“Sure,” he said.
Without another word, Betty opened the car door and flopped into the seat next to him.
“Why don't you take off that coat?” she demanded crossly. “It makes me hot and itchy all over just to look at you.”
Rodney immediately took off his coat and put it on the back seat. From the Anderson house, two sullen, tired faces watched him as he put the convertible into gear and roared off down Ash Street. As soon as Rodney had turned the corner, Betty wiggled her fingers at him and he passed her his cigarettes.
“How come you couldn't go out with me last night?” he asked.
“I had other things to do,” replied Betty coolly. “Why?”
“I just wondered. Seems funny to me that you have time for me only a couple of times a week, that's all.”
“Listen, kid,” she said. “I don't have to account to you or anybody like you for my time. Get it?”
“Don't get sore. I was just wondering.”
“If it'll make you feel any better, I went dancing last night. Marty Janowski took me over to White River and we went to the China Dragon to eat and dance. Any more questions?”
Rodney knew that he should keep quiet, but he could not let it go at that. “What did you do after?” he asked.
“Went parking over at Silver Lake,” replied Betty without hesitation. “Why?”
“I just wondered. Have fun?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. Marty's a swell dancer.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“I mean after. Parking.”
“Yes I did, if it's any of your business.”
“What did you do?” asked Rodney, not wanting to hear but unable to keep himself from asking.
“Oh, for Christ's sake,” said Betty disgustedly. “Find a drive-in, will you? I'm starved. We mill hands are used to getting our supper at five-thirty. We're not like high mucky muck mill owners who have servants to give them dinner at eight.”
“I'll stop at the next one,” said Rodney. “Listen, Betty. I don't think it's right for you to go parking with Marty Janowski.”
“What!” The word was not so much a question as an exclamation of rage.
“I don't think it's right for you to go parking with Marty Janowski. Not after I've asked you a thousand times to be my girl.”
“Turn this car around and take me home,” demanded Betty. “At once.”
Rodney stepped on the gas and kept going. “I won't let you out until you promise not to fool around with Marty any more,” he said doggedly.
“I didn't tell you to let me out,” said Betty furiously. “I told you to turn around and take me home.”
“If you don't want to go for a ride with me,” said Rodney, hating himself for not keeping his mouth shut, “I'll stop the car right here and you can walk back.”
“All right,” said Betty. “You just stop and let me out. I won't have to walk far, I'll guarantee you that. The first car that comes along with a good-looking fellow in it is the car I'll stick out my thumb for. I don't come from a mill-owning family. I don't mind hitchhiking one damned bit. Now let me out.”
“Aw, come on, Betty,” pleaded Rodney. “Don't be mad. I wouldn't let you out on the highway like that. Come on, don't be mad.”
“I am mad. Damned good and mad. Who do you think you are, telling me who I can go out with, and who I can't?”
“I didn't mean anything. I just got jealous for a minute, that's all. I have asked you, thousands of times, to be my girl. It makes me jealous to think of you with another fellow, that's all.”
“Well keep it to yourself from now on,” ordered Betty. “I don't take orders from anybody. Besides, why should I be your girl and go steady with you? When you go away to school next fall, I'd be left high and dry. It's hard for a girl to get back in circulation after she's gone steady for a while.”
“I thought that maybe you liked me better than anyone else,” said Rodney. “I like you better than any other girl. That's why I want to go steady with you.”
Betty's expression softened a trifle. “I like you all right, kid,” she said. “You're O.K.”
“Well, then?”
“I'll think it over.”
Rodney turned into a drive-in and a spurt of gravel flew up from behind one of his rear wheels.
“Would you go parking at Silver Lake with me?” he asked.
“I might,” she said, “if you'd hurry up and feed me. I want a couple of cheeseburgers and a chocolate shake and a side of French fries.”
Rodney got out of the car. “Will you?” he asked.
“I said I might, didn't I?” said Betty impatiently. “What more do you want, a written agreement?”
Much later, after they had eaten and the night had turned thoroughly dark, Rodney drove around Silver Lake. It was Betty who showed him one of the good parking places. When he had cut the motor and turned off the lights, the humid night closed in on them like a soggy black blanket.
“God, it's hot,” complained Betty.
“There's a bottle in the glove compartment,” said Rodney, “and I bought some ginger ale at the drive-in. A good drink will cool you off.”
He mixed two drinks quickly and expertly, by the dashboard light. They were warm and tasted vaguely of the paper cups which contained them.
“Whew!” said Betty, and spit a mouthful of the warm, strong drink over the low car door. “Jeez! What swill!”
“It takes getting used to,” commented Rodney, suddenly feeling very man-of-the-world. If there was one thing he knew, it was good liquor and the drinking of it. “Take another sip,” he suggested. “It grows on you.”
“To hell with that,” said Betty. “I'm going in for a swim.”
“Did you bring a suit?”
“What's the matter with you, anyway? Haven't you ever been swimming in the raw with a girl?”
