It was just then that Jimmy Shotridge walked up behind her, carrying a highball glass.
Dawn could tell it was Jimmy Shotridge from the way he breathed, standing there behind her. Jimmy Shotridge was a freshman at the University of Illinois, and was the only son and heir of Parkman’s oldest and biggest real estate office. Dawn had had a number of dates with him her junior year, when he was still a senior, and the following summer before he went off to school, at the same time she was going out with Wally Dennis. That was how she knew the way he breathed; she had allowed him to neck with her some after dates and she would know that breathing anywhere. Also, he used a well known cologne—a particular scent which some girls seemed to like, but which she herself detested.
Because she had let him neck with her, Jimmy Shotridge apparently had decided she was seducible, and consequently had tried to seduce her all during the previous summer. This had caused her very little trouble, however. All she had to do was sharpen her voice, when he tried to put his hand under her coat, and say something like, “Now you stop that, Jimmy Shotridge!” and he would recoil like a man who had placed his hand on a hot stove burner, and then mumble something like, “Stop what? I ain’t doing nothing.” To this, she need only compose her face into lines of indignation, and he would collapse back under the wheel in silence, and that attempt would be over for a while. She did not often let him off that hook.
He would really be almost pathetic, if he wasn’t such a goofball. If sex meant as much to him as it seemed to, why did he have to act like a guilty peasant about it? Certainly, when she did give up her virginity, Dawn thought, it was going to be to a lover who was a hell of a lot more forceful and less shamefaced than Jimmy Shotridge. Undeniably, there were times when she was not above holding off longer than usual, until he almost got there, before she sharpened her voice and told him to stop. And she really shouldn’t do that to him— But if he wasn’t such a goofball, and didn’t ask for it so much, she probably wouldn’t have.
It had been along toward the end of the summer that—after another of her sharp-voiced rebuffs—that Shotridge, instead of sitting back in silence, had suddenly begun to pour out a stream of incoherent choked words the general sense of which, she finally figured out, was that he was in love with her and wanted her to marry him. He had been in love with her for years, in fact, he said. It dawned on her finally that he was proposing to her. It was Dawn’s first proposal, and it both flattered and chagrined her. She had always thought of a proposal as being different from this; sort of more, well, more formalized. Since then however she had had two others, neither from Wally Dennis, and had learned—if her sharpened actress’s intuition was any judge—that proposals apparently almost always came at the most unplanned-for moment, usually moments of strong emotion of some kind or other.
At the time, she had felt that Shotridge was merely using this proposal of his as a way of getting closer to her, and she immediately had refused it. Nevertheless, he had brought it up again, shortly before he went off to school at Illinois. She had refused this, too, explaining kindly that her ambitions as an actress would probably never leave her time to marry, and that that was just one of the many many things she would have to forego.
Of course, Shotridge already knew of her ambitions. All during her junior year, and the summer in between, and now during her senior year, he had dutifully come to every play production and musical and declamation contest she was in. He really was a sweet pathetic thing, if only he wasn’t such a goofball!
And now here he stood, behind her, breathing that peculiar slow, heated breathing of his and exuding the disagreeable smell of that cologne. She hadn’t even known he was in town. He must have skipped some classes so he could start his Christmas vacation a couple of days early.
Standing before the dime machine, she put another dime in the slot and pulled the handle as if she did not know he was there.
“Hello, Dawnie,” Jimmy Shotridge said.
“Hello, Shotridge,” she said without taking her eyes off the two last spinning reels. “How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” he said. “I—”
“Oh! Three oranges!” Dawn, who a moment before had been bored, cried enthusiastically, and bent to scoop out her winnings. It wasn’t any three grapes or three bells, she thought, but it still would put her almost two bucks ahead when added to her other pays. She suddenly felt very high and very lucky, and just knew she could hit the half-dollar jackpot.
“I thought you all might be out here at the Club tonight,” Jimmy Shotridge said from behind her.
