April North

4

There was only one point where she felt foolish. All the way home, her neat buttocks cupped by the bucket seat of the low-slung Mercedes, her suitcase propped again upon her knees, everything seemed perfectly logical, perfectly free and easy. And when Craig leaned over lazily in front of her house to brush her lips with a fleeting kiss, everything was still quite perfect and quite sensible.

But when the Mercedes roared like a lion and headed back for Craig’s home, and when she was left to enter her house alone, suitcase in hand, everything was not quite so perfect or logical or sensible any longer. Alone now, she was a little girl who had been trying to run away from home, and who was now returning with her suitcase in her hand and her tail between her legs. No matter how sensible her actions might be when viewed from a distance, here she was with her silly suitcase and there was her house, looming ominously at her, and there was just no way to get the suitcase into the house without looking like several different kinds of a damn fool. The hour was quarter to eight — she had missed dinner and she was getting home just in time to tell Jim Bregger that he could go to hell for himself because she was not going out with him, after all. Perhaps some people could have felt perfectly calm about coming home under such circumstances but April was not one of them, not by any means.

The front door was ajar. She gave it a shove and walked in, hoping that no one was home. But just as she stepped into the hall her mother materialized, dishcloth in hand and worried look in eyes.

“April—”

“I meant to call,” she said, improvising furiously. “I tried once and the line was busy, and then it was time for dinner. And after dinner I figured it would be just as quick to come home as to call, so I didn’t. Call, that is. I’m sorry, Mom.”

“Where were you?”

“Judy Liverpool’s house,” she said. “I went over there after school and then they asked me to stay for dinner and I figured it would be all right.”

“You should have called, April.”

“I know,” she said. She managed to remember the suitcase before her mother noticed it. “I was going to stay the night,” she lied neatly. “But I changed my mind. Besides, I’ve got a date tonight and he’s coming any minute, so I have to be home to tell him that I won’t go out with him.”

The words came too fast for Mrs. North — the sentences changed direction too chaotically and she was hopelessly lost. “A date,” she said weakly. “And you aren’t going?”

“No, Mom. It’s with Jim Bregger, and he has a terrible reputation with the girls, only I didn’t know about it when I made the date, but Judy Liverpool told me and I know about it now. So I’m not going.”

“A bad reputation?”

April nodded slowly. “They say he tries to get girls to do things,” she said. “You know what I mean, Mom.”

Mrs. North could guess. “You’re absolutely right,” she said. “Don’t you dare go out with him. I know you wouldn’t let him do anything, April—”

“Of course not.”

“—but you have to safeguard your own reputation, you know. When a girl dates a fast boy, even if she’s completely innocent, folks begin to talk. You have to guard against that sort of talk, April. Evil tongues do the devil’s work.”

“Yes, Mom.”

Mrs. North turned and carried her dishcloth back to the sink.

April scampered up the stairs, closed her door and unpacked her suitcase. Nice lying, she thought. Very smooth, although if Craig had heard her he might have revised his opinion of her maturity. Still, she had handled things well. The suitcase gambit had brushed by without parental notice, the missed dinner was forgotten and Jim Bregger no longer had a leg to stand on as far as Mrs. North was concerned.

Now all she had to do was get rid of Bregger and sit on her heels for a day until Craig picked her up. As soon as he did, everything was going to be roses. She knew that as well as she knew her own name.

Because Craig was something special. The difference between a man like Craig and boys like Danny Duncan and Bill Piersall was about the same as the difference between 1949 Beaujolais and the ninth pressing of last year’s California grapes. Craig was a man, not a typical Antrim man who grew stolid and stupid the day he passed twenty-one, but a cosmopolitan type who actually matured and who actually remained young inside. Craig had drive and fire, and Craig appreciated her, and Craig—

She wondered if she was in love with him.

Probably, she decided. Love was a funny word, a tough thing to get hold of. For a stupid while she had imagined herself in love with Danny and as soon as she had shown her love for him he had decided to share her fair white body with the rest of the male half of the senior class. So she was not exactly sure what love was, or whether or not she was ready to think about it.

But she was fairly sure about Craig. She was sure that he knew more than she did, and that he had done more than she had, and that he could make her life worthwhile again. As he had said, she might not go for rides in hotrods any more but Craig’s Mercedes could give Bill’s rod cards and spades and leave it standing at the post. And she had a fair notion that Craig’s parties could do the same for the senior prom.

