by Alice Adams
“Well, if you don’t mind taking a rain check on Boston, that sounds like a splendid idea,” says Cameron. “Lead on.”
He is drunk, Peg realizes, as they lurch toward the Square, heading for the B.V. He is drunk and I will be too, if I don’t eat something very soon.
Saturday night: the restaurant is crowded, and so they have another martini, waiting at the bar. Peg gulps down some peanuts, along with the gin.
Over dinner—the huge, probably black market steaks that finally arrive—Cameron confides his political ambitions to Peg. As he sees it, after the war there will be a reaction to all this pals-with-Russia business, as he puts it; people will stop worshiping Roosevelt and all the “sob-sister semipinks in Washington, not to mention all the New Deal Jews.”
Peg, who is considerably more intelligent than any of her friends then realize (except possibly Lavinia, with her accurate personal assessments), is certainly far brighter than Cameron Sinclair in his ego-driven drunkenness has grasped. She is seriously offended by this nonsense; she has deep, personal feelings about Mr. Roosevelt (never mind what Lavinia would think; they do not discuss politics) and she is impressed by what she knows of the New Deal (also, Cameron’s views are painfully close to those of her father). But she does not say any of this. “That’s really interesting,” is what she says.
Which leads Cameron to think that she might at least be intelligent, after all.
Dinner somehow serves to sober Cameron and to make Peg more drunk. She is not quite sure what is wrong, she feels dizzy and vaguely sick; how she wishes that she were safely back in the dorm. And, even drunk, all her instincts urge her away from this Cameron Sinclair, but she is incapable of saying the simple words needed to get her home: if she says, I don’t feel well, he will think she’s having her period, and men always hate to hear about that, don’t they?
And so, when Cameron hails a cab, just outside the restaurant, and grandly announces that they are going in to Boston, after all, she even smiles up at him, and she says, Oh, terrific.
Bitter bile is jolted up into her mouth, as they tear across some bridge or other, crossing the Charles.
Later, in the pink-frilled Ladies’ of a nightclub, where (God help her, and her feet) they have danced and danced, she does throw up. Lacking a mouthwash, she fastidiously washes her mouth out with soapy water.
During another cab ride, the final one, a couple of nightclubs later, Cameron begins to kiss her—but “kiss” does not quite describe that sudden plunge in her direction, that thrusting of a thick, bad-tasting tongue into her mouth, while his hands, strong and enormous, tear at her blouse. Peg is caught somewhere in that limbo between fighting him off and responding, both of which she knows that she is supposed to do simultaneously; she is supposed both to make him want to see her again and to convince him that she is not “fast,” or, worse, “easy to get.” However she does manage an amazing feat of strength: she manages to remove his hand from its approach to the top of one of her stockings, but this is less from virtuous impulses than from fear that he will also feel the heavy stays in her girdle. But the effort is almost too much for her; she is nearly sick again, and she cannot be, not with his tongue in her mouth. She manages to swallow more bile, and to remove another strong hand from her breast.
And then, mercifully, they have reached Barnard Hall.
Peg realizes that it is extremely late, and she thinks, Good, no one will be around to see me. At that moment being unseen is more important to her than any possible punishment for lateness. With a quicker kiss than she had feared, at the door (possibly he did not want to keep the cab waiting?) Cameron is gone. Sure that she will never see him again, and relieved (although she has not admitted to herself her true view of Cameron Sinclair), Peg lets herself into the dorm, and she puts her key on its hook. If the night watchman has checked, she is in trouble, but she then thinks, So what? Why should she mind being campused (which is the almost automatic punishment for lateness), since no one will ever ask her for a date again?
She goes up the stairs and has almost reached the top floor when she realizes that someone is sitting out there, smoking. Someone in a pale blue quilted robe. Lavinia.
Who looks at her and cries out, “Peg! My God, are you all right? God! Look, no one must see you like this. I’ll go ahead into the bathroom and check. You stay here.” She leaves, with a quick backward look of sheer dismay, and of true sympathy.
