Chapter Four

It was Thursday, the week of the Tri Epsilon housewarming party, and the leaves on the trees along the streets of Cranston were the way they are in October. Mitch stood in the entrance to Jacob Hall, glancing nervously at her watch, moving up and down from the top step to the second step.

“Sorry, Sue,” Charlie said when he arrived. “Professor Rudolph got talking after class and I couldn’t get away from him.”

“We haven’t got time for a Coke. I have to get back to the house this afternoon.”

They walked along the path to the street while Mitch explained that all pledges had to assist in decorating the house for the party on Saturday. As soon as she had said it, she felt a sudden surge of embarrassment sweep through her. It had been three weeks now that she had been going for Cokes after class with Charlie. He had asked her to go to a movie one Tuesday evening, but the Tri Epsilon pledge study-hall system had started, and pledges could not date on week nights.

“It’s just sort of a housewarming,” she said, hoping it sounded unimportant and dull. Charlie scuffed his feet near the end of the sidewalk where there was a space between the ground and the asphalt. “Could I walk you on home?”

“Certainly.”

Kitten Clark passed them as they turned and she said hello to Mitch and looked at Charlie with a flat expression in her eyes. She had seen Mitch with him before, and she knew that he was an independent. His awkwardness, the plain, loose-fitting clothes, and the conspicuous absence of a fraternity pin pointed out the fact. As yet it was not a matter of concern to Tri Epsilon, because Mitch had not had a week-end date with him, or with anyone else since the trouble with Roberts. On Saturday she would emerge from the cocoon for the housewarming and the date with Bud. It was a complete enigma to Kitten why Roberts even bothered. Perhaps to save face, and more to prove that no girl could hit and run. Not him. She thought of the silverware that Mother Nessy had promised Tri Epsilon if they pledged Susan, and hoped they would have it in time for the buffet dinner on Saturday.

“How come you aren’t driving?”

Mitch hardly heard his question after they had passed Kitten. She was thinking that Kitten would want to know who the boy was and what house he belonged to. She wondered vaguely what Jane Bell would say; if she would say that it was just as easy to have a Coke and walk home with a fraternity man after class, and that it was preferable.

“Independents aren’t lepers,” she had told the pledge class at their last meeting, “but fraternity men are preferable.”

There were fraternity men in all of Mitch’s classes—suave, confident young men whose loafered feet stretched out in the aisles, and whose bold guffaws echoed after the profs’ jokes. They had names like Grey Gregg and Big Tom D. and Rabbit Man and they sat in clumps together. There was something different about them, Mitch thought, something that was not neutral but cold and hot as they willed in their way with others.

“I said, how come you don’t have your car in the lot today?”

“Leda borrowed it. She had to pick up some equipment downtown.”

“Your roommate?”

“Yes.”

“If I had a car, I guess I’d be afraid to let people borrow it. Maybe not. Hard to tell when you’re as far from having a car as I am.”

“Leda’s careful.”

“Must be going to be a big old party at your house Saturday.”

“Pretty big.”

“Just girls?”

“No,” Mitch said. “Boys and girls.”

“I was going to—I have this job downtown at Messer’s Drugstore. Usually work week ends. That’s why I haven’t been able to ask you out. I was going to ask you out Saturday, but—”

They cut across Swampcot Street and waited for the light to change. “Will you ask me some other week end?” Mitch said as they walked on.

“Sure.”

“Because I have a date Saturday.”

When they reached the circular walk to the Tri Epsilon house, Charlie said good-by and handed Mitch the French book he was carrying for her, and he said after he said good-by, “Be good, Sue.”

The Tri Eps were busy trimming the entrance to the dining room in pink and blue streamers and Robin Maurer was polishing the mirror in the hall. She paused when Mitch entered the hall.

“Get lost,” she advised. “They got work around here that would scare an elephant.”

“Looks good. Who’s your date, Robin?”

