The Slipper (3 page)

“You don't know what you're doing, Carol.”

“I think so. I think I do.”

Philips hesitated, his throat so tight he could hardly speak. The girl looked up at him, fragile, lovely, hair spilling over her shoulders in the moonlight. Music drifted out through the windows. “As Time Goes By” now. Jesus! He fought with himself for several long moments, and then he opened the car door for her.

“I'll take you home with me, just for tonight, and you're to call your aunt as soon as we get there. You're to tell her you're spending the night with a girlfriend. Tomorrow—tomorrow we'll see what kind of arrangements we can make for you.”

She was silent as they pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the road. He drove carefully, telling himself he was out of his mind, so tense he could barely contain himself. The girl was underage. He could go to jail for this. Thank God he'd given the servants the week off. Thank God he was currently batching it in that huge, secluded mansion outside Wichita. He'd never brought a girl there before, had always maintained a suite on the top floor of the Royalton Hotel for his girls, and … nothing was going to happen tonight. He'd give her a glass of milk and maybe a plate of cookies and put her to bed. Untouched. Hell, his son Cliff was older than she was, still at Yale, taking courses this summer to make up for those he had failed during the past two semesters. She was a child, a mere child, three years younger than Cliff. Nothing was going to happen tonight. He promised himself that as the Cadillac cruised down the dark, lonely road.

Ten minutes later he pulled into the drive, the lights of Wichita gleaming in the distance. He cut the motor off. His hands were shaking. He'd put the car in the garage tomorrow morning. Forty-six years old, bringing a seventeen-year-old girl home with him. Madness! Sheer madness. He got out of the car and took several deep breaths of the cool night air before walking around to open the door for her. She was wonderfully poised, and he had the feeling she was in complete control now while he was all thumbs. He dropped the keys twice before he got the front door unlocked.

He fumbled for the light switch. Lamps blossomed, softly illuminating the opulent foyer. Rich pastel carpeting, polished wood surfaces, sumptuous fabrics. The girl was visibly impressed. He led her into the spacious den with its walls of books and large stone fireplace and sofa and chairs upholstered in soft leathers.

“You must be very rich,” Carol said quietly.

“Filthy rich,” he told her. “Inherited.”

“What do you do?”

“I manage the Norman Philips Foundation. I sign checks. There's also a construction company and two department stores. They run themselves without any assistance from me. I suppose you'd call me one of the idle rich.”

“All these books—you must read a lot.”

“It helps pass the time,” he said. “Look—uh—I'll show you to your room. You can shower and—uh—I'll find something for you to wear, a robe or something, and then maybe—maybe you'd like a glass of milk and some cookies before you go to bed.”

He realized how ridiculous that sounded as soon as he'd spoken the words. What had happened to the experienced Norman Philips who was so smooth with the sleek, perfumed girls on the top floor of the Royalton Hotel? He felt as awkward and gawky as any adolescent, and she was as calm as could be, smiling an enigmatic smile at his offer of milk and cookies. Brusquely, he took her to one of the guest rooms, showed her the bath, brought her one of Cliff's dressing gowns that had never been worn. He pointed to the phone on the night table and reminded her to call her aunt and then left, walking briskly down the hall to his own bedroom.

Half an hour later he was back in the den, drinking a strong scotch and soda, wearing a glossy brown satin dressing gown over his shirt and trousers. He was calmer now. He intended to help this girl. Tomorrow he would see to it that she got a responsible job at Philips' Department Store here in Wichita. She was bright and personable, she should do very well. He would keep an eye on her throughout the summer, and come September … He looked up as she came into the room. Her feet were bare. The pale blue silk dressing gown was wrapped loosely around her slender body, belted at the waist, the sleeves turned up to accommodate her arms. He could tell she had nothing on under it. His good intentions seemed to melt. The tightness in his throat returned.

“Did you phone your aunt?” he asked.

She nodded. “I told her I was spending the night with a girlfriend and she told me she'd never be able to hold her head up in Ellsworth again after my disgraceful conduct. She didn't even ask my girlfriend's name.”

“I'm sorry about that, Carol.”

“It—it doesn't matter,” she said.

