Boys & Girls Together (85 page)

“New York. I’m getting my doctorate at Columbia.” He opened the door for her and they walked out into the cold.

“Do you have a car?”

“No.”

“Oh, that’s right. You said you were going to the train station.”

“Yes.”

It would be just inhuman not to offer, she thought. In this weather. “Could you use a lift?”

“That would be lovely.”

They moved through the parking lot. “Here we are,” Betty Jane said.

He held the car door open for her.

He’s really very well-mannered, Betty Jane thought. One thing about well-mannered people: they know how to keep their mouths shut. “Can you keep a secret, Mr. Sanders?” She drove into the street.

“Mark. Try me.”

That’s sort of nice—Mark Sanders. “Oh no, I didn’t have anything in mind but my eldest—” might as well let him know now—“was asking me if I was good at keeping secrets and I said I thought I was and he said, ‘How do you know?’ That’s a pretty good question. How do you know?”

“You just do and that’s all there is to it. I can keep a secret, Mrs. Fiske. I’ll prove it to you. I teach several of these night classes. Three a week. Have for two years. I’ve taught in half a dozen different towns. Would you believe it if I told you that over fifteen women in the course of two years have thrown themselves at me?”

“How interesting,” Betty Jane managed.

“I have yet to tell anyone their names.”

“What do you do when they throw themselves at you’?”

“Try to save their pride. As gently as possible.”

“That’s very good of you.”

“No, it isn’t. All of them were married, and most of them were old, and some of them were stupid, and none of them was really what I’d call pretty—turn in at the next street, it’s dark.”

Betty Jane managed to keep control of the car.

“Turn in.”

“I can’t.”

“Of course you can.”

“You don’t even know my name.”

“What’s your name?”

“Betty Jane.”

“Turn the damn car, Betty Jane.”

Betty Jane turned the damn car.

“Now stop. Right here. No one can see.”

She made the car stop.

He took her in his arms and kissed her very hard on the mouth.

“I keep thinking I ought to say how dare you?”

“Say it.”

“I can’t. How did you know I’d let you?”

“You made it pretty obvious.”

“Oh, dear; I was trying not to.”

He kissed her again.

“Can I ask you something, please?” Betty Jane said.

“At your service, Mrs. Fiske.”

“This isn’t what you meant before about saving pride as gently as possible?”

“No; you’re not old and you’re not stupid and you are what I’d call really pretty. You’re only married.” He opened her coat and placed his hand on her cardigan sweater over her breast.

I wish Penny could see me now, Betty Jane thought.

He kissed her again.

I really ought to mind this more, Betty Jane decided. His tongue was available, so she bit it.

He started unbuttoning her cardigan and reaching inside.

“That’s all there is,” Betty Jane said.

“You mean stop?”

“I mean, that’s all there is. I’m flat-chested. I didn’t want it to come as a surprise.”

He kissed her tiny breast.

“How old are you?” Betty Jane said. If he’s twenty-three I’ll die.

“Twenty-seven.”

“Thank God.”

He laughed. “How old are you?”

“Old enough to know better.” Suddenly she began to shake her head.

“What is it?”

“When I said that, about knowing better, I thought I’d stop this right away. I mean, I do know better. But I don’t seem to be stopping. Would you kiss me, please? Anywhere you like.”

He laughed again. Then he kissed her.

She closed her eyes and held him very close.

“I’m not married,” he said.

“I didn’t ask if you were.”

“You would have. It always follows ‘how old are you?’ You’re looking for an excuse to stop, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Please kiss me.”

“Do you know how pretty you are?”

“I used to be.”

“I hate people who fish for compliments.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you cold?”

“A little. I don’t mind.”

“Good.”

He kissed her again and she thought about Charley, and then after that she thought about Robby and Paula, and then after that she bit his tongue again. She could feel her body relaxing beneath the pressure of his big hands. “My husband has hands like yours.”

“Don’t tell me I remind you of him.”

“He used to be like you.”

“I don’t care that you’re married.”

“I’m sure you mean that.”