“Some blockhead. I’ve seen him once. Looks like those prehistoric men in our Soc books.”

“You know who mine is.”

“Yes,” Robin said, wringing out the cloth, “I know. Marsha gave me a little lecture too, all about bowing and scraping to Sig Delt. I don’t know, though. She’s the only one in this bunch I trust.”

“Hey,” Jane Bell called to Mitch. “Change your clothes and pitch in here. We need some work done in the basement if Mother Nessy lets us use it Saturday.”

At a previous Tri Epsilon party, a fraternity man had spent his entire evening and half of the following day on the moth-eaten divan behind the ping-pong table in the Tri Ep cellar. He was very drunk and it had happened last year and Mother Nesselbush had been called on by the Dean of Women to explain the incident. Since then, the basement was termed “off limits” for house parties. This year there was a skinny hope that it would not be a restricted area.

The hope died shortly after Mitch changed into a pair of jeans and headed off in the direction of the back steps. There, congregated in a small mass, Tri Eps faced Mother Nessy. Her answer was a very adamant no, supplemented with the viewpoint that basements encouraged extravagant necking, liquor drinking, which was forbidden, and other “things.”

Leda heard them arguing back there when she drove Mitch’s car in the drive and pulled the packages out. She set them down in the living room and went upstairs. As she took her worn green suede coat off and tossed the matching beret to the top of the closet, she noticed the yellow paper on Mitch’s desk. It was Marsha’s paper. Marsha had reams of this paper, pale lemon-colored onionskin with a small silver initial at the top. The third time this week, Leda realized. Whenever Mitch could not be found, she was down in the suite helping Marsha, or in the evening after closing hours, making cinnamon toast in the kitchen with Marsha, or listening to records with Marsha in the living room. Irritated, Leda glanced at the scrawled words on the yellow paper:

“Want to help me trim the side hall for the party? I’ll meet you there when you’re changed. Love, Marsh.”

“Good God!” Leda said aloud. “Trimming the side hall with Marsh. What a great big fat kick that is!”

She stretched out on the bed and shut her eyes. In a persistent, conscious dream, Jake was beside her, his hands on her, her ears filled with the harsh profane words he used. Then, in that crazy state of half awareness, she projected herself into Jake’s ways and saw Mitch, large and muscular, but less strong than Leda, who held onto her. Suddenly she heard the footsteps in the hall and Mitch appeared, shaking the dream, chattering noisily about the decorations, how Marsha had helped her with her French assignment, and what Mother Nessy had said about the basement.

“Mitch,” Leda said, breaking in, “who’s the guy?”

“What?”

“They say you’re hanging around with some guy after classes.”

“Oh, Charlie. He’s in a couple of my classes.”

“Like him?”

“Sure.”

Leda blew the smoke from her cigarette toward the ceiling. Mitch thought it was time now for the harangue on independents if Leda knew, and if not, it would be time after she asked and knew then.

“Why don’t you ask him to come Saturday? Tell Roberts to go jump and ask him.”

“I can’t. Marsha asked me to do this. Leda, you know why I had to ask Roberts.”

“That’s Marsha’s idea. Listen, kid, don’t be pushed around. Marsha could have settled it some other way.”

“But I thought,” Mitch said, confused, “I thought it was the only choice I had. I don’t understand you now, Leda.”

“You understand Marsha, apparently.”

Mitch sat down on the bed and tried to reason why Leda was afraid again, almost as she had been that night. Weeks had passed and Leda had seemed aloof and busy, with Jake all the time, and tired in the evening. Now this, and Leda was angry.

“Charlie is an independent,” Mitch said, “so he wouldn’t be a good date to bring anyway.”

“Charlie?”

“The boy you said I should ask instead of Roberts.”

Leda searched in the bookcase for her Spanish text, and finding it, she grabbed her coat. “I’ve got work to do,” she said. “I can’t think about it all the time. Do you hear me, Mitch? I can’t think about it all the time!”