Alone, waiting for Lavinia to come back—chilled and still somewhat drunk—Peg’s eyes fill with tears of gratitude: Lavinia is taking care of her, Lavinia cares.
“Oh now, don’t cry, old Peg. It can’t be all that bad. Come on, quick, there’s no one in the bathroom. You can get all cleaned up in a minute.” Lavinia bustles her along the hall, and into the large bright empty bathroom. “Now, take off that blouse. God, what a mess you are! And wash your face. Peggy, for God’s sake, stop crying. He didn’t rape you, did he?”
“No—”
“Well, next time don’t drink so much. It’s very bad for your skin.”
Lavinia does not let Potter Cobb touch her in any of the ways that Gordon Shaughnessey did, although they go out a lot that spring, and they neck, after dancing at the Fox and Hounds, cocktail parties at Adams House. Lavinia manages, always, to stay his hands; she believes, and is probably correct in her idea, that this prim behavior will both indicate to Potter that she and Gordon did not do much either, in a sexual way, and also that it will make him love her even more than he already does.
In a way she too loves Potter, though, she really does. She loves his clothes and the way he combs his hair, his accent and his car, and actually his ideas. He is a conservative, and does not mind saying so. He quotes from Edmund Burke and Hamilton. “I distrust the mob,” he says, “besides which I really don’t like many of its representatives. Those should rule who have been educated to do so.” He would like to go into the State Department; he has been in Washington a lot; he likes it there. He thinks he remembers Lavinia’s house. He does not really remind Lavinia of her father, nothing Freudian like that, as awful Janet Cohen might put it; her father is a more forceful (she has to face it), a stronger person—but they sound alike, at times. If she had any sense at all, Lavinia thinks, she would marry Potter, and have with him the sort of life that she is supposed to have. Who needs another Gordon Shaughnessey, she thinks, or that sort of “love.”
During that same spring an odd thing happens to Cathy Barnes, which is that a very rich, not bad-looking (if he is a little short) boy from Cleveland, Shaker Heights, falls wildly in love with her. He drives a red convertible and he wears Sulka ties, does not shop at Brooks or J. Press, and is thus called Flash by the New England clubbies, by those who speak to him at all; most do not. His name is Phil.
Flash Flannigan and Cathy, an unlikely couple from any outside point of view, first meet because in a careless way they both show up for an economics class, in Sever, that has in fact been canceled—Cathy, on that cool spring day, in a just-cleaned white cashmere sweater, and Flash-Phil in camel’s hair (he is 4-F because of a dubious knee, and a little political pull on his father’s part having to do with defense contracts). Phil looks at Cathy, and maybe he does fall in love right there and then, as he is later to claim. What he says is, “Well, a free hour. How about some coffee at St. Clair’s?”
At St. Clair’s, Cathy sees Lavinia across the room, having coffee with Potter; the two girls exchange small waves, each indicating to the other that it is okay not to come over and say hello.
Almost right away, as they talk, Phil and Cathy establish what strikes them both as a remarkable list of things in common: both are majoring in economics; both are Catholic; both plan to make a lot of money after the war. They do not plan to go to graduate school; they are not sure how they feel about Harvard and Cambridge; they would like to know where there’s a really good steak dinner in Boston. They like the big bands, like Miller or Dorsey, Charlie Barnett.
Cathy to Megan, hesitantly:
“I met this really strange guy.”
“What’s so strange about him?”
“Well, he wants me to go out with him tomorrow night. Dinner and dancing. I guess in Boston.”
“Well, that sure does sound strange. He must be some kind of a freak.”
They laugh.
Then Cathy adds, “He drives this big red convertible. I just don’t quite see myself in that.”
“Why not? Just don’t wear bright pink, you’d look silly. But go along with it. Have fun. Honestly, Cathy—”
“Well, okay. But he’s so—so Midwestern.”
“Oh, come on. You sound like Lavinia. Or Potter.”
Cathy giggles, blushing a little. “He’s not very tall. I’ll have to wear my flats.”
