Peyton Place (34 page)

Rodney had the sensual good looks, the money and the glib tongue to make himself believed. He had been considered quite a man among men by the time he was kicked out of New Hampton. Even his own father believed him, although he made his stories much weaker for Leslie, and named fictitious girls from White River as the heroines of his tales. Rodney had told his stories of successful seduction so often, to so many different people, that most of the time he could believe them himself. Actually he had never had a sexual experience in his life, and at times when the truth smote him, he felt as if someone had flung a glass of cold water in his face for no reason. The frightening thought that he would not know how to go about completing the act, if he ever once had the chance to get started, affected him like the sun going behind a cloud on a hot day. It left him chilled, and lent a dreary aspect to his otherwise cheerful world. What horrified him the most about the truth was not the possible personal humiliation to himself, but that the girl with whom he failed might talk. Whenever Rodney thought of what his many friends would say if they ever discovered that he had been spinning fantasies, and that he was, in reality, as inexperienced as a seven-year-old, he turned cold with horror.

He was thinking along this depressing line now, as he swung his car into Ash Street which was a narrow, tumble-down street in the neighborhood where the mill hands lived. He pulled up smartly in front of the Anderson house and sounded his horn with a bravado he was far from feeling. Determinedly, he made the effort to shrug off his fears, and for Rodney Harrington the shaking off of depression or fear had never been a difficulty.

What the hell? he thought, and the sun came back out from behind its dark cloud. What the hell? He had money to spend, a car to get around in, and a pint of rye whisky in the glove compartment. What the hell? He'd know what to do if he ever got old Betty to take her pants off. He'd heard it described enough times, hadn't he? He'd described it enough times himself, hadn't he? What the hell? He had not only talked and heard about it, he had read books about it and seen pictures of it. What the hell was he worried about?

Betty strolled down the short walk in front of her house, undulating her hips fully, as she had seen a musical comedy queen do in a movie the week before. She moved slowly toward Rodney's car.

“Hi, kid,” she said.

She was exactly one year and fourteen days younger than he, but she unfailingly called him kid. Tonight she wore a pair of tight green shorts and a small yellow halter. As always, whenever he looked at her, Rodney felt his speech thicken in his throat. The only way he could explain his reaction to Betty was to say that it was just like the way it had been when he was small and old Pratte had let him watch her make pudding. One minute, there was the liquid in the pan, so thin and runny that you thought it would never be any other way, and in the very next minute the stuff turned thick and syrupy, so that old Pratte really had to work to get a spoon through the mess. That was the way he was about Betty. Like pudding. Until he saw her, his mind was clear and cool and liquid, but the minute she leaned over the car door and said, “Hi, kid,” his speech thickened, his eyes grew heavy lidded, and he struggled to pull breath through the syrupy mass in his chest.

“Hi,” he said.

“It's too hot to get all dressed up to go somewhere,” said Betty. “I just want to go for a ride and stop at a drive-in to eat.”

Rodney was wearing a shirt and sports jacket because he had planned to take her to a restaurant and then somewhere to dance, but he capitulated without a murmur.

“Sure,” he said.

Without another word, Betty opened the car door and flopped into the seat next to him.

“Why don't you take off that coat?” she demanded crossly. “It makes me hot and itchy all over just to look at you.”

Rodney immediately took off his coat and put it on the back seat. From the Anderson house, two sullen, tired faces watched him as he put the convertible into gear and roared off down Ash Street. As soon as Rodney had turned the corner, Betty wiggled her fingers at him and he passed her his cigarettes.

“How come you couldn't go out with me last night?” he asked.

“I had other things to do,” replied Betty coolly. “Why?”

“I just wondered. Seems funny to me that you have time for me only a couple of times a week, that's all.”

“Listen, kid,” she said. “I don't have to account to you or anybody like you for my time. Get it?”

“Don't get sore. I was just wondering.”

“If it'll make you feel any better, I went dancing last night. Marty Janowski took me over to White River and we went to the China Dragon to eat and dance. Any more questions?”

Rodney knew that he should keep quiet, but he could not let it go at that. “What did you do after?” he asked.