Mitch didn’t say anything.

“Marsha! I’m so sick of hearing that girl’s name. You think she’s God, don’t you? You think that girl is God?”

Mitch reached in the drawer beside her bed and found the nail polish. She was wearing it regularly now, bright red, and her nails were growing long and tapered.

Leda stood before her waiting for an answer but it did not come. She said, “I thought you were my friend. I thought you cared about me because no one else had ever given a damn. No friend. Jake cares for his own damn reasons and Jan doesn’t care. The two J’s in my life. J for junk. But I thought you gave a damn and I ran around pouring my heart out telling you things. Then you run to Marsha when you have a problem and you do what Marsha says.”

“I haven’t.” Mitch’s voice cracked. “I talk to her because she’s president.”

“President! President of what? Of the world? Of the United States of America? I laugh my fool head off at her being president.”

“I don’t know what to say, Leda. I don’t know why you’re mad all of a sudden.”

Leda shook her head and walked out of the room, slamming the door. She walked down the hall and the steps and out the door to the street, and she knew why it was this way. She knew. Before she had thought she knew, and she had erased it like a pencil mark on a sheet of new paper. It came back. And Susan Mitchell, of all those it might have been, and the way she was, like a baby.

Mitch watched her from the window until she was out of sight. Across the street the Delta Pi’s were staging a song practice on their side lawn. In even rows of more than a dozen, they faced their white-flanneled leader and sang out in fine, gruff voices. They were singing the Cranston football team’s “Fight Song,” and listening to them, Mitch thought that this was the way she had pictured college. This singing, and the fall leaves outside, and the hazy questions in her mind about the French translation and the English composition, and no Leda or Bud Roberts—nothing like that. Still, there were Leda’s eyes, and the deep blue tinge of hurt that had shown when she left like that.

* * *

The housewarming was to begin immediately after the football game, and that Saturday afternoon the Tri Eps had gone in a body to the stadium. It was the first home game of the year, and tradition brought together the fervid assemblage of fraternity brothers and sorority sisters in solid blocks throughout the grandstands. To Mitch, it was a bewitching spectacle, with the lively mass of people and the beat of the drums in the uniformed band parading down the field. Robin Maurer sat beside her. Of all the pledges, Robin was the one whom Mitch knew and liked best. The others seemed to be absorbed into the whole, with no particular individual traits of their own. Sissy Callahan and Bebe Duncan and Jett Duquette and Travis King, all somehow alike, with the same neutrality toward you as the fraternity men’s. Most of them wore their hair long, curled loosely, their faces tinted with the popular liquid powder base they all used. Their arms were caparisoned with silver bracelets, and their shoes varied only from loafers to saddle shoes and saddle shoes to loafers and they called everyone darling. That was together. Alone, there was Sissy’s brother who flew transatlantic flights and had been married four times. Bebe Duncan’s father was an author and his books were dedicated always “To B. and Bebe,” because her mother’s name was Beatrice. Jett Duquette was named after the race horse her uncle made his first million on. And Travis King had false teeth, which only made her more beautiful and which she talked about, often, in mixed company.

They sat there, too, with Robin and Mitch. But Robin was the one that counted. When the whistle blew and the football sailed off in the air, Mitch leaned forward and drank in the movements on the field below. The cheering and the songs and the tense moments near the goal line caught her up and carried her with them. Once Leda turned around from the row down in front of her and winked at Mitch. She saw the excitement on Mitch’s face, the red, ruddy look to her cheeks, and the eyes shining as though she had fever. Mitch was happy then. It was their first exchange after yesterday’s quarrel. There was something in the look that meant, “All right, it’s all right,” and Leda was beautiful, looking up like that and laughing.

During the half Marsha called down to Mitch and Robin to come up and sit with her. She was munching a hot dog, and some of the boys from Delta Pi had crawled under the ropes and were standing there chatting with her. Mitch and Robin scrambled up and joined them, and they met Ted and Lucifer, the two Delta Pis. When the band struck up the “Fight Song,” the five of them roared out the words, and Mitch laughed at the way Lucifer sang, deep and loud like a bass drum.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re laughing at me.”