Well, she was going to have fun now. Of course, Craig expected her to sleep with him, but this did not bother her. You cheapened yourself when you let a high-school boy sleep with you — you only turned yourself into a tramp. But when you slept with a man like Craig Jeffers it was part of being a mature individual in a sophisticated world. She would not feel cheap, not after an affair with Craig. She would feel like a woman.

She finished unpacking her suitcase and went downstairs again. Her father was in the living room, the evening paper in front of his face. He lowered the paper and smiled slightly at her. It was a typical central Ohio smile, she thought. Empty and meaningless and a little silly-looking.

“Hi,” he said. “Ma said you ate over at the Liverpool’s.”

“That’s right.”

“Hungry? There’s some roast left in the fridge.”

“I had plenty to eat, Dad.”

“Well,” he said. “Have a seat, hon.”

She sat down on the flowered couch and he returned to his newspaper. The same thing every night, she thought, with Mom doing dishes and Dad reading the paper. She wondered suddenly if they made love any more. For people that old still to have sex seemed to her somehow indecent. But to think that they might have just given it up seemed even worse.

How horrible to grow too old for it, she thought. Just to sit around and realize that most of life had already passed you by. She wondered just how old you were when you were too old for it. When did you stop wanting and needing it? And when did men stop wanting and needing you?

She tried to imagine her mother, walking alone down a street in another city. Suppose a man saw her, she thought. Would he give her that look? Would he want to have sex with her? Would he think she was still desirable? And what would her mother do if a man made a pass at her? And what would—

I’m being silly, she told herself. She crossed one leg over the other and looked idly at her knee. Did Craig think she had nice legs? Did Craig think she had a nice body?

She sighed. There was some roast beef in the refrigerator, and she was dying of hunger. But she could not go into the kitchen and start gnawing on the roast and still live up to the lie about the wonderful dinner she had just finished packing away at the Liverpool’s. Well, it would not hurt her to miss a meal.

The doorbell rang.

She stood up. Her father had started to fold his newspaper, but she shook her head and walked past him. “It’s for me,” she explained. “A boy.”

“Got a date, Hon?”

“Not exactly,” she said.

When she opened the door, her not-exactly date stood on the stoop with a silly expression on his face. She tried to decide whether he was nervous or excited. It was hard to say.

“Jim—”

“April—”

They had both started talking at once, throwing their names at each other, and now they stopped at once. She looked at him for a second or two, taking him in from his oiled black hair to his scuffed brown loafers. Now, she thought, if she were going to start putting out for the fine young men of Antrim, she could not find a less exciting start than Jim Bregger. Admittedly, the FYM of Antrim were a moldy lot, but Jumping Jim Bregger was the bottom of the barrel.

He was fat. And he had pimples. He was not merely fat — he was jellyfish, with no discernible muscles. And he did not just have pimples — even his pimples had pimples. He was so thoroughly a mass of acne that, when you looked at him, you wanted to squeeze his head.

“April,” he said, “I can’t go out with you tonight.”

That’s right, she thought. You can’t.

But how in the world did he know this fact already? She had not yet opened her mouth, except to spit his name at him.

“I’m sorry,” he went on. “But I can’t go out with you.”

She asked him why he could not. It occurred to her that this was a little like examining the dentures of a gift horse but she just had to know. Maybe his mother would not let him go out with a horny little tramp like her. Maybe—

He said, “Bill Piersall told me.”

Sure, she thought. First Danny Duncan told you, and then Bill Piersall told you. It figures.

“He said you’re — well, his property now. He said he’s dating you steady and everybody better lay off. Stay away, I mean. He said if I kept my date with you tonight he’d scramble my brains for me. That’s what he said, April.”

Jim Bregger’s brains didn’t need scrambling, April thought. They were already poached.

“Wait a minute,” she said suddenly. “Bill told you — that I was his property?”

“That’s what he said.”

“You go tell him he can go to hell,” she said. “You tell Bill Piersall I wouldn’t spit on him if he was dying of thirst. You tell him—”

“You mean you’re not going with him?”

“You’re almost as clever as you are handsome,” she told him. “No, I’m not going with Bill Piersall. Not even to a dog show. Not to a funeral. Not even to his own.”

“But—”

“Bill Piersall,” she said firmly, “can go to hell.”

She looked at Jim. He was shifting his weight from one foot to another while he shifted his wad of chewing gum from one side of his mouth to the other. She wondered if he was testing his coordination or something.

“That means you want to go out with me,” he said.

“Huh?”