“Sure, I have,” lied Rodney. “Dozens of times. I was just asking if you'd brought a suit is all.”
“No, I didn't bring a suit,” mimicked Betty. “Are you coming?”
“Of course,” said Rodney, hurriedly finishing his drink.
Before he could get his shirt unbuttoned, Betty had shed her shorts and halter and was running, naked, down the beach toward the water. When Rodney reached the water's edge, feeling very naked and more than a little foolish, Betty was nowhere to be seen. He inched himself slowly into the water, and when he had waded in as far as his waist, she was suddenly beside him. Her head emerged silently from the water, and she spit a stream straight into the middle of his back. He fell forward and when he came up, Betty was standing up and laughing at him. He tried to catch her, but she swam away from him, laughing, taunting, calling him names.
“Wait ’til I get you,” he called to her. “You've got to come out sooner or later, and I'll be right here waiting.”
“Don't let your teeth chatter,” she yelled, “or I'll be able to find you in the dark.”
As it turned out, he did not catch her. A few minutes later the blatant sound of his horn rang out in the dark, and he started violently.
“I've had enough,” shouted Betty from the car.
Goddamn it. Rodney cursed savagely. He had planned to catch her and throw her down in the sand and roll her around good, feeling her, touching her. He had never been close to her when she was completely undressed before, and now, goddamn it, she had gone and beat him to the car. She must have eyes like a cat to find her way around in this moonless dark. He stumbled several times before he finally discerned the bulk of his automobile up ahead of him.
Betty waited while he stumbled again and nearly fell. She waited until he was directly in front of the car, and then she turned on the head lights. Her hoot of laughter filled the night, and Rodney was only too painfully aware of the ridiculous picture he must make as he stood and stared like a startled animal and tried to cover himself with his hands.
“You bitch!” he shouted, but she was la
ughing so hard that she did not hear him.
He made his way to the car and grabbed for his trousers, cursing her silently while she laughed.
“Oh, Rod!” she cried, and went off into another spasm of laughter. “Oh, Rod! What a picture to put on a postcard and send home to Mother!”
Rodney got into the car, clad only in his trousers, and immediately pressed the starter. The car's powerful motor roared to life, and Betty reached over and turned off the ignition.
“What's the matter, honey,” she asked softly, running her finger tips over his bare chest. “You mad, honey?”
Rodney exhaled his breath sharply. “No,” he said, “I guess not.”
“Kiss me, then,” she said, prettily petulant. “Kiss me to show me you aren't mad.”
With something that was almost a sob, Rodney turned to her. This was the thing he could never understand about Betty. For hours, she could act as if the last thing she wanted was for him to touch her. She could make him feel as if she did not even like him particularly, but the minute he kissed her she began to make small sounds in her throat and her body twisted and turned against him as if she could not get enough of his kisses. This was the moment he waited for every time he saw her. It made everything else bearable, from the way she taunted him with her other boy friends to the way she teased him by pretending not to like him.
“Quick!” she said. “Down on the beach. Not here.”
She ran ahead of him, and he followed, carrying the car robe. Before he could get the blanket smooth on the soft sand, she was lying down, holding her arms out to him.
“Oh, baby, baby,” he said. “I love you. I love you so.”
She nibbled hungrily at his lower lip. “Come on, honey,” she said, and her body moved ceaselessly. “Come on, honey. Love me a little.”
His fingers found the tie of her halter, and in less than half a minute the garment lay on the sand next to the blanket. Betty's back arched against his arm as she thrust her breasts up to him. This was not new to Rodney. She let him do this often, but it never failed to arouse him to near frenzy. Her nipples were always rigid and exciting and the full, firm flesh around them always hot and throbbing.
“Come on, honey,” she whimpered. “Come on, honey,” and his mouth and hands covered her. “Hard,” she whispered. “Do it hard, honey. Bite me a little. Hurt me a little.”
“Please,” murmured Rodney against her skin. “Please. Please.”
His hand found the V of her crotch and pressed against it.
“Please,” he said. “Please.”
It was at this point that Betty usually stopped him. She would put both her hands in his hair and yank him away from her, but she did not stop him now. Her tight shorts slipped off as easily as if they had been several sizes too large, and her body did not stop its wild twisting while Rodney took off his trousers.
“Hurry,” she moaned. “Hurry. Hurry.”
For only a moment, Rodney was panicky, and after that he did not care, not even when she had to help him. For less than a moment he wondered if all the stories he had read and heard and told about virgins could be wrong. Betty did not scream in pain or beg him to stop hurting her. She led him without a fumble, and her hips moved quickly, expertly. She did not cry out at all. She moaned deep in her throat the way she did when he kissed her, and the only word she uttered was, “Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.”
After that, Rodney did not notice what she did or said. He was lost in her, drowning in her, and he did not think at all. In a very few minutes he lay shivering on the blanket next to her, and her voice seemed to be coming from very far away.