“I do. I don’t care. And I’m not mad for older women either; I thought that might put your mind at rest.”

“I’ll tell you something about me; I make a very good first impression. But I don’t last like some people. That’s the truth.”

“Please shut up.”

“I’m telling you, Mark—I don’t like that name—I thought I did but I don’t anymore.”

“I’ll change it.”

“I’m not smart. And I say stupid things. And I’m dull. I swear to God.”

He made an enormous yawn.

Betty Jane laughed and grabbed him.

They started to lie back, but her shoulders hit the steering wheel. He pulled her back upright and kissed her ear. “Whoever invented the steering wheel ought to be pistooned.”

“What is that?”

“I just made it up. It feels good to say. Say it.”

“Pistooned,” Betty Jane said. “Yes, it does.”

“You don’t happen to have any friends wintering in Bermuda who asked you to look after their geraniums?”

“No.”

“I thought not.” He bit her ear.

Betty Jane stiffened.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m not enjoying this.”

He pulled away. “I’m sorry.”

“
I am
,
though
,” she cried and she reached for him.

“Betty Jane,” he said, then he shook his head. “We’ll both change our names.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you say you weren’t enjoying this?”

“Because I thought ... I should stop.”

“Do you know what I hate—this is changing the subject.”

“What?”

“Big fat flabby floppy breasts.” He covered her tiny breasts with his big hands.

Betty Jane listened to herself breathe.

He kissed her. She closed her eyes. When she opened them again she was momentarily blinded by the headlights of a car.

Betty Jane cried out.

The car cruised by.

“That might have been a policeman,” she began.

“Princeton cops always drive convertibles?”

“Well, then, it could have been someone who knows my car. Or someone who thought we looked suspicious and went to get a policeman.”

“I don’t care.”

“Jesus God, neither do I,” Betty Jane said. “I don’t care. I’m not going to stop! I’m not going to stop!”

That stopped her.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

She shook her head, straightened her clothes, started the car.

“Listen,” he said as the car picked up speed. “I haven’t been doing this just for the hell of it.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

“Talk to me then.”

“What would happen if I really liked you?”

“Find out.”

Betty Jane shook her head.

“Why not?”

“There’s the train station,” Betty Jane said, and she sped up until she was there. She stopped the car, kept the motor running.

He looked at her. “I wish I could think of some great thing to say.”

Betty Jane stared out the windshield.

Then she felt the tips of his fingers touch her lips.

“What did you have to be nice for?” she said as he got out of the car. She started to drive. She drove up the street, looking for him in the rear-view mirror. Then she saw him. He had come into the street after her, waving. They both stopped still in the middle of the street. She stared back at him through the darkness. At that moment she could not imagine a lovelier boy. Well, I am stupid, she thought as she started to drive away. There’s no doubt about it now.

Jenny sat slumped in her acting class, trying to pay attention to Mr. Lee. He was a wonderful teacher and she always found him fascinating to listen to, except lately she had trouble concentrating on things. It was the beginning of March and she hadn’t felt well for a long time. Tired. Tired. All the time. It wasn’t Charley’s fault. You couldn’t blame Charley. He loved her. She knew that, even though he’d never actually told her in so many words. It didn’t bother her that he’d never told her, only sometimes, like now as she sat slumped in her chair in acting class, she thought she wouldn’t mind so much if once or twice he might actually go ahead and tell her, in so many words, just for the hell of it.

Up at the front of the class, Mr. Lee said “Skedaddle,” and the minute he did, Jenny hurried to her feet and started for the door. But she was too slow; Bernie Randolph was already there, waiting for her. Bernie Randolph was the best actor in the class, or at least the best male actor. He had already appeared in three Broadway shows and everybody knew it was just a matter of time until he made it big. For five weeks running now he had asked Jenny out for coffee after class. She had always managed one excuse or another, except that it bothered her because she wanted to say yes, because his name had not always been Bernie Randolph and he had spent his youth in a concentration camp and Jenny would have loved to have got to know him.