“I guess it’s okay then,” he said. “I mean, if Bill was mistaken, what the hell? I mean, we can go out for a ride and park somewhere, and—”

“I’m not going out with you,” she said.

“But—”

“Jim,” she said, “I don’t even like you.”

He stood there with a stupid half-grin on his face until she closed the door. She went back to the living room, sat down once more on the flowered couch. Her father asked her if anything had gone wrong, and she told him nothing had. He went back to his newspaper and she put the television on.

There was nothing good on television. She sat in front of the set for an hour, hardly noticing the program, thinking instead about what Jim had told her. Except for the one small moment of triumph when she had insulted him rather magnificently, the little interlude in the doorway had not gone exactly as she had wished. The word about Bill, for example, was not the most exhilarating news in the world.

So Bill thought she belonged to him, did he? She had let herself belong to him, for a few small moments in a small bed of rumpled leaves, but that had been when she was sure she would never be seeing the bright lights of Antrim again. That had been as much a joke as anything else, and the fact that she had had a certain amount of fun with Bill had been nothing but an extra kick.

But now he thought he owned her. Now, evidently, he had taken the tumble to heart and wanted her for his one and only, to tumble when he so desired. Well, he was due for a rude awakening. He could hop on his noisy hotrod and take a fast trip to hell for himself. She never wanted to see him again.

At nine-thirty she kissed her father and mother goodnight and went upstairs. She flicked on the radio, but the usual diet of rock-and-roll seemed pale in comparison with the subtle jazz Craig had played for her. The rock-and-roll was Danny’s speed, or Bill’s, or Jim Bregger’s. Once it had been hers, but now she was swinging at a fast tempo. Now it took something a little more complex to get to her.

She sat on the edge of her bed, trying to find a good radio station somewhere on the band. The best she could do was hillbilly music, which was not a significant improvement over the rock-and-roll. She turned off the radio and listened to the silence.

It was golden.

Bedtime, the thought. Little girl, you’ve had a busy day. You emptied your savings account, gotten banged in the bushes, met a guy who swept you off both feet at once, and came home with your suitcase between your legs.

Which is plenty for one day.

Besides, she thought, she had to be fresh and wide awake tomorrow. Tomorrow Craig was coming for her, and she had an idea the evening would turn out to be one blazing hell of a time. A good night’s sleep would not hurt.

She went to the bathroom, washed her face, brushed her teeth. Back in her own room, she undressed slowly, hanging her clothes in the closet. She closed the closet door and looked at herself in the mirror. She was still wearing her bra and panties, her shoes and socks.

She kicked off the shoes, rolled down the socks. She reached behind her, forcing her breasts into sharp relief as she drew her shoulders back. She unhooked her bra and dropped it to the floor.

Her breasts were large and perfectly formed. She studied them, remembering the way Craig had looked at them. But he had not really seen them, not as she was seeing them now. He had not put his hands on them and touched them and traced little circles around the ruby tips.

She sighed. She looked at herself, at her own hands gripping her own breasts, and in her mind they turned to Craig’s hands, strong and possessive upon her. She toyed with her nipples until they stood erect and stiff, and she hefted the weight of her breasts, pleased with their perfectly formed fullness. Craig Jeffers, she knew, would like them. Craig would take off her bra to caress them, and Craig would lower his face to kiss them, and—

She shoved her panties down over her hips, past her thighs, until they lay bunched around her ankles. She stepped out of them and looked at herself, completely nude, needing only a man to make the picture complete — a big nude man, like Craig.

Her hands left her breasts and moved downward. She touched herself and her hands thrilled her. Tomorrow, a voice sang in her ear. Tomorrow night, in Craig’s house, in Craig’s bedroom and in Craig’s arms.

She tossed for an hour before she fell asleep. For an hour her hands were Craig’s hands, touching and fondling and exciting... Finally, she slept.

No one woke her in the morning for Saturday was a day of rest and on Saturday she had the right to get up when she wished. She awoke a few minutes after nine but she did not get up just then. Instead she remained snug in her warm bed for almost a full hour, finally emerging from beneath the covers at a quarter to ten. She yawned and stretched like a fat cat before an open fire, feeling the tingling in her body as her arms and legs came to life and prepared for a new day. She hurried down the hall to the bathroom, showered and brushed her teeth, then returned to her room and dressed.