The whistle blew and she sat down beside him for the next quarter. “I’ve seen you somewhere before,” he said, “somewhere that smells vaguely of formaldehyde.”

“Gosh,” Mitch exclaimed, “that’s right! Lab! You’re in my zoology lab.”

“No, no!” He smiled, tipping his black and gold fraternity cap. “You’re in my zoology lab. Remember, I am Lucifer.”

Mitch saw Leda looking back, searching for her, craning her neck and peering over the heads of the others to the seats Robin and Mitch had deserted. Mitch did not know why she leaned down and pretended to tie her shoe, so that Leda wouldn’t see her. She did not know why, but she knew that it was better. Better not to have her see.

“Walk you home,” Lucifer said, after the game was won and elated students jumped about in the bleachers, hugging one another and singing out in husky choruses. “You’re a neighbor, that’s why. I only walk neighbors home. Hate foreigners from other streets.”

Lucifer jabbered on about nothing and Mitch liked him. He was a short boy with huge thick glasses and an unbelievably short haircut. Mitch was taller than he was and he would not let her forget it, but the way he joked and the way he talked charmed Mitch.

“You’re taller,” he said, “and so you undoubtedly consider your length a blight on your whole day. Because why? Because Lucifer said he would walk you home. Because Lucifer is very tiny and prefers that his women be very tiny. And furthermore because you have a feeling you are going to fall madly in love with Lucifer. But never mind. Lucifer has a soul. It is very possible that he will make a little room in his life for you from time to time.”

Mitch laughed. “Thanks,” she said. “Any time you want me to reach up and hammer a nail in that’s over your head....”

“My dear girl,” Lucifer said, “a much funnier way of saying the same thing would have been to say, ‘Call me when you can’t reach the hatrack.’ You see? Something simpler than what you said, though much the same essence.”

Outside the Tri Epsilon house, cars were lined up and horns were blowing. The chairs on the lawn were filling up with young men, and Tri Eps were hurrying up the walk to join them.

“I understand you’re warming your house tonight,” Lucifer said. “Some of our boys were invited.”

“Yes. I’m sorry you won’t be here.”

“Then ask me.”

Mitch laughed. “I have a date, Lucifer.”

“Where?”

“I don’t see him now,” Mitch said, looking the crowd over, “but he’ll be here.”

“Well, I tell you what. I’ll wait with you until he comes. It’ll be O.K. Tell him I’m your brother. Tell him I’m a gnome. He won’t care. And when he comes, poof! Disappearing act.”

She hesitated, but realized it was no use. Lucifer was determined. Together they made their way up to the porch, and Mitch went in to get him a glass of punch. On her way to the kitchen she met Marsha, and she explained that Lucifer had insisted on staying until Bud came. Marsha smiled and answered that she couldn’t see how it would hurt anything. Then Mitch rejoined Lucifer and waited for Bud to come.

At seven o’clock Lucifer said, “It was a very delicious buffet, my little gazelle. Ah, your date—he’s coming tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Mitch said, thinking of the humiliation of being stood up, of having Lucifer here to witness it, and Tri Eps passing with their dates, looking to see if Mitch and Bud were getting along well, and Bud not there at all.

“You don’t seem distressed.”

“I’m not, really. I don’t like it, of course. But I don’t care for him either.”

Lucifer said, “But he’s tall. I suppose he’s very, very tall.”

“Quite tall, yes. Taller than I am.”

“Ah, me,” Lucifer sighed. “Vanity. Vanity, vanity.”

Inside the group was singing “My Gal Sal.” Mitch shivered, and thought about forgetting the housewarming and going up to bed, or taking Lucifer inside and forgetting Bud. Then, to punctuate her thoughts, there was a sharp voice: “Hey, Susan Mitchell!”

