Dating

by Dave Williamson

  “Down Marion, isn’t it, Mar’?” Allie said, without looking back at us. She knew there was something going on.

  “Yes,” said Mary in a clear voice, even as I felt a nipple through the cotton and caressed it into an erect state that mimicked my own. “You turn left on Kenny.”

  “Oh, yah, that’s right.”

  “Next time he’ll tell us he shot a duck with two beaks,” said Ed. “Or a moose with two dongs.”

  “Edward!” Allie laughed. “Really!”

  When we reached Mary’s house, a two-storey clapboard that looked battered by weather and years, Ed pulled up to a path that led to the front door. I withdrew my hand and put my glove back on.

  “Want us to wait?” Ed asked.

  “No, no,” I said. “I can walk from here.”

  Mary didn’t object, nor did she offer any opinion.

  “G’night, then, you two,” said Allie.

  “Good night,” Mary said. “T’ank you for da ride.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Thanks, Allie. Thanks, Ed.”

  As Ed drove away, I didn’t think for a second about how far it was from Mary’s house to mine. I thought only about returning my hand to where it had been. I took Mary’s arm and gave her support because she was wearing high-heeled party shoes, not boots, and I let her have the narrow path while I walked through the snow in my overshoes.

  “Nice house,” I said.

  “We live upstairs,” said Mary. “Dere’s anudder fam’ly on da main floor.”

  I looked at the wooden structure, what some people called a saltbox. “You live with your parents, right?”

  “Yes. And my two li’l sisters.”

  I was only temporarily daunted by the prospect of trying to fool around with Mary in a crowded walk-up. In my liquored state, I reasoned that, if she told her parents the boss’s son had brought her home, they’d be sure to give us privacy.

  “Do you wanna come in?” Mary asked.

  I disregarded the lack of feeling in the question. “If you think it’s all right.”

  She opened the door, which hadn’t been locked. I followed her into a tiny vestibule. The door to the main floor was closed. To the right of it was a wooden staircase. Mary led me up; about halfway, one step gave a loud creak. The door at the top wasn’t locked and, when she opened it, it also creaked.

  “I’ll go an’ tell dem I’m home,” Mary said, stepping out of her high heels.

  Inside was a small kitchen and beside that a living room with an Arborite side table and a sofa and three chairs. On one of the chairs lay some girls’ clothing and a few school books. The lamp on the table was on; the floor lamp beside the sofa wasn’t. Mary hung up her coat, did up the button I’d undone and went through a door off the kitchen.

  I took off my coat and my overshoes and I waited. I checked my watch: 1:30 a.m. Mary came back and quietly closed the door.

  “Were they asleep?” I asked.

  “Ever’body but my mudder. She’ll go ta sleep now I’m home.”

  “Good,” I said, a little too quickly.

  “Do you wanna drink?”

  “No, thanks. Come here.”

  I took her into my arms, nearly lifting her off the floor, and I kissed her more tenderly and more meaningfully than I had under the mistletoe. The Kissing Bandit strikes again.

  “I wanted to do that all summer,” I lied.

  I took her by the hand and led her to the sofa. She arranged herself in one corner and smiled up at me, again without parting her lips. I sat down beside her, one arm along the top of the sofa behind her, the other at her waist. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t look expectant or ardent or frightened. I might’ve described her expression as benign but, in my new rather aggressive state, I thought I detected encouragement.

  I kissed her again and this time I sent my tongue into her yielding mouth. I thought I could feel one of her cavities. But, if her teeth had a rough edge or two, they were the only parts of her that did. While still kissing her, I moved my hand up from her waist and into the V of the velvet neckline. My fingers caressed the smooth flesh above her bosom. I returned to the curve I’d felt in the car, the round plumpness of one breast in its thin cotton sling.

  “You feel so nice,” I whispered, and I meant it.

