by Rona Jaffe
Oh, April always intended to pay it back. Dexter Key would lend her ten dollars when the comer grocery refused to let her charge any more, he had lent her fifty as an appeasement gesture when
the department stores sent her the last strongest letter beginning: "We know you don't want the embarrassment of having a bill collector come . . ." Dexter was so rich he could afford these little donations any time he cared to make them, and April felt as if every one of them was a further avowal of permanence. April had been brought up to believe that a man never takes on a woman's debts unless she is a relative, his wife or his mistress. Since April was none of these things to Dexter she was left to her own imagination, and April's imagination was one of the most romantic in the world.
Caroline stirred on the window sill trying to find a comfortable position, and the cat awoke and sprang out of her lap. It wasn't the heat that was keeping her awake like this, because if you stayed perfectly still your body heat was lowered and you could almost feel comfortable. But she had so much to worry about: what she would do first in the office tomorrow morning, that letter Mr. Shali-mar had said she could write to an author suggesting revisions for his book (the first time she had ever had such a responsibility and she was frightened) and all those damn Westerns she had been putting oflF reading that were gathering dust on the comer of her desk. If she could discover something worth while from the unsolicited pile, that would be a great step ahead, because then the author would be hers exclusively to develop and if he turned out to be able to write other good books she would be well on her way to being an editor. Perhaps at this time next year she would even have an expense account—a small one, to be sure—but one which would enable her to take her own authors out to lunch. Can you imagine me signing a check for a man? Caroline asked herself, and smiled thinking about it. It wasn't such an unthinkable idea, any more than any of the other things that had happened to her in the past eight months. The future, she thought, depends on luck and on other people. Your imagination, if you're coming out of a sheltered life, can't even encompass all the things that really happen to you.
April Morrison, for the first time, resented and loathed the protruding spring in her in-the-wall bed. The night was hot enough without having to curl yourself like a shrimp to avoid being stabbed. She picked the sheet oflE the bed and spread it on the floor, put down her pillow, and stretched out. There, tliat was better. Wasn't it funny
—Dexter Key's girl having to sleep on the floor! What would the society columns say? He had told her that he was sometimes in Win-chell's column, and she read it all the time now, but she never saw his name. Dexter Key, stockbroker boulevardier, and April Morrison, Fabian Publications' Girl Friday, an item. Wouldn't she love to see that! April closed her eyes and brought to herself an image of Dexter's face. In this daydream he was leaning close to her, holding her hand, and saying, "I love you more and more all the time. Let's get married." Was that what they said when they proposed? She'd never had a proposal, and she hoped it would be a romantic one when she did. Who am I kidding? April thought. If Dexter even said, "I've got nothing to do today, let's get married," I'd be delighted.
They could have three children, first a boy named after his father of course, and then a girl named Christina. Christina Key—that was a little hard-sounding, with the C and the K. She'd have to think of something else. Bonita was pretty, Bonnie for short. . . . The daydream of Dexter's face began to move, to turn into a dream. He was whispering, he was interlacing his fingers with hers. April fell asleep, lost in a dream of her own choosing, and very content.
Gregg Adams was awake, leaning on one elbow over the sleeping body of David Wilder Savage, listening to him breathe, watching his face. How could he sleep in this heat? She was so excited and tired from doing her performance at the Playhouse and then driving two hours in the stage manager's borrowed car to get to the city to see David that she couldn't even think of sleeping. Tomorrow she would probably be exhausted, and there was that horrible drive back. Coming in to the city was always a short trip, but returning seemed four hours long. David couldn't come to see her as often as she'd hoped; poor thing, he was casting a new play. Altogether they saw each other only three times a week, and it was hell without him. She thought about him all the time, going over their conversations in her mind, trying to see if she had said the right thing, or if he had let go of something significant. What a man for hiding his feelings! How easy those first weeks seemed when they had just met, compared to now, which was so full of emotion and wondering it almost gave her a headache. She hadn't known love could be like
this, a time of self-doubt and clinging, finding alternate comfort and loneliness according to the moods of the man.
He was so sweet after he had made love to her, kissing her forehead or her eyes, not rolling over as if he had finished with her as some men had done. He would hold her hand for a few minutes until the need for sleep made them both crave privacy, and then when each of them finally curled into his private world it was not as if they were saying goodbye at all. Although he had never said, "I love you," even at those moments when she thought passion and her insistent question would surely make him lie to her, she was sure he did love her. No one could be so tender, so affectionate, without love.
It's hell to be a woman, Gregg thought; to want so much love, to feel like only half a person, to need so much. What was it Plato had said? A man and a woman are each only half a person until they unite. Why hadn't he made that clearer to the men?