Still holding her new dimes, Dawn turned around to him, her faced composed. “Shotridge,” she said, “you’re bothering my playing. I can’t expect to make any money if I can’t concentrate. Now, what is it?” She looked at him, fingering the dimes, and trying not to show how irritated he had made her feel by disturbing her.
“Well, gee,” Jimmy said (he had stopped swearing in front of her since he had proposed), “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just— You know—”
Dawn waited, composed and patient, for him to get done.
Instead, he merely looked at her, and then shrugged. “You know what I mean,” he explained, his eyes wide and looking like a guilty-faced hound dog which had wet on the floor. “God, but you sure look lovely tonight, Dawnie,” he said, looking shamefaced as if he were afraid she might guess what he was really thinking—as if she didn’t already know.
“You really think so?” Dawn said, looking down at herself. This outfit did show her off fairly well. “It’s just an old outfit I’ve had for years,” she said. “You’ve seen it a thousand times before, Shotridge.”
Looking relieved, Jimmy Shotridge’s face broke into a broad grin. “Maybe so,” he said, “but you never looked this da—durned beautiful in it.”
“No, not really,” Dawn said. “Not in this old thing. But guess what Daddy’s getting me for Christmas? A whole brand-new formal outfit. And guess what, Shotridge: It’s a Dior original!”
Jimmy Shotridge looked as though he was not sure what to say to this. “Well, gee! That’s swell, Dawnie!” he said anxiously.
“He doesn’t know I know about it,” Dawn said. “But I saw the bill on his desk at home,” she grinned.
“Well, gee, Dawnie! That’s swell!” Jimmy said again. Then as if with a sudden colossal inspiration, he wiggled the highball glass in his hand. “Do you want a drink, Dawnie?”
Dawn looked at the glass. “What are you drinking?”
“A whiskey highball,” Jimmy Shotridge said. “Dad had Old Les the pro fix it for me. I’ll get you one if you want,” he offered. “This is my third. Dad told Old Les to let me have anything I wanted,” he said, jerking his head back toward the bar. “I’ll just go and tell him I want another highball. I know how you hate that crappy old wine.”
“I like this cocktail sherry,” Dawn said fiercely. “I wouldn’t be drinking it if I didn’t,” she said.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to run down your wine,” he said. “I like it myself, Dawnie.”
Dawn looked around the crowded bar. “I couldn’t drink it here anyway,” she said.
“I know what,” Jimmy said with another stupendous burst of inspiration. “We can take them upstairs to the billiard room. There’s nobody up there. And I’ll play you a game of pool.”
Dawn looked at him thoughtfully. Until only recently, the billiard room upstairs at the Country Club had been a strictly male province, but in the past few years it had been made coeducational. Even so, not many of the older women (like Agnes, Dawn thought) went there anyway; for them a vague odor of disrepute, composed of stale cigar smoke, dirty stories, and the social taint of the public poolroom, still clung to it. But the younger women—from about the age of Betty Lee Hibbard on down—had taken to it with the unconcealed delight of invaders capturing a new country. And no small part of their enjoyment Dawn knew, because she felt it herself, was that same slightly risqué quality which made pool-playing disreputabl
e to the older women. It titillated them in some exciting but safe way, and a lot of them had got to be quite good players. Dawn had been playing for over a year.
“Well, what do you say?” Jimmy Shotridge said.
Dawn, who knew she shot a pretty mean stick, studied him. “I’ll play you for a dollar a game,” she said.
Jimmy Shotridge looked a little shocked as if he thought this perhaps might not be quite proper. “Well, now,” he temporized; “maybe we hadn’t ought to do that. I’m pretty good, you know. I don’t want to take your money.”
“All right,” Dawn said. “Then I’ll stay down here and play the half-dollar machine.” She turned back to the dime machine.
“Well, now. Now wait a minute,” Jimmy said. “I’ll play you for a dollar a game. But don’t moan if I take your money.”
“All right, I won’t,” Dawn said, turning back again and putting her dimes in her purse. “We can play straight rotation or rotation slop. I vote for rotation slop.”