“Went parking over at Silver Lake,” replied Betty without hesitation. “Why?”

“I just wondered. Have fun?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. Marty's a swell dancer.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“I mean after. Parking.”

“Yes I did, if it's any of your business.”

“What did you do?” asked Rodney, not wanting to hear but unable to keep himself from asking.

“Oh, for Christ's sake,” said Betty disgustedly. “Find a drive-in, will you? I'm starved. We mill hands are used to getting our supper at five-thirty. We're not like high mucky muck mill owners who have servants to give them dinner at eight.”

“I'll stop at the next one,” said Rodney. “Listen, Betty. I don't think it's right for you to go parking with Marty Janowski.”

“What!” The word was not so much a question as an exclamation of rage.

“I don't think it's right for you to go parking with Marty Janowski. Not after I've asked you a thousand times to be my girl.”

“Turn this car around and take me home,” demanded Betty. “At once.”

Rodney stepped on the gas and kept going. “I won't let you out until you promise not to fool around with Marty any more,” he said doggedly.

“I didn't tell you to let me out,” said Betty furiously. “I told you to turn around and take me home.”

“If you don't want to go for a ride with me,” said Rodney, hating himself for not keeping his mouth shut, “I'll stop the car right here and you can walk back.”

“All
right,”
said Betty. “You just stop and let me out. I won't have to walk far, I'll guarantee you that. The first car that comes along with a good-looking fellow in it is the car I'll stick out my thumb for. I don't come from a mill-owning family. I don't mind hitchhiking one damned bit. Now let me out.”

“Aw, come on, Betty,” pleaded Rodney. “Don't be mad. I wouldn't let you out on the highway like that. Come on, don't be mad.”

“I am mad. Damned good and mad. Who do you think you are, telling me who I can go out with, and who I can't?”

“I didn't mean anything. I just got jealous for a minute, that's all. I have asked you, thousands of times, to be my girl. It makes me jealous to think of you with another fellow, that's all.”

“Well keep it to yourself from now on,” ordered Betty. “I don't take orders from anybody. Besides, why should I be your girl and go steady with you? When you go away to school next fall, I'd be left high and dry. It's hard for a girl to get back in circulation after she's gone steady for a while.”

“I thought that maybe you liked me better than anyone else,” said Rodney. “I like you better than any other girl. That's why I want to go steady with you.”

Betty's expression softened a trifle. “I like you all right, kid,” she said. “You're O.K.”

“Well, then?”

“I'll think it over.”

Rodney turned into a drive-in and a spurt of gravel flew up from behind one of his rear wheels.

“Would you go parking at Silver Lake with me?” he asked.

“I might,” she said, “if you'd hurry up and feed me. I want a couple of cheeseburgers and a chocolate shake and a side of French fries.”

Rodney got out of the car. “Will you?” he asked.

“I said I might, didn't I?” said Betty impatiently. “What more do you want, a written agreement?”

Much later, after they had eaten and the night had turned thoroughly dark, Rodney drove around Silver Lake. It was Betty who showed him one of the good parking places. When he had cut the motor and turned off the lights, the humid night closed in on them like a soggy black blanket.

“God, it's hot,” complained Betty.

“There's a bottle in the glove compartment,” said Rodney, “and I bought some ginger ale at the drive-in. A good drink will cool you off.”

He mixed two drinks quickly and expertly, by the dashboard light. They were warm and tasted vaguely of the paper cups which contained them.

“Whew!” said Betty, and spit a mouthful of the warm, strong drink over the low car door. “Jeez! What swill!”

“It takes getting used to,” commented Rodney, suddenly feeling very man-of-the-world. If there was one thing he knew, it was good liquor and the drinking of it. “Take another sip,” he suggested. “It grows on you.”

“To hell with that,” said Betty. “I'm going in for a swim.”

“Did you bring a suit?”

“What's the matter with you, anyway? Haven't you ever been swimming in the raw with a girl?”

“Sure, I have,” lied Rodney. “Dozens of times. I was just asking if you'd brought a suit is all.”

“No, I didn't bring a suit,” mimicked Betty. “Are you coming?”