Chapter 10
Autumn is rebirth in New York. The new plays open on Broadway, the stores show their changing fashions, the round of apartment hunting and moving and cocktail parties begins. Telephones ring, letters are mailed, people welcome one another back from perhaps ten blocks away geographically, but ten thousand miles away in summer lethargy. How was your vacation? everyone asks, until it becomes a tiresome question and one becomes bored with producing the expected superlatives. Caroline Bender had spent her three days in Port Blair, at the near-by beach, and was hoping to lose her tan in time to wear the new dark fall clothes. Gregg Adams had spent her three days in David Wilder Savage's apartment, a concession he had allowed her as a farewell present before she departed for summer stock. April Morrison had spent her three days alternately running up enormous bills at Bonwit Teller and Lord and Taylor on a beach and lawn wardrobe, and sailing and playing tennis with Dexter Key. Barbara Lemont had left Hil-
lary with her mother and had spent her vacation—she had a whole week—at a resort hotel where she met several young men, all of them eligible and all of them as interested in supporting her and her child as they might be in a trip to the moon without oxygen masks. Mary Agnes, who had two whole weeks because of seniority, tried in vain to have them deferred to the following summer in order to have a four-week honeymoon, and finally settied on two weeks at home looking for dishes and silver and linens and taking occasional trips to Jones Beach with her fiance. Bill. Mr. Shalimar went to the Cape with his wife and children. Mike Rice had planned to go to Florida to visit his ex-wife and daughter but changed his mind at the last minute for some reason even Caroline could not find out, and went instead to stay with friends who had a farm in Connecticut. Altogether, everyone was glad to be back, and glad that the allotted have-fun period was over and done with for another year.
In early October, when the little scraps of sidewalk trees showed their turning leaves, and walking to work was a pleasure under the clear blue sky, Caroline was invited to a cocktail party given by a girl who had gone to Port Blair High School with her, who was now married and living lq New York with her husband, a medical student. Caroline always had a kind of reluctance at the beginning of a cocktail party; she hated walking into a room of strangers alone, and she would have preferred to bring a date, anyone, but her hostess said there would be dozens of bachelors and they would need all the extra girls they could find. Although The Bachelor is always mentioned as the prime requisite for a successful party (in a
ll the etiquette articles) an attractive single girl in her early twenties with an interesting job is just as valuable, and in this age of early marriages almost as rare.
The apartment where the party was held was in one of those large older apartment buildings inhabited mostly by families who have lived there for years. Because these apartments are rent controlled their tenants are very slow to leave, and space is hard to get. Kippie MUlikin and her husband had managed to rent a three-room apartment in the back, facing a court. There were curved metal strips guarding the windows, left there by the previous tenant, who had young children, and the Millikins had not bothered to remove them. With those, the unwashed windows, and the dark court outside,
Caroline felt as if she were in a trap. The apartment had been temporarily furnished with hand-me-downs from both the young couple's parents: a dark-green convertible sofa bed with a hole in one arm, a glass and rattan cofiFee table that had formerly stood on a porch, and an assortment of modem and Colonial lamps. Kippie, who was five months pregnant, had given up her secretarial job, and the two sets of in-laws were helping to pay the rent while her husband went to school. It was as though the two families themselves were married to each other, Caroline thought, and their children were playing house. But it was all an investment in the future, Caroline's mother had told her, adding that confidentially she hoped Caroline would fall in love with a man who was already established.
Kippie met Caroline at the door and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "I'm so glad you came early," Kippie said. "We have lots of bachelors."
Caroline took off her coat and hung it in the hall closet, looking at her friend. Kippie wore a vast accordion-pleated maternity blouse, which made her look larger than she actually was, with a low-cut neckline that was supposed to make her alluring. She'd had her hair cut short because it was easier to take care of, and she wore it straight, with even bangs. Her arms looked very thin and white, and she wore a gold-plated bracelet with part of the gold already worn off, showing the greenish metal beneath. She wore no nail polish, and her nails were clipped and rounded like a little boy's. I suppose she has to do a lot of housework, Caroline thought, and preparing for this party wasn't easy either.
"We got a new bedspread for our anniversary," Kippie said. "Come and see it and then I'll get you a drink."
Caroline could think of at least a dozen things she would rather see than a new bedspread, but she followed Kippie obediently into the bedroom, glancing on the way at the small groups of people standing self-consciously in the darkened living room. . "What I really wanted to tell you is, there's a boy here I'm anxious for you to meet," Kippie said confidingly. "His name is Paul Landis. He's a lawyer, and he's very nice."
"From New York or Port Blair?"
"New York. His sister-in-law is a friend of mine, I met her at the natural-childbirth classes. Then she had us over for cocktails last
month and I met Paul. As soon as I saw him I said to myself, I'd like to fix him up with a nice girl."
"You'd like to fix everyone up with a nice girl," Carohne said, smiling.
Kippie looked blank. Then she smiled. "Well, I like to see my friends settled. You know, it's lots of fun for you to have a job now, but in a few years youll be tired of it. And I think a girl should have her children when she's young, too, because then she can enjoy herself when she's older and her husband has started to make real money."
"I don't see why a girl has to quit her job just because she gets married," Caroline said. "I'd like to keep mine. It's really more of a career to me than a job—I like it."