They begin to go out all the time, hitherto quiet Cathy racing around in that long red car with Phil-Flash, as she has begun to call him. They go everywhere for really good steaks: is Locke-Ober’s really better than Durgin-Park? They go dancing, at the Palace and the Statler, the Fox and Hounds, and out to the Totem Pole. They neck a lot.
• • •
“I feel as though I’m drunk all the time.” says Cathy to Megan.
“Well, maybe you are.”
“Do you think I’m in love?”
“I guess. Do you think you are?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask my priest.”
They laugh.
“Honestly, she’s beginning to sound Midwestern herself,” says Lavinia to Peg. “Have you listened to those vowels?”
“Well, I hadn’t exactly thought about it. She sure looks happy. But, uh, Lavy, this funny thing happened. I got a letter from Cameron Sinclair.”
“From who?”
“Cameron Sinclair. The boy I went out with that time.”
“Oh.”
“He wants to come up and see me. Again.”
“Well, honestly, Peg, what’s so funny about that?”
“Nothing, but I just thought—I don’t know.”
“He must have liked you. But you just remember what I told you, and don’t drink so much this time.”
“Oh, I won’t!” cries out Peg, who in fact drinks considerably more the next time she goes out with Cameron, and she passes out in a borrowed room, in the law school dorm—unfortunately not before Cameron has succeeded in ending both his own and Peg’s virginity.
Although she could joke about asking her priest whether or not she was truly in love, still, Cathy is deeply concerned with possible sin; she knows perfectly well that she is committing sins of the flesh, and doing it often, almost every night. She is also going to Confession and not truly confessing. She wonders what Phil-Flash is saying to his priest, and decides that probably he is not fully confessing either. And what does this say about his true character—or for that matter about hers? What does it say about their relationship?
And Cathy inwardly notes that she has not in any way mentioned Phil to her mother, not even very casually. “I’ve been going out a lot” she might have written to her mother, whose affectionate interest is often thwarted by Cathy, Cathy knows. Her mother would have liked to hear such an intimate fact, and surely if Cathy means for them to meet, eventually, she could have made this small preparation?
Already Phil is pushing for an early marriage, but Cathy just isn’t sure, for many reasons.
In some dim corner of her mind, and perhaps her heart, she does not believe that this is true love. She does not believe that she and Phil will marry.
9
Simon is stroking Megan’s back, his hand firm on her shoulder blades, pressing in at her waist, back and forth, caressing her buttocks. It is late on a Thursday afternoon. In an idle way he then says, “Ah Megan, the loveliest skin in town. Why can’t I take you down to New York with me?”
And Megan, who tends to take people more or less at their word, answers him, “Well, why not? Sometime.”
Simon removes his hand too quickly. Then, as though to make up for the abruptness of the gesture, he pulls up the sheet, covering naked Megan. He tucks it in around her neck, and he announces, “In some ways I really feel like a shit.”
Something cold within her suddenly and inexplicably makes Megan think of George Wharton, all that old pain. In a forced, light way she asks Simon, “Why? What do you mean?” She has turned and propped herself up, the sheet still shielding her breasts; she and Simon face each other.
He says, “Well, I guess I should have said this before, but it never seemed important. But in New York, you see, there’s this woman that I’m engaged to. Uh, she goes to Barnard. Her name is Phyllis. I see her on weekends.”
“You do?”
“I know, I should have mentioned it, but it really didn’t seem to have anything to do with us,” Simon repeats.
Megan instantly sees the logic of his not mentioning his fiancée, in a way; she can even agree that his New York life has nothing to do with them. Phyllis. She supposes that if she were smarter about such things she would have worked it out for herself already; certainly Lavinia would have known that a young man who spent every weekend in New York surely “had someone” there; he would not just be going down to see his parents, not a sexy, handsome young man like Simon, at his age. Well, how dumb of her.
“You look upset,” Simon is saying. “I don’t blame you. I’ve been a shit.” (Is he taking some pride in this, this shittiness?) “But being with you, making love to you is the greatest thing, you are the greatest woman—”
“You and Phyllis don’t make love?” Megan has a quick, intuitive flash that this would be the case; perhaps at last she is catching on to how things are?
“Oh no.”