She padded across the carpet toward him on her bare feet, pale blue silk rustling, clinging. He set his glass down. His cheeks paled. Carol smiled at him, aware of his discomfort, her eyes telling him it was all right, there was nothing to fear, telling him, too, of her loneliness, her hurt, her need to be loved.

“Carol—” he began. His voice was strained. “There—there's something I want to tell you. The Norman Philips Foundation is awarding three scholarships this year. You're going to Claymore, just as you dreamed, and on a full scholarship with a monthly stipend for expenses.”

She looked at him, and tears brimmed over her lashes again. He had never seen anything as beautiful, as fragile as this young girl. It felt good to be able to help her, to use some of those Philips dollars for something genuinely worthwhile—a future.

“You're so kind,” she whispered.

She touched his cheek. He blanched.

“No one has—has ever been so kind to me.”

“The foundation has millions,” he said tersely. “The money will be used for a good cause.”

She curled her arms around his neck, resting her body against his, and he was only human.

“There—there is so much inside me,” she murmured, “so much I want to share. Please let me share it with you.”

“I could be arrested for this,” he said weakly.

“We won't tell,” she promised.

2

It sure ain't Brooklyn, kiddo, Nora Levin told herself as she walked down the main drag across the street from campus. The town itself was, well, charming, the kind of place Ozzie and Harriet would live, all clean and neat and freshly scrubbed. You could almost smell the apple pies baking. It was undeniably pretty, trees everywhere, flower beds, sidewalks, not a tenement building to be seen, not a deli in sight. Indiana, for God's sake! She might as well be in Timbuktu, but, here's the kicker, she liked it. She
loved
it. The air was so pure, the grass was so green, the people were so friendly. They liked Ike, every last one of 'em. Had to. Probably thought Mamie was a living doll with those silly bangs of hers. Little Nora Levin in Indiana, figure that one out, gang. And loving it!

The area here across from the campus was a bit jazzier, with trendy little shops that sold sweaters and sporting goods and collegiate clothes, a bookstore, a record store, a hair salon, an ice cream parlor, a pizza place, a drugstore, everything you'd expect. The movie theater was small and seedy and unquestionably arty, currently showing
The Bicycle Thief
. Yawn. You could buy yourself a hamburger, a milkshake, a Mexican meal, fried chicken and blueberry pie, but you were in real trouble if you happened to be looking for lox and bagels. Nora had never particularly cared for lox anyway. She paused in front of the record store. A huge poster of Pat Boone dominated the front window. Pat was undoubtedly big in Indiana. So it wasn't exotic? So it held no surprises? She wasn't expecting Greenwich Village. It was pleasant and attractive and she adored those snazzy little ensembles in the window of the dress shop, cunningly displayed with sprays of fake autumn leaves. Sandra Dee would go into raptures. Nora strolled on, smiling at a couple of girls she'd seen at the dormitory earlier in the day. They smiled back, just like she was one of them.

The campus was gorgeous—mellow old brick buildings, cream and tan and brown, real ivy, shady lawns aswarm with tall, handsome boys and tall, beautiful girls, all of them confident, most of them blond. The boys wore slacks and short-sleeved sport shirts. The girls wore saddle oxfords and white socks and fluffy angora sweaters and full felt skirts with stiff cancan petticoats beneath. Most of the skirts had poodles on them. Some of the students wore clever little beanies with CLASS OF '59 stitched on the front, but she'd be damned if she'd wear one, freshman or no. Let some smart-assed sophomore ask her why she wasn't wearing her beanie and she'd tell him to take a flying fuck at the moon. Nora wasn't planning to take lip from anyone. She'd fought too hard to get here, and the battle had raged all summer long.

She'd been offered half a dozen scholarships—Columbia, NYU and Vassar among them—but they were all too bloody close to Brooklyn, too close to Sadie and Irving. Nora had her heart set on Claymore, its emphasis on fine arts, its English department one of the best in the country, with real writers on the staff, published writers, with people like Robert Penn Warren and James Street and Aldous Huxley dropping by for guest lectures. She had sent off her scholarship application on the sly, with all the proper records, the mandatory letters of recommendation, had waited anxiously for their answer. She was elated to learn it was affirmative and that she'd be attending Claymore on a full scholarship. Then she broke the news to her parents, and the battle began.