"Maybe you'll marry Paul," Kippie said comfortably.
"I haven't even laid eyes on him yet!"
"You'U like him. He's sweet. He always kisses me goodbye, he kids me and says I'm his girl friend. It's a standing joke."
"Oh, God."
"No, he's funny," Kippie said. "He's so cute; wait and you'll see."
Caroline was looking in the mirror, combing her hair. She glanced down at the assortment of perfume and cologne bottles on the dresser tray. "Oh, you still wear that. I remember it from high school. You were the first girl to wear perfume instead of cologne. I remember how sophisticated and rich I thought you were."
"My goodness, I don't remember that."
"Oh, sure." Caroline sniffed at the stopper. It brought back memories, one after another, like an image reflected and re-reflected in a series of mirrors. "And I remember our freshman year when you first started to shave your legs. I was kind of shocked, for some reason."
Kippie lifted her foot and looked ruefully at her calf. "I hardly even have time to do that any more."
"Why?"
"Oh, there are millions of things to do around a house. I didn't believe it either until I was married. And my natural-childbirth classes, and cooking school, and entertaining the in-laws every Sunday or going over to their house, and shopping for tlie baby. Maybe it doesn't sound like much, but I make it much because I like it."
"As long as you're happy," Caroline said. "That's the main thing."
"I am happy. I always hated my job and when I found out I was pregnant I was so delighted because then I could quit." She took Caroline's hand. "Come on. I want you to meet Paul."
Caroline glanced back at the bedroom as they left. The new bedspread with its dust ruflfle looked out of place next to the un-carpeted worn wooden floor. The two chairs in the bedroom did not match, and there were shades at the windows instead of Venetian blinds. Caroline remembered very well the home Kippie had lived in in Port Blair, a comfortable, attractive home, much like her own. Kippie had left all her pretty bedroom furniture for her younger sister, who still went to the high school. The king-size bed here was new, and so was the dresser, but the rest would have to wait for the future. A new baby was expensive, medical school was expensive, and so were rent and food. Eventually Kippie and her husband hoped to have a house in the suburbs, where her husband could have his practice. Maybe she's right and I'm wrong, Caroline thought, but I couldn't stand to live the way she does now. It depresses me just to be here for an hour. And she hardly even sees her husband; he's always at the hospital or studying.
Could I have done it for Eddie? She remembered Eddie again, as a part of her past, the past that came back whenever she saw anyone she had known before these nine important months at Fabian. And the past still hurt a little. Of course I could have done it for Eddie, Caroline thought; I'd probably be just as boring and domestic as Kippie is. No . . . not quite as boring. I'd do all this with imagination. And Eddie was different from everyone else because he had imagination too, and humor, and life.
"I'd like you to meet Paul Landis," Kippie said. "This is my friend Caroline Bender from high school, you remember how many times I've told you about her."
"Indeed I do," Paul Landis said.
He held out his hand and Caroline shook hands with him, thinking how rather formal it was for anyone to take time out to shake hands at a cocktail party. He was a bit over six feet tall, with dark straight hair and a generous straight nose and brown horn-rimmed glasses. He reminded Caroline of a large, earnest bird. He wore a gray flannel suit that was almost black, a white shirt with a tight little round collar and a coUar pin in it and a narrow black knitted
tie. The suit was obviously expensive, and the collar pin looked like real gold.
"Can 1 get you a drink?" Paul asked.
"Yes, please, a Martini," Caroline said.
"Oh, we don't have Martinis," Kippie said. "But Paul can make you one!"
"I'd be delighted," said Paul. "Do you have a water glass handy?"
"We even have a Martini pitcher," said Kippie. "A wedding present. I'll get it, you stay here."
"You're the editor," said Paul. "That must be very interesting."
"When I get a good book to read, it is," Caroline said. "Then I think to myself, Is this what I'm actually getting paid for?"
Paul laughed. "Have you put out any books I might have read?"
"I don't kno
w. Have you read Beautiful Bodies? Or Tobacco HilW
"They sound vaguely like steals. That, or trash."
Caroline would ordinarily have been the first to admit that Derby Books liked to find titles that sounded either like the tide of someone else's successful book or else seemed to promise carnal hterary adventures, but Paul's uplifted eyebrows made her feel rather hostile toward him. "That's the point," she said.
"You mean, that's what people want."
"Several milhon people," she said.
"Well, I wish you'd send me some," Paul said. "I'd like to read them. You'd better mail them in plain wrapper, I think."
"Why don't you buy some?"
"AU right, I will. Where do I get them?"
"Any drugstore."
"All right," said Paul.
"Here's Kippie with the Martini pitcher," Kippie said brightly, edging in beside them. "Now Paul can impress you."
If making a cocktail is supposed to impress me, Caroline thought, then I should be in love with every bartender in town. But I won't let Kippie's pushing throw me—it's childish to dislike him just because someone else is so obviously trying to make a match between us. I'm going to try to Like him, he isn't bad, really, he's just a little stuffy.