  Though she wasn’t expressive, I thought she must be enjoying this, if only because I was enjoying it so much, and she’d become so warm. Still, I thought I shouldn’t expect too much too soon. I desperately wanted to feel her bare breast—the first bare breast I’d ever felt—but I thought she might balk at any advance into the bra. I’d heard enough stories from Claude and Gerry to make me believe that girls saw it as their duty to resist—whether they sincerely disliked being fondled on first dates, or they viewed the mating ritual as a progressive activity broken into incremental steps, or they simply liked playing the role of elusive prey. Wasn’t the girl supposed to give you a fight at every stage, push your hand away, then let you advance a little, then push your hand away again, then let you go further, but only after you’d coaxed her with caresses and compliments?

  Mary said nothing. We kissed more feverishly—or at least I did—and I undid the top two buttons of her dress. It was time to venture inside the bra. I thought I’d do it slowly and gently and, at the first sign—a hand on my wrist, a sound of annoyance, a slight move away from me—I’d pull back.

  I pushed my fingers under the cotton. I marvelled not only at the smooth fullness of the breast but also at my own restraint, the fact that I could be so patient despite the raging booze-soaked excitement I felt. And she let me go ahead.

  It might’ve made good sense for me to ask her to undo the bra—I certainly couldn’t undo it from the position I was in and with her wearing a dress, and even if I could reach around and get my fingers on the hooks, I had no idea how to undo them—but for her to do it, she’d have to take off the dress and I couldn’t expect her to with the family in the vicinity; she could go into the bathroom and take the dress off and take off the bra and put the dress back on but that would destroy the moment and, besides, it was a lot to ask her to do and it seemed mechanical and unromantic.

  The main problem was, there was no room inside the bra for my hand and her breast. I wasn’t sure how possible it was to push the cup off the breast without hurting her, but I tried. She didn’t complain. And—ahhh, there—for the first time in my life I held an honest-to-goodness bare breast in my hand.

  There was a loud thump.

  Jolted, I sat up and said, “What was that?”

  “Jus’ da house,” Mary said. “It does dat in winner.”

  I resumed my happy exploring, gently tweaking her erect nipple.

  We were half-leaning, half-lying on the sofa now. I was on the outside, figuring I was blocking any view of what I was doing. As we kissed, a wild idea popped into my head. While caressing a girl’s shapely breast should’ve given me all the thrills I needed for one night, the idea of touching her somewhere else jumped to the front of my frazzled brain. There was no doubt she was happy to have her chest fondled, but what about her thighs? I might reach a point that she considered off limits but, since everywhere was new territory for me, shouldn’t I at least see how far I could go?

  I took my hand out of her bodice and moved it to her leg. She was wearing stockings. The smoothness and the curve of her leg just above the knee were almost as lovely as the smoothness and the curve of her bosom.

  I kissed her neck, finding she wasn’t the least bit ticklish there, as I moved my hand ever so slowly under the hem of her dress and up her thigh. I felt the top of her stocking and, beyond that, her bare flesh. Surely she was going to stop me! But she didn’t. I was so overwhelmed by the feel and thought of what I was touching—her upper thigh!—that I had to kiss her even more passionately.

  My fingers inched up to the edge of her undergarment and I nearly cried out when I realized she wasn’t wearing a girdle, only what felt like cotton panties. Some other contraption with
garters was holding up her stockings. My heart raced as I moved my fingers slowly sideways, and I discovered that her legs were slightly parted and I was easily able to move my anxious middle finger onto the band of cotton between her thighs. I stifled a moan of surprise and appreciation and pleasure. I was sure I could feel hair under the cotton. I was astonished at the heat there and at the same time I was amazed at how far I’d progressed and how close I now was to the ultimate goal of every heterosexual young man.

