and he wants to
marry
me, and me, I still believe I'm gonna be a big best-selling writer. Fuck
you
, Grace Metalious.

Peyton Place
was responsible for it all. It had caused a great hue and cry when it came out, shocked the pants off the entire nation, was banned in Canada, soared to the top of every bestseller list, sold to the movies immediately, became the most controversial novel in decades, and its author, a drab, overweight housewife from a small New England mill town, became a celebrity overnight. Countless articles were written about her and her shocking exposé of sub rosa affairs in a postcard-pretty town much like the one she lived in. Nora had read it immediately, of course, and she admired the hell out of it. Actually
Peyton Place
was little more than a sexed-up, updated version of
King's Row
, but it was quite well done, with a good structure, decent writing and characters who were as real as the people next door. Nora preferred
King's Row
, which was even steamier, if a bit more subtle, but Grace Metalious vastly intrigued her. The plump “Pandora in Blue Jeans,” as the journalists called her, was living proof that the slipper was real. If a plain, self-educated housewife in her thirties could get it, why not a crackerjack
wunderkind
in her junior year at Claymore?