Jimmy Shotridge looked a little taken aback. “All right,” he said. He handed her his highball glass. “Here, you hold this while I get us a couple more.”
Dawn looked after him, smiling to herself, as he went to the bar.
“You know,” he said when he came back holding two more highballs, “I just meant this for a sort of a lark, you know. I thought it’d be exciting for you to play pool like a man, was all. I knew you’d played a little bit.”
“It’ll be exciting,” Dawn said. As a matter of fact, a strange gripping excitement was bubbling up all through her: If she could only beat him!
“I su’gest,” Jimmy said, without the first g, “I su’gest you carry your wine with you; and then if anybody comes up there, you can pretend to be drinking it instead of the highball.”
“Oh, to hell with the wine, Shotridge,” Dawn said, relishing the shocked look his face got.
“Well, I—I’m sorry, Dawnie,” he said. “I was only tryin to help you.”
“Okay, Shotridge; your apology is accepted,” Dawn said. “Now drop it, will you?” But she took the wine. Carrying their four glasses, they threaded their way through the bar. Together they went out toward the foyer and the stairs.
“You know, Dawnie,” Jimmy Shotridge said, “I was wondering what you were doing Christmas? I thought we might get together and make us a day of it. The folks and me’ll be comin over to your house anyway in the morning, for the eggnog.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Shotridge, but I can’t,” Dawn said. “We’ve invited Wally Dennis and his mother over, you know? And I’m expected to more or less look after Wally. I’ll have to spend the day with him, you know?”
“Oh well,” Jimmy said, and nodded; “of course, if you have to do that. I didn’t know that.
“Yes, that’s the way it is,” Dawn said.
“Poor old Wally,” Jimmy Shotridge said. “He’s sure had a rough go of it. It was an awful tough break, his old man popping off like that. It was mighty sweet of you all to think of them like that.”
“Yes; well, Mother and Marg Dennis have always been good friends,” Dawn said. She was sure Shotridge had heard about her dating Wally. But you’d never know it.
“Dawnie—” he said, turning to her and stopping suddenly. They were in the deserted corridor along which the locker room opened. Setting one glass on a little table, he took her gently by the elbow and moved her back against the wall, then stood in front of her and leaned his hand on the wall beside her. “Dawnie, I want to tell you something.”
“Yes, Shotridge?” she said. “What is it?”
“Dawnie,” he said, “Dawnie, it’s like this. I know you think I’m a jerk and a goofball. I know I’m not very smart. But, Dawnie, the reason I stopped swearing in front of you is because I respect you. I think you’re a wonderful girl. I’m sorry for all those terrible rotten things I did before— When I tried to get you— Well, you know what I mean. I didn’t know what a wonderful sweet girl you were. Now I know. That’s why I love you so, Dawnie. I think I almost worship you almost. I want to make it up to you, what I did. Make it up to you the rest of my life.”
He straightened up, still holding the one glass and looked at her as if he expected her to have become another person because of his speech.
“Well, thanks, Shotridge,” Dawn said. “I appreciate your sentiments.” She smiled at him kindly, to sort of alleviate the slenderness of her reply.
Apparently, this was not the answer Shotridge hoped for. He stood looking at her almost uncomprehendingly for a moment, then picked up the other highball from the table and said, “Well, I just wanted you to know. I love you, you see, and I believe you’d make a wonderful respectable wife-and-mother-for-my-children.” His face flushed guiltily as if he had said something unmentionable.
“Well, I can’t, Shotridge,” Dawn said. “There’s something here inside that keeps eating at me. I have to become a great actress.”
“I understand,” he said somberly. “Well, shall we go play pool?”
“Yes; for a dollar a game,” Dawn reminded him.