Bud Roberts was coming up the walk, carrying a box under his arm, smiling and talking in a loud voice. “Hi there. I know I’m late.”

“Bright boy,” Lucifer said, rising, bowing, and moving away. “A commanding personality, that boy!” he said as he walked toward the sidewalk.

“Who’s that?”

“Lucifer. I don’t know his last name.” Mitch didn’t stand up or look up at him. Inside she was seething with anger.

“Look, let me explain it. I was late for a good reason.”

“Yes?”

“I wanted to get you just the right kind of flower,” he said, tearing the ribbon off the box and presenting her with an orchid. A brown orchid. Mitch stared. She stood up and stepped back from the flower, as though it would shatter if she were to go near it. It was beautiful.

“Forgive me?” he asked.

Mitch nodded.

“For everything, I mean, for everything! Let’s make this a peace offering.”

She took his arm after he pinned the orchid on, and they went into the house, where couples were dancing on the dining-room floor, which had been cleared of the tables.

“Got any punch?” Bud asked, and she led him back to the kitchen. He pulled a leather flask from his back pocket. “I want a shot in mine,” he said. “How about you?”

“Put it away, Bud! It’s not allowed.”

Bud Roberts threw his head back and laughed. He reached for Mitch’s hands and he said, “You know what? You’re the first really innocent girl I’ve ever met. You’re really innocent, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “but I know liquor isn’t allowed.”

Kitten Clark and her date rushed into the kitchen. They were howling over something and Kitten grabbed his head and bit his ear. “Take that,” she said, “and let it be a lesson.” Bud offered them a drink, and Mitch felt the blood rise in her head when she saw Kitten pour a large shot into her punch glass. Kitten sensed Mitch’s shock, and she said, “Look, it’s O.K. as long as Nessy doesn’t get wise. So take it easy.” Her date took a straight swig from the bottle, and laughing again, they left the kitchen door swinging back and forth behind them.

“Here,” Bud said. “I’ll give you a light shot. This doesn’t taste bad, like beer. You won’t get sick.”

Tired of being wrong all the time, Mitch let him “fix” her punch, and they joined the others. Marsha beamed at Bud and came rushing over to him, holding his hand for minutes after she shook it, smiling and saying nice things. Then others came—Jane Bell and Skip and Mother Nessy and, at last, Leda.

“Hi,” she said to Roberts, Jake standing beside her, a sly, lopsided grin on his face. Roberts shook their hands and when he held Leda’s he did something to make Leda pull her hand away, and wipe it on her skirt and sneer at him half-smiling. “You never forget.”

“Like an elephant,” he said, “just like an elephant.”

“Someday you’re going to forget and you won’t have any personality. You’ll be a dope without your dirty jokes and your coy gestures.”

Mitch shuddered to think what would follow, but Bud Roberts only stuck his hands in his pockets and looked admiringly at Leda. “You’re the only girl who can deliver an insult,” he said, “and still be a duchess. A mean duchess, though.”

Jake took Leda’s arm. “Cool off, Roberts,” he said. “Cut your line, or pull your bait in.”

Bud and Mitch danced and she found him easy to talk to and friendly. He kept getting her more punch, and each time putting a little more whisky in the glass, and telling her it was all right and that she wouldn’t feel it. But she did. She felt light and happy and once or twice she touched his arm and said something complimentary to him. She said, “You’re nice, Bud,” and “You know, you look very nice tonight, Bud.” He squeezed her close when they were dancing and she could feel his warm breath near her ears. She thought that their misunderstanding was a foolish, silly thing and that they had never understood one another until now. Now she was the lady her father wanted her to be and this was the ball and Bud Roberts was a gentleman.