  But wait. What was going on here? This wasn’t supposed to happen on the first date. This wasn’t even a date—I’d taken her home from a party. Well, it wasn’t as if she was a pick-up I’d just met; I’d known her at the factory, and I’d often smiled at her and kidded with her. But why was she giving me so little resistance? Especially with her parents maybe twenty-five feet away, probably listening to every muffled movement, every whisper, every sound of clothing being lifted, adjusted, pushed up or pulled down. Was this some kind of trap? I thought of Shelley Winters in A Place in the Sun, the factory girl connecting with the up-and-coming Montgomery Clift, letting him have his way with her, dragging him down …

  I moved my hand back to her thigh, congratulating myself on being able to stop short of—of what? Feeling her bare naked crotch or going all the way? Surely she didn’t expect or want me to go all the way, here on this narrow sofa, a few feet away from her parents and her sisters—I didn’t even have a prophylactic! Well, maybe that was part of the plan, all part of the trap; maybe her parents were in on it, maybe their plan was to trap the boss’s son—if we went all the way and Mary got pregnant, I’d have to marry her and that would better the family’s economic situation. Or maybe everyone at the party was in cahoots with Mary—they were all plotting to bring the high-flying university boy down to earth.

  No. I couldn’t believe that of Mary. She was so innocent and likable.

  And so hot down there.

  I returned there, this time with two fingers—it just seemed to be the place for them.

  I opened my eyes and for the first time I saw the crucifix on the opposite wall.

  My god, I thought, divine intervention!

  I pulled my fingers back from her thinly covered inferno. Only a week before, as a member of the Canterbury Club for Anglican university students, I’d gone to a retreat at St. John’s College. It was a Saturday, the idea being that the experience would be more meaningful if you sacrificed the one day in the week most people devoted to frivolity. Reverend Merrihew led us in prayers, he discussed moral and ethical issues with us, and he left us alone for periods of meditating and reading. As the day passed, I began to feel the presence of something or Someone. A spiritual presence. Merrihew had succeeded in calling a spiritual power into our midst. Was it possible that this divine presence was watching over me and had intervened at the perfect time to deliver me from temptation?

  If so, then what about Mary? If she was religious, why had she led me on?

  That was unfair. She hadn’t done much leading. She’d simply gone along with what I wanted to do. It was likely her sweet nature that was dictating her compliance.

  But if I stayed a moment longer, I didn’t know if I could continue to deny myself the pleasure of—

  “I’d better be going,” I whispered.

  “All right,” she said.

  I hated to release her, but I peeked at the crucifix again and sat up. I slowly got to my feet.

  As I put on my coat and overshoes, Mary stood there, looking forlorn and, I thought, sad, as if she was never going to see me again. She did nothing to put herself back in order; her hair was flattened in one place and sticking out in another, her dress was unbuttoned to the waist and her bra was still awry. It was as if she wanted to stay that way, letting me leave with this image of what I’d done to her. In these rude surroundings—worn carpet, cheap furniture, lamp with a torn shade—she looked like a typical representative of the Lower Class, as described in my Sociology textbook. Her willingness to be groped was a symptom of her station in life—the textbook said Lower Class people had lax morals.

  “Thank you for the nice time,” I said.

  “I had a nice time, too,” she said.

  I leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. I turned and she closed the door behind me as I started down the stairs, the image of her messed-up appearance imprinted on my brain. The step halfway down shrieked. I felt suffocated in the narrow stairway. I hurried to get out of there.

  I walked to Rue Des Meurons, the street I could follow all the way to Vivian, perhaps two miles away. Few cars went by—it was three in the morning. I rubbed my ears with my scarf. Like young people everywhere, I didn’t wear a hat in winter.

  What an incredible texture her breast had! What an incredible shape! Classic!

  I should’ve been nicer to her. I attacked her.

  Oh, the heat of her down there … !

  Thank God I’d stopped when I did. A less rational fellow with that many drinks under his belt would’ve ripped off her pants. She got me so worked up …

  Why didn’t I go back to the boobs? I didn’t get enough of her boobs!

  What was the matter with me? I took advantage of her. The way I left her!

  I could see her again. Why not? What a little treat she was!

  I shouldn’t.

  I should.

  That’s what was going on in my head as I walked and I got home in what seemed like five seconds flat. I let myself in through the back door.