“Of course,” said Rodney, hurriedly finishing his drink.

Before he could get his shirt unbuttoned, Betty had shed her shorts and halter and was running, naked, down the beach toward the water. When Rodney reached the water's edge, feeling very naked and more than a little foolish, Betty was nowhere to be seen. He inched himself slowly into the water, and when he had waded in as far as his waist, she was suddenly beside him. Her head emerged silently from the water, and she spit a stream straight into the middle of his back. He fell forward and when he came up, Betty was standing up and laughing at him. He tried to catch her, but she swam away from him, laughing, taunting, calling him names.

“Wait ’til I get you,” he called to her. “You've got to come out sooner or later, and I'll be right here waiting.”

“Don't let your teeth chatter,” she yelled, “or I'll be able to find you in the dark.”

As it turned out, he did not catch her. A few minutes later the blatant sound of his horn rang out in the dark, and he started violently.

“I've had enough,” shouted Betty from the car.

Goddamn it. Rodney cursed savagely. He had planned to catch her and throw her down in the sand and roll her around good, feeling her, touching her. He had never been close to her when she was completely undressed before, and now, goddamn it, she had gone and beat him to the car. She must have eyes like a cat to find her way around in this moonless dark. He stumbled several times before he finally discerned the bulk of his automobile up ahead of him.

Betty waited while he stumbled again and nearly fell. She waited until he was directly in front of the car, and then she turned on the head lights. Her hoot of laughter filled the night, and Rodney was only too painfully aware of the ridiculous picture he must make as he stood and stared like a startled animal and tried to cover himself with his hands.

“You bitch!” he shouted, but she was laughing so hard that she did not hear him.

He made his way to the car and grabbed for his trousers, cursing her silently while she laughed.

“Oh, Rod!” she cried, and went off into another spasm of laughter. “Oh, Rod! What a picture to put on a postcard and send home to Mother!”

Rodney got into the car, clad only in his trousers, and immediately pressed the starter. The car's powerful motor roared to life, and Betty reached over and turned off the ignition.

“What's the matter, honey,” she asked softly, running her finger tips over his bare chest. “You mad, honey?”

Rodney exhaled his breath sharply. “No,” he said, “I guess not.”

“Kiss me, then,” she said, prettily petulant. “Kiss me to show me you aren't mad.”

With something that was almost a sob, Rodney turned to her. This was the thing he could never understand about Betty. For hours, she could act as if the last thing she wanted was for him to touch her. She could make him feel as if she did not even like him particularly, but the minute he kissed her she began to make small sounds in her throat and her body twisted and turned against him as if she could not get enough of his kisses. This was the moment he waited for every time he saw her. It made everything else bearable, from the way she taunted him with her other boy friends to the way she teased him by pretending not to like him.

“Quick!” she said. “Down on the beach. Not here.”

She ran ahead of him, and he followed, carrying the car robe. Before he could get the blanket smooth on the soft sand, she was lying down, holding her arms out to him.

“Oh, baby, baby,” he said. “I love you. I love you so.”

She nibbled hungrily at his lower lip. “Come on, honey,” she said, and her body moved ceaselessly. “Come on, honey. Love me a little.”

His fingers found the tie of her halter, and in less than half a minute the garment lay on the sand next to the blanket. Betty's back arched against his arm as she thrust her breasts up to him. This was not new to Rodney. She let him do this often, but it never failed to arouse him to near frenzy. Her nipples were always rigid and exciting and the full, firm flesh around them always hot and throbbing.

“Come on, honey,” she whimpered. “Come on, honey,” and his mouth and hands covered her. “Hard,” she whispered. “Do it hard, honey. Bite me a little. Hurt me a little.”

“Please,” murmured Rodney against her skin. “Please. Please.”

His hand found the V of her crotch and pressed against it.

“Please,” he said. “Please.”

It was at this point that Betty usually stopped him. She would put both her hands in his hair and yank him away from her, but she did not stop him now. Her tight shorts slipped off as easily as if they had been several sizes too large, and her body did not stop its wild twisting while Rodney took off his trousers.