The orchestra that Tri Epsilon had hired was a small combo that played half an hour out of every hour. Then they staged a gala intermission, during which the orchestra members raced to the kitchen to refuel themselves with many bottles of assorted liquors. Mother Nessy permitted the musicians to have “alcoholic refreshments,” so there could be no suspicion on her part if she were to enter the kitchen and see a young man pouring a drink. He was merely “servicing” the hired musicians. During intermission there were scores of young men occupied this way.

“That kitchen’s a mess,” Roberts said, “and the porch is jammed. How about sitting in your car?”

Mitch felt lively and excited and she said, “Yes, that’d be fun.”

When he kissed her she did not mind the kiss. She snuggled up close to him and laughed at nothing.

“You feel good, don’t you?” he said.

“Yes.”

He kissed her again, and this time her mouth was forced open and she was hurt from his teeth and she drew back.

“Listen,” he said, “you’ve never been kissed much that way, have you?”

“No.”

“Let me show you something,” he said. “Let me show you how nice it can be.”

The back door of the car opened and Marsha stood there with her date, a large, happy-looking boy. “Can we sit this out with you?” she said. “Every place is filled.”

Marsha’s date was Ken, and he impersonated professors and they laughed for a while, but Bud did not laugh enthusiastically. Ken heard the music when it started, later, after they had talked together, and Marsha said, “Well, let’s all go back. There’s going to be a pinning. Jim Keeler is going to pin Kitten tonight.”

A huge circle formed in the dining room and Jim Keeler stood in the center, his arm around Kitten’s waist. From the side lines, Mother Nessy beamed as the girls sang the “Sweetheart Song.” When it was finished, the orchestra played “I Love You Truly,” and Jim pinned his large fraternity pin on Kitten’s bosom. Then they danced and the others joined in.

“C’mon,” Bud said to Mitch, “let’s get some punch in the kitchen.”

The kitchen was empty and Bud poured a large shot of whisky into Mitch’s drink. “Susan Mitchell,” he said, holding his glass high, “the picture of innocence.”

The taste was gone and Mitch drank easily. Bud came to her and kissed her and his hand went down to her skirt. “No,” he said when she started to squirm away, “just wait a minute. Wait a minute now, Susan Mitchell, just let me alone for a minute. Feels good, doesn’t it?” he said, and Susan Mitchell shut her eyes and the room was going around in grand yellow and red circles. He helped her down the steps and it was still and musty, but he talked all the way. When he found the light switch, he turned it on once and then off again quickly. He led her over to the couch near the ping-pong table.

“You’re sweet,” he said, his hand working the buttons on her blouse, pulling it gently from her shoulders, kissing her. “You’re sweet, Susan.”

Very softly, almost too softly for her to hear her own words, she said, “No,” but her eyes saw the circles and there was a new feeling in her body when he touched her and she could feel her clothes being pulled.

“No,” she said. “No, please, no!”

Then swiftly, suddenly, and with terrific pain, she felt pressure and her eyes opened wide and she would have screamed but his hand covered her mouth and he struck her hard.

“Shut up,” he said. “You wanted to know. You wanted this, Miss Virgin.”

For a long time she was down in the mire of pitch black and the quicksand sucking her in and her whole head dizzy and the pain. Then it was over and she could feel him kneeling beside her, his head on her breasts, his breath coming hard. When she stood up, she hung onto the table and her head throbbed and spun. He got up too and turned the light switch on and she saw him looking at her.

“Better get your clothes on,” he said, “and get upstairs with me.”

Her voice was not her own. “You go to hell,” she said. “You go to hell.”

“Come on,” he said. “Get your clothes on.”

She did not cry. She reached for her things, scattered there on the floor, the brown orchid squashed beside the couch, everything strewn. He turned his back and ran his fingers through his hair, and then he turned around and she was dressed, walking toward him with dead eyes, swerving slightly from side to side.

“Listen,” he said. “That’s ‘Good Night, Ladies.’ It’s the last dance.”

She moved past him toward the cellar steps. He caught her arm and she stopped and did not look at him.