But back among the blue walls, Charley was waiting. This was Thursday, an easy day for him to stay late in the city, and he wanted her to change to another acting class. And she would have, except that Mr. Lee was one of the best teachers in the whole city and this was the only class of his she could make, Thursdays, from five o’clock to seven-thirty.

Bernie Randolph smiled at her.

I just can’t lie to you again, Jenny thought, and she turned abruptly, walking up to Mr. Lee. He was surrounded by other students, but that was fine as far as Jenny was concerned. The more the better. Eventually Bernie would have to tire of waiting. Jenny stood beside Eli Lee, trying to come up with some not so silly question; he was a smart man and the thought of him finding her foolish was instantly unendurable. Eli Lee was fifty, had once been a Communist, had turned to teaching when he could no longer act. Now that the pressure was off he was performing again, character parts only; he had a good, rough face that was instantly familiar to viewers of new television and old movies. Connecting the name with the face was, for some reason, all but impossible: audience referred to him as “that guy,” and even his own wife called him “Hey, you” from time to time.

“I’ve been avoiding this,” Eli Lee said.

Jenny looked quickly around to see who he was talking to. But, except for an occasional glimpse of Bernie Randolph waiting in the hall outside, the room was empty.

“I made a mistake with you,” Eli Lee went on.

“Auh?”

“You’re the least experienced person in this class, you know that, don’t you? You’re also suddenly the lousiest. I never should have taken you in.”

I must say something, Jenny thought. Yes; I must do that. She put her ... hands to her temples and began to rub, around and around.

“When a girl’s as bad as you’ve been for one week, I figure it’s that time of the month. For two weeks I figure she figures she’s knocked up, but you don’t strike me as that type. With you, all I can figure is that I made a mistake.”

Jenny nodded.

“You’re no straight ingénue, kid. You’re a minority group. Nobody’s ever gonna hire you for a sweet young thing unless your leading man plays pro basketball. The chances of your ever working would give Nick the Greek insomnia; the only reason I took you in is because I thought that
if if if
there was ever a part you were right for, you’d play the hell out of it. What you have is size and power but they’re nothing without discipline. Where’s your discipline gone, kid; where’s your concentration gone, kid; what in the hell has happened to you?”

Jenny could think of nothing to say.

“That’s all.”

Jenny managed to locate the door.

She made her way along the corridor and, holding tight to the railing, down the steps to 44th Street. Outside it was dark, warm for March, and she hesitated, wondering whether to put on her coat or not.

“I left as soon as he started,” Bernie Randolph said, standing on the sidewalk.

For a moment Jenny couldn’t remember who he was.

“I thought you’d rather no one heard. I could tell from his tone he was going to blast you.”

“How have I been?”

“I’m no teacher.”

“That bad?”

“You’ve been better. We’ve all been better. Coffee?” They started to walk.

“I’ve had things on my mind,” Jenny said.

“That happens. Will you have coffee or not?”

“I didn’t know I’d been so awful. Eli said he never should have taken me into class.”

“You’re very talented. He’s told you that too.”

“Not today. I don’t feel very talented. All my life I wanted to be good at something. I can’t think of anything better than being good at something. I can’t have coffee with you.”

“Why not?”

“Well—”

“Don’t make up anything. Just tell the truth; you don’t want to.”

“I do, though.”

“Then let’s.”

“Well, I can’t!”

“You have this evil stepfather and he punishes you whenever—”

“I can’t because I’ve got someone waiting for me. There.”

“Ten minutes? One cup?”

“No.”

“Sounds like a terrific relationship. Rich with understanding; give and take.”

“Bernie—”

“I mean, if you hadn’t wasted ten minutes trying to dodge me earlier, not only would you be on your way home now, Eli wouldn’t have taken your head off.”

“I wasn’t trying to dodge you.”

“You’re a lousy liar.”

“All right I was, because I knew you’d ask me for coffee and I wanted to go but I couldn’t and I didn’t want to lie.” She stopped walking. “Why can’t I have coffee? I mean it?
Why?
Why can’t I, I’d like to know? Class might have run late. So why can’t I have a cup of coffee if I want to?”