  “Where have you been?” My father jumped up from his kitchen chair.

  “Sorry, Pop. The party did go on.”

  “People stayed at June’s till this hour?”

  “Well, 1:30 or so. Then Allie and her husband drove me home—well, Mary and me.”

  “You and Mary?”

  “I went into her place.”

  “You went into Mary’s blooming house?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did her parents say?”

  “They were asleep. It was just to unwind, Pop. No harm done.”

  “I blinking well hope not.”

  My father went to bed. He seemed disappointed that I’d taken one of the factory girls home and unconvinced that no harm was done.

  I went to my room, shut the door and switched on the desk lamp. In the middle of my desk blotter was a letter for me, and the return address said it was from Janie Sinclair.

  My God! I thought, this is my reward for resisting temptation!

  >

  The Return of Janie

  I turn off the computer and get ready for bed. I floss my teeth, doing a more thorough job than I ever did when I was young. It’s essential if I’m going to avoid any more exorbitant dental bills. I brush. I swallow the little blue Aspirin that is supposed to keep your arteries unclogged. I wash my hands, using antibacterial liquid soap. I pull back the covers on my king-size bed and glance at the manila envelope on my night table. Damn. I’m in no mood now to read Barbara’s Time Capsule. I put it away in a night-table drawer.

  I go back to my computer. I do want to see Janie again. I switch on my computer and send Patsy a message telling her so.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. Could I speak with Bob Jenkins, please?”

  “This is Bob Jenkins.”

  “Jenkins. Jeez, it’s been a long time.”

  “Who—”

  “Janie Hunter. Janie Sinclair. Patsy gave me your e-mail address, but I said, heck, give me his phone number. I’m not big on all the new gizmos. I can’t stand them, to tell you the God’s truth.”

  Her voice sounds almost the same, if it’s possible to say that about a voice you haven’t heard for more than fifty years. There’s a slight suggestion of Granny Clampett—a twang—reminding me that Janie, like all of us, has aged.

  “Nice to hear from you, Janie.”

  “Jenkins, I’m sorry about your loss. I never knew your wife—was it Belinda?”

  “Barbara.”

  “I didn�
�t know her, did I?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But you can be grateful for the long time you had together, can’t you? It’s twelve years since my Harry went to meet his Maker. That’s too soon, Jenkins. He didn’t deserve to go so young.”

  “No.”

  “Listen, I’ve been here six weeks and I’ve still got bags that aren’t unpacked. It’s been a nightmare moving—half my stuff’s in Calgary—have you ever moved?”

  “Not for a long while. We lived in Saskatoon way back in the Sixties.”

  “A lifetime ago! Harry and I had a few places—well, you have to upsize when you keep having kids. Did you know we had six?”

  “I think I knew that, yes—”

  “Then we found out what was causing it. Old joke. Now, I’m downsizing. Big time. Maybe Laura told you—”

  “Who?”

  “Gerry’s wife?”

  “Patsy.”

  “Yes, sorry—what did I say? Laura! That’s my son Patrick’s wife—sorry. Patsy might’ve told you my son Jason and his wife Krista live here. They aren’t nuts like Harry and me—they have only three kids. Well, two of them have left home—I can’t believe how those kids have grown and matured—one’s still at home—Krista—no, I mean Deirdre—she’s the youngest and she’s at university—well, I tell you, Jason and Krista have set things up for me pretty nice. My own everything. Still, you know, you have to get rid of stuff. I’ve got this curio cabinet—who needs it? Listen to me going on.”

  Her “going on” is making me weary. I begin to wonder if I really do want to see her again. Since Barb died, the number of my friends has shrunk to a few I see every so often. I golf with a group of guys about once a week, and I see people like Claude and Gillian, Charlie and Gwen, and my neighbours, Mark and Hildy, for meals maybe once a month. And Donald and Bea—what—once a year? I like my solitude.

  “We’ve got lots to talk about,” I say.

  “Lot of water under the bridge,” she says. “Might take at least two coffee breaks.”