“I’ll go out the side door,” he said. “Look, take a hot bath. You’re not hurt. Go up and take a hot bath and keep your mouth shut. Look, you’re all right. Don’t act this way.”

When he let her go, she walked up the cellar steps and up the back steps to the second floor and her room. There was no one up there. They were all finishing the last dance. She lay on the bed, her eyes shut, and the circles came back, but they were black now and she was very cold.

Leda found her like that when she came in the room, threw her coat on the chair, and let her arms reach out in a wide yawn.

“What’s the trouble?” she said.

Mitch did not move. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, her lips parted, a gray-white color to her face, and she did not answer.

“You sick?”

She put her hand on Mitch’s forehead. “Roberts,” she said. “What did Roberts do to you? Did you fight? Talk to me, kid. Please tell me.”

Mitch started. Her feet touched the floor and moved toward the door. She shut it hard and turned toward Leda.

“He did it to me,” she said slowly. “He did it to me in the basement. I feel—horrible.”

Outside there was singing, men’s voices coming clearly, singing, “Dream girl, dream girl, you are a frat man’s dream girl,” in rich, deep tones. Mitch held her head and sat next to Leda.

“That goddamn bastard,” Leda said. “That no-good damn bastard!”

Mitch said, “When he came over tonight, I thought—he was sorry and he liked me and—” She could not finish, or cry or scream as she wanted to, and Leda’s cursing jarred her and teased her.

“Kid, listen. Can you hear me? Don’t say anything about this. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t tell anyone what happened in the cellar. The basement was off limits, and you’ve been drinking. God, it isn’t your fault! God knows that. But honey—no one cares when a rule is broken. They don’t care. Can you straighten out? Do you want me to get a wet rag for your head?”

“He said to take a hot bath. He said—”

“He would! A hell of a lot a man knows. Take a hot bath!”

“Leda, what’s wrong with me? How did—”

Leda said, “Don’t try to talk, kid,” and she helped the girl take her clothes off. She said, “It’s all right now. You’re O.K. now. You’ll feel better after you sleep.”

The voices outside were singing in a lively chorus, singing fast and clear:

Leda helped Mitch into her bed, and stripping, slipping into white silk pajamas, Leda crawled in beside her after flicking the light off. She put her arms around Mitch.

“It’s a lousy break, kid. It shouldn’t have happened to you. Marsha should have known better.”

“I’m afraid, Leda. Will I have a—what if I’m pregnant? I can’t even think. I wish I wasn’t here or alive or anything.”

“Everything will be O.K., Mitch honey. Let me stroke your back gently. I know how men are, Mitch. I know how rough they are. Mitch, does my hand feel good?”

“Yes.”

“Jake is rough too. You get sick of it. You get sick of them pawing you around as if you were an animal. Men don’t understand. They’re tough and they don’t care what they do to you. I know, honey. I’ve been through it and I don’t know why I go back, except that it just—You have to. Jan always thinks if you don’t have a man hanging around that you’re abnormal or something. Mitch, you don’t know what I’m talking about, I know. I talk like an idiot, Mitch. But I like to touch you. I die when I think of that Roberts bastard laying a hand on you. Listen, kid, I never felt about a person the way I feel about you. You’re different. I want to keep the damn world away from you, so it won’t kick you in the teeth the way it has me. You’re special, Mitch, and as long as I’m alive, you’re going to be O.K. I mean it.”

Long after Mitch was asleep, Leda’s hands stroked her arms, and Leda lay there, hoping the evening would stay and never let morning come, for now there was a restless peace in her, akin to finding something that was lost, and yet something that had never been hers before.

* * *

Up on the hill overlooking the towers and the town, there in an alcove, the Sigma Delta house was bright with lights and young men laughing. In the living room downstairs, faces were awake with lively talk and collars were open at the neck, with the ties hanging freely and the coats unbuttoned. A few of the boys kicked off their shoes and leaned back luxuriously in the deep chairs and couches. Others were coming through the front door in groups of twos and threes, and in the corner a radio played a late disc-jockey show from Louisville. At the card table, four fellows began a poker game, and one stood near them, holding a glass, discussing the evening, telling about the bad roads near Cranston Creek and the way “Gloria’s no fool, you know. She takes real precautions. That’s what I mean about her acting older than the rest of these coeds.”