Sadie was a jewel, the best mother a girl could hope to have if you didn't mind someone breathing down your neck every minute and pumping you full of hot chicken soup every time you sneezed and pushing you forward and bragging on you every time she encountered a crony who happened to have a son of marriageable age. Sadie's mission in life was to marry off her only daughter to a nice Jewish boy who was going to become a dentist, a doctor or an engineer. The fact that her only daughter wasn't at all interested was a constant source of anguish. Nora tactfully pointed out that she was still quite young, there was hardly a rush, and Sadie wailed that a girl couldn't get married too soon nowadays, the competition was fierce. Sadie had almost had heart failure when Nora announced that she was going to Claymore in September. It would be over her dead body, Sadie shrieked, and not one cent would she get from her father, not one red cent. Indiana, yet! It was on the other side of the world! They would never see her. What had she ever done, Sadie cried, to deserve such an ungrateful daughter? What had she ever done to deserve such grief? The child wanted to desert them, and they'd worked their fingers right down to the bone for her, giving her all the advantages and a brand-new mouton coat just last fall.

Irving, who was a darling, was a bit more sympathetic. He loved his little pumpkin dearly, worshipped the ground she walked on, in fact, and he could understand why she wanted to get away, but he lived in dread of Sadie's wrath and, when push came to shove, invariably sided with her. Irving was consumed with guilt. His brother Sid was in the garment district, had his own showroom and made money hand over fist. His brother Myron was a lawyer and lived with his wife and three sons in New Rochelle and bought a new Cadillac every year. His brother Aaron was a podiatrist with a thriving practice in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, and worth over a million. Irving was in the wholesale jewelry business, but his shop was in Brooklyn and business had never been exactly booming and Sadie could hardly look her sisters-in-law in the eye on the rare occasions they condescended to acknowledge her existence. She constantly reminded Irving of her humiliation, of his own ineptitude and lack of success, and he didn't dare defy her, not even for Nora's sake.

The scholarship would take care of tuition, dorm, lab fees and such, but she was going to need money to live on, quite a lot of it, and Irving reluctantly informed her it wouldn't be forthcoming. He couldn't let her go so far away. It would break her poor mother's heart. She'd just have to settle for Columbia or NYU. Then she could live right here at home, take the subway to and from the city just as she'd done when she was attending all those fancy private schools they'd scrimped and scraped to send her to. He knew she'd had her heart set on Claymore, but … well, it just wasn't in the cards. Nora gave him a hug, knowing how much it hurt him to tell her this, loving him none the less because he had no spine, but she wasn't about to be defeated. She'd sling hash if necessary, but maybe she wouldn't have to. She was a writer, right? Now was the time to prove it. She was going to write as she had never written before.

Not those thoughtful, profound, beautifully wrought stories that impressed the hell out of her English teachers. They were terrific—almost as good as Katherine Anne Porter, far better than Faith Baldwin—but there was no market for them. Every last one she'd sent off to the slick magazines had been rejected. Not commercial enough. No punch. Not what our readers are looking for. So what were readers looking for? What kind of stories could a seventeen-year-old
wunderkind
write that would earn her some money? Nora went to the corner drugstore and took a good look at the racks. Old Mr. Abromowitz told her he could hardly keep the confession magazines in stock. The housewives and high school girls snatched them up as soon as they came in every month. He couldn't understand why anyone would want to read such trash. He was shocked when Nora bought copies of all of them, carting them away with a determined look in her eye. She didn't just read them. She studied them. Carefully.

So little Nora Levin became Queen of the Confessions. The first story she wrote was stilted and patronizing, full of big words, clearly written down, and the second wasn't much better. You're not writing 'em for your English teachers, kiddo, she told herself. You're writing 'em for the gum-chewing waitress at the Truck Stop Cafe. You're writing 'em for the high school girl who sells ribbons at Woolworth's after school is out. She began to get the hang of it with the third story, and with the fourth she'd definitely developed the knack.
Modern Romances
bought it immediately, bought four more in the weeks that followed.
True Confessions
bought three and said they'd be interested in seeing anything else she happened to have on hand. Both magazines paid peanuts, of course, but if you sold enough stories you could make a mint. Nora spent all summer long at her typewriter, pounding away, burning the midnight oil, Sadie wailing that she needed to get out, get some fresh air, meet some boys, it wasn't healthy for a girl to stay shut up in her room, typing all the time.