It was a day to do nothing in and accordingly she dressed in an old pair of dungarees and one of her brother’s discarded flannel shirts. She rubber-banded her soft brown hair into a pony tail, put socks and saddle shoes on her feet, and went downstairs for breakfast. Her father was at the drugstore and Link had gone off somewhere with a football under his arm, but her mother was still in the kitchen. She scrambled a pair of eggs for April and poured her a glass of milk.

“Could I have coffee, Mom?”

“I didn’t know you liked it. Something new?”

“Not new,” she said a little defensively. “I just think I’m old enough to drink coffee. That’s all.”

Mrs. North smiled. “Cream and sugar?”

“Black, please.”

The coffee did not taste very good, and she wished she had taken it with cream and sugar. Still, this was the best way to get used to it. And once she was used to it she would probably learn to like it, the way everybody else did.

“Did you have any trouble with that Bregger boy, April?”

“No trouble,” she said. “I just told him I wouldn’t go out with him.”

“That’s the right way, April. Have you a date tonight?”

She only hesitated for a moment. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, Mom, I do.”

“With anybody I know?”

“I don’t think you know him.”

“Oh? Who is he, then?”

“Craig Jeffers.”

Mrs. North pursed her lips thoughtfully. “No,” she said, “I don’t believe I do. He a boy in your class, April?”

“No, he’s not.”

“From Antrim?”

“No,” she said. Then, “From Xenia.” It was not true but it was as close as she could come to the truth. If she told her mother that Craig lived in a big modern house in the middle of the woods, the woman would think she was out of her mind. “From Xenia,” she repeated lamely. “I met him a few days ago.”

“A high-school boy?”

“No,” she said. “No, he’s older, Mom. A few years older than I am.”

“In college?”

“I think he’s through with college, Mom.”

“Are you sure he’s a nice boy, April?”

“Yes,” she said with finality. “He’s a very nice boy, Mother. I wouldn’t go out with him otherwise.”

She finished her coffee in silence, then went out in the back yard to get some sun. It was a good day for Antrim, the sun high and hot, the air clear, the sky cloudless, a gentle breeze blowing. She stretched out on the chaise and almost fell asleep again thinking about Craig.

At twelve her mother called her to the phone. It was Bill Piersall.

“I have to talk to you,” April, he said. “Jim Bregger said you said something to him and I have to talk to you.”

“I don’t have to talk to you,” she said angrily. She hung up on him.

He called back immediately. “April,” he said, “just listen for a minute—”

She hung up on him again.

Ten minutes later she heard his car take the corner of Schwerner Street and gun up Hayes at top speed. There was no missing Bill’s hotrod, a Model A Ford with a late-model Chrysler motor and a LaSalle transmission and Bill had built it himself. He was very proud of it — the rod could outdrag anything else in Antrim. As far as April was concerned, he could take the thing and drive it off a cliff.

She sighed, stood up and walked down the driveway to the front yard. She might as well talk to him, she thought. Otherwise he would only keep annoying her. This way she could get rid of him once and for all.

She got to the front yard just as he was piling out of the car. He hurried over to her, a strange expression on his face. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Damn it, I just don’t get it.”

“There’s nothing much to get,” she told him. “I don’t want to have anything to do with you. Period. Isn’t that simple enough for you to understand?”

He stared at her. She looked at him, mentally comparing him with Craig. Actually there was no comparison at all. He was a boy and Craig was a man, and that was all there was to it. He bore the same relationship to Craig that his silly hotrod bore to Craig’s Mercedes.

“April,” he said, “would you like to go for a ride?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Listen, we have to talk. You don’t understand.”

“I understand,” she said sweetly. “You laid me yesterday and you can’t get over it. Well, I can, Bill. I’m completely over it, and I’d just as soon not see you again. So hop in your car and—”

“April,” he said. “Jesus, you don’t understand. April, I don’t think you’re just another girl to lay and forget about. Maybe Danny felt that way but I’m not Danny. April, I want to talk to you and go places with you and spend time with you and get to know you. Do you know what I’m trying to say?”

“I don’t really care.”

His eyes blazed. “I’m trying to say that I’m in love with you, April.”

She sighed. “That’s interesting,” she said. “Very interesting. Now get in your car and go away, Bill.”

“Listen—”

“I listened. I’m not interested.”

“Damn it, did I do something? If I did, tell me about it. I just don’t get you, April.”

“That’s it exactly.”

“Huh?”

“You just don’t get me,” she said. “Now go away, Bill. I’ll see you around, if I can’t help myself.”

He ground the gears, raced the motor, and left a patch of rubber on the street. She looked at it and laughed. Then she returned to the yard and stretched out in the sun.