On the third floor, in the room with the banners and the signs and the skeleton hanging from the hatrack, Bud Roberts sat with a bottle and his roommate, Clive McKenzie, and Jake was there too. Bud was talking about it. About the way the girl had looked afterward, and how he felt, and their faces were serious and interested.

He said, “It was the first time I ever got such a creepy feeling. Now, I’ve fooled around a lot. Plenty. But I never got such a creepy feeling.”

Clive McKenzie crushed his cigarette on the floor. “Yeah, I know what you mean. One time I had a virgin and after she—”

“Listen,” Roberts yelled. “Listen, I’m telling you it wasn’t like that! You don’t know what the hell I’m telling you. I’m so goddamn drunk I don’t know what I’m telling you either. But this girl—she was like my dog at home after I kick her when I don’t mean to but I lose my temper. Ever kick your dog and see his eyes? She was like that. I never—”

“What the hell, Roberts. You asked for it. You said you were going to make her. I don’t know why you wanted to bother with the girl anyway. She’s built like a barn. You knew it. Jesus, what the hell! You want us to cry in our beer over your mess? God, what an act!”

Jake took a swig from the bottle and coughed. “Do I yell around here over troubles I got? And troubles I have got. You make me sick sometimes.”

“All right, shut up! Shut up!” Roberts yelled, standing up quickly. “We got a pledge in this room. Shut up, Jake, you damn fool!”

“You brought it up. You brought the thing up, for God’s sake. What do you want?”

“I want you to shut up about it now,” Roberts answered, lurching toward Jake and grabbing his shirt. He raised his arm to swing it out at Jake and Jake caught it, twisting it back until Roberts was on his knees.

“Break it up, fellows,” Clive ventured in a scared tone, stopping short when Jake let Bud free. Jake looked at Bud kneeling there and his anger softened. He said, “G’night, Clive, Bud. I’m going to bed. Get some sleep, men!”

When he said “men,” Clive knew that it was all right then. He watched Jake go and he turned his back on Roberts. He took his toothpaste and his brush and he swung a towel over his shoulder. Whistling weakly, he left the room and walked down the hall in the direction of the bathroom.

After the door shut, Bud dragged himself up on the bed. He sat there, pulling his ear and looking hard at the floor. With his fist, he hit his head hard. Then he stood up.

“Hey, you party-poopers,” he called out hoarsely, “where the hell did you go? It’s only one-thirty, for God’s sake! Hey, you four-legged bastards, come back and finish the bottle!”

* * *

The light sound woke Leda. Beside her, Mitch tossed restlessly, a pulsating whimpering rising inside her.

“Mitch, are you all right?”

She opened her eyes and looked at Leda. The room was not dark, early lights of dawn casting a rusty hue over everything, and the wind from the open window was mild and steady.

“I was dreaming. What time is it?”

“About five.”

“I was having an awful dream. Bud Roberts and—”

“Don’t,” Leda said, her arm catching the girl’s waist. Mitch turned on her side, facing Leda, feeling the hand rub her back. It was quiet and warm. Leda moved her hand forward and ran her fingers lightly over the buttons on Mitch’s pajama top. Then, gently, she slipped the round, plastic buttons from their loops, leaving the coat open. Almost as if Mitch knew what would follow, she held the top of the sheet back while Leda moved down and lightly kissed Mitch’s breasts. A soft sigh broke free from Mitch’s throat and evolved into a plaintive cry. Leda pulled herself up and her lips found Mitch’s and crushed them, burning and moist.

“Mitch,” Leda whispered, and they held each other fast and hard. “Mitch.”