“That is right,” he said, and set off for the foyer carrying the two highballs. Dawn followed him, carrying one highball and the wine and thinking God what she couldn’t do to that boy if she wanted to, if she was the kind of a woman who did things like that. As they went up the stairs, she looked back down into the big foyer to see Bob French and Gwen entering the front door and called hello to them, and paused long enough to be sure they saw her. Bob was obviously pretty tight and as usual when he was tight on his way to the poker game in the men’s bar.
Chapter 35
FRANK WAS PERCHED at the tiny, little men’s bar in the locker room watching the poker game when he himself saw Bob French.
The oldster came striding in through the door from the corridor, grinning from ear to ear and rubbing his hands together briskly with that extraordinary energy of his. Frank had once gone out for a walk with him when he and Gwen were down at the house, but never again. After six blocks, he had been totally worn out.
Frank grinned. Holding a cigar in one hand and a glass of whiskey and water in the other he was sitting and watching the hands as they fell to the stud players at the big table in front of him. Ordinarily, he would have been playing, but not tonight. When he had first entered the locker room, he had seen the thin, dark face of State Representative Clark Hibbard sitting at the other poker table talking to Harry Shotridge, young Jimmy’s dad. What those two might have their heads together about he could not know. But he had been looking for a chance to talk to Clark about his secret plans for the highway bypass. Only up to now the opportunity had never seemed to come up. Well, he admitted, maybe he had been a little scared to make it come up; it was an important deal. But now, seeing Clark here, and feeling as good about everything and Christmas as he did, had decided him, on the spur of the moment—and with a rising excitement that was at least 50 percent anxiety—that now was as good a time as any and he would talk to him tonight and if he didn’t he would be a coward.
This was maybe the most important deal he would ever have a chance at in his life. At least it could be if it turned out right. It was certainly too important to keep putting off. But hell, no wonder he was a little nervous.
So, having made up his mind he had settled back. Patiently, he had continued to lean back against the bar watching the game while Clark and Harry Shotridge continued to talk. When he had first entered, both men had looked up and spoken to him but neither had invited him to join them. From this, he immediately figured they were talking some private business deal of their own and had kept his distance. He didn’t want to talk in front of Harry anyway himself. Hell, if this thing went through he might become Harry’s biggest real estate competitor overnight. He had been waiting nearly an hour when Bob French came in.
Grinning, Frank watched him approach. He had always had a big soft spot for Old Bob. Probably because he was such a character. Neither Bob or Gwen played golf but both belonged
to the Club and kept their dues paid up. They would not be seen for months and then would suddenly appear at the most unexpected times and spend an evening, and then maybe not be seen again for months. They were both that way in everything. Highly unconventional.
Gwen French herself was one of the few women around Parkman that Frank had never imagined himself having sex with. Something about Gwen gave him the impression she was a sexless woman—an idea which he disliked just on pure principle—and consequently always made him a little ill at ease around her. If he didn’t know her better and in spite of all her frankness about her sex life—which he knew was a fact from allusions by certain men around town—he would almost say she was some kind of a religious fanatic or something so naturally he liked Old Bob the best.
“Hello, Robert,” he grinned as the older man stopped before him.
“Frank,” Bob said, grinning and rubbing his hands together eagerly.
Frank had only to look at him to tell he was pretty tight. He always got a curious added glint in his eye, when he was, a sort of hungry, excited glint of eagerness, of rebellious eagerness, if you could say such a thing. That was the only way you could ever tell if Old Bob was tight, and you had to know him pretty well before you could learn to tell it. He just got higher and higher and more and more excited the more he drank. For an old guy his age, he could put away astonishing amounts of liquor. None of them ever mentioned this, and Bob himself with bland cheerfulness always kept repeating how little he could drink on account of his age and his health all the while putting away quantities which would have killed a much younger ordinary man. And yet there were long periods when Frank knew for a fact he would go without drinking anything at all. A very strange man. A poet. Well, if he wanted to be a poet, it was his own business, he could afford it. With his wife’s money added to his own inheritance, he could indulge himself in just about any outlandish hobby he wanted to. And Frank for one felt it was nobody’s business but his own. But he knew a lot of people who didn’t feel that way.