“You just neck?”
“Well, yes. You could put it like that.” Poor guilty Simon blushes, and now he seems to feel an obligation to tell her everything. “I’ve always known Phyllis,” he explains. “Our families moved from Brooklyn to West End Avenue at about the same time, and my parents, God, they’d die if I didn’t marry a nice Jewish girl. From their point of view Phyllis is ideal. And she really is okay, in a way. She’s bright.”
“It’s so funny,” Megan muses. “I know someone, a girl, who’s Jewish, and she wants to marry this boy, who’s Irish, and his mother hates her.” She is not sure why she thought the story of Janet and Adam would be helpful; in truth, she does not really want to talk to Simon anymore, that day. In fact she has a deep conviction of total wrongness, somewhere; the equations of sex and love and marriage are coming out all wrong, at least as far as she is concerned. Which is not at all to say that she would like to marry Simon, she would not; and probably in the long run she would not want to marry George Wharton either. Still.
“Megan, I can’t tell you how awful I feel,” Simon is saying. “I could kill myself.”
It is not necessary that he tell her how awful he feels; Megan can see him, a dark young man, overwhelmed with guilt and confusion. In a comforting way she says, “Really, it’s okay. You’re right, it doesn’t have anything to do with us, really. I guess I’m just, uh, surprised. Although probably I shouldn’t be.”
“God, I can certainly see how you’d be surprised. Oh, Megan, I do feel terrible. You probably won’t even want to see me, after this.”
“Oh, Simon. I didn’t say that. But I would like to go back to the dorm now. Okay?”
“Oh, sure.”
They both rush through what has sometimes been a languorous ritual of getting dressed, often interrupted by passages of love—but not today. Dressed, they hurry out to Simon’s car, and he drives her back over the hills of Cambridge, to her dorm, driving much faster than usual. As though to excuse their haste, at some point Megan remarks, “I’ve got this hour exam tomorrow. I almost forgot.”
At the door Simon asks her, “You will see me again?” (He has made a clear effort not to plead.)
“Oh, Simon, don’t be silly. Of course I will. Sometime.”
Megan gives this episode considerably less thought and less emotion than
she might have been expected to—than, in fact, she might have expected of herself. Perhaps, she thinks (she hopes) that she was inoculated against certain emotions by the experience of George Wharton.
And then she stops thinking of such things altogether, for the moment, and she decides that she wants to go out for honors; maybe she could make Junior Phi Bete? As long as she’s here she might as well learn all that she possibly can, mightn’t she?
None of Megan’s friends, at that moment, that May of 1944, share in her (at least temporarily) high-minded preoccupation with work. Cathy is always out somewhere with Phil-Flash; when she comes in late at night she is often a little drunk, her makeup all smeared; she is vague and exhausted and exhilarated and, for Megan, in a conversational way quite out of reach. Although, over late night cigarettes, they sometimes try to talk.
Lavinia is usually out with Potter, and Janet Cohen is either writing to Adam or talking about him—or off to some chem lab. Even Peg seems mysteriously preoccupied; she is known to have had several more dates with Cameron Sinclair, but she does not look happy.
Preoccupation with these various men thus isolates the four young women from each other—an accepted, even expected state of affairs at that time, but Megan feels it keenly. I sometimes have no one to talk to, is what she thinks.
If Megan has not been thinking of Simon, he seems to have thought of her a great deal, however; he telephones and asks her how she has been, and then, before she can get out more than a couple of words, he asks, “How about coming down to New York with me next weekend? I’m serious, I’ve got it all worked out. Where we’ll stay, and everything. This great hotel, on Eighth Street. The Marlton.”
It is odd, the way you get things you used to want, is what Megan is thinking. But she also thinks, New York, how terrific, if only I could. Lack of money has kept her in Cambridge and Boston, so far, and this week is no better than any others, financially.
“We’ll take the train down,” Simon says. “Go down Saturday night, if that’s okay with you. Have dinner, maybe hit some spots on Fifty-second Street. Then Sunday we’ll have all day, I’ll just put in a quick appearance at my parents’.”