“Smart guy,” she was hissing at him. “Smart guy who knew all about it. So smart he doesn't even know enough to wear a safe. Get me home, you dumb jackass. Quick!”
But, unfortunately, Rodney did not get her home quickly enough, or her douche was not strong enough, or, as Rodney was inclined to believe, the Fates were out to foul him up good. It was five weeks later, during the third week of August, when Betty faced him with the worst.
“I'm a month overdue.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I'm pregnant, smart guy.”
“But how can you tell so soon?” stammered Rodney.
“I was supposed to come around the week after we were at the Like. That was five weeks ago,” said Betty tonelessly.
“What are we going to do?”
“We're going to get married, that's what. Nobody's sticking me with a kid and then running out on me, like that bastard from White River did to my sister.”
“Married! But what will my father say?”
“That's for you to find out, smart guy. Ask him.”
♦ 13 ♦
Leslie Harrington was not a worrier, for he had discovered as a young man that worry is profitless. Early in life, Leslie had learned the best way of beating any problem. Whenever one presented itself, instead of spending hours in futile, squirrel-in-a-cage worry, he would sit down and list on paper all the possible solutions to the problem at hand. When his list was as complete as he could make it, he was able to choose a good, sensible solution which was, more often than not, advantageous to him. This system had never failed him. If it had, he would have discarded it at once and searched for another, for Leslie Harrington could not stand to be bested by anyone or anything. He had never been curious enough to wonder why this was so. It was simply a facet of his personality and he took it as much for granted as he did the shape of his skull. He could not bear to lose, and that was the end of it. On the few occasions when he had lost, he had been physically ill for days and mentally depressed for weeks, but even these bad times served a purpose. In the painful wake which followed a loss, he had time to figure out the reasons why he had not won, and to strengthen the weaknesses which had caused him to lose. At fifty, Leslie Harrington could, and often did, say with pride that he had never suffered the same loss twice.
As a small child, Leslie had thrown himself to the floor in screaming tantrums of rage on the few occasions when his mother or father beat him at a game of lotto or old maid. His parents had adjusted quickly to this twist in their son, and as soon as they had, Leslie never lost another game of any kind when he played with them. Later, he had discovered that it was possible to win at practically anything if one could cheat successfully and well. He had become the star of his basketball team at school as soon as he had learned to knee and elbow so well that the referees could not catch him, and he had graduated as valedictorian of his class after four years of carrying notes on his shirt cuffs and thin tubes of paper in the hollow half of his fountain pen. Leslie Harrington was voted most likely to succeed by his classmates, and this was not the mockery it might have been. It was extremely likely that Leslie would succeed, for he felt he must where others would merely have liked to enjoy the rewards of success. To Leslie Harrington, success was not the vague word of many meanings which it was to a majority of his intellectual classmates. In his mind the word was crisp, sharp and clearly defined. It meant money, the biggest house in town and the best car. But most of all it meant what Leslie termed “being the boss.” That he would “be boss” at the Cumberland Mills was a foregone conclusion. The mills had been started by his grandfather and enlarged by his father, and the “boss” chair in the factory offices was cut to fit Leslie, the third generation owner. It was, of course, not enough. What Leslie really wanted was to be boss of the world, and while he wisely limited himself to his mills, his home and his town, he never lost sight of his larger desire.
At the age of twenty-five, Leslie decided to marry Elizabeth Fuller, a tall, slim girl who had the aristocratic look which sometimes comes after generations of inbreeding. At the time when Leslie set out to marry her, Elizabeth had been engaged to Seth Buswell for over a year. The obstacles between Leslie and Elizabeth were of a number and caliber to excite any man who loved a contest which he was sure of winning, and Leslie knew that he would win. He had only to look at Elizabeth, sweet, young and a
s pliant as a green willow branch, and he knew. The obstacles in his path consisted of her family, Seth and Seth's family and the Harrington family, and there was not a soul among them who thought that marrying Elizabeth was the wise thing for Leslie to do. He had beaten them all and he had won Elizabeth, and in less than ten years he had killed her. In eight years, Elizabeth Harrington miscarried eight times in the third month of each pregnancy, and after every time Dr. Matthew Swain and several Boston specialists to whom Leslie dragged his frail, tired wife, told him that she could not survive another. It was impossible, they said, for Elizabeth to carry a child full term, and none of them realized that with that word, “impossible,” they had changed what had been a desire for a son and heir in Leslie to an obsession. When Elizabeth became pregnant in the ninth year of her marriage, Leslie hired a doctor and two nurses from White River. The three of them moved into the Harrington house, put Elizabeth to bed and kept her there for nine months. When she was delivered of a black-haired, red-faced, nine-and-one-half-pound son, Elizabeth lived long enough to hear him cry once. She died several minutes before one of the nurses from White River had had time to clean the baby and put him at his mother's side. When Leslie held his son for the first time, his triumph had been greater than any he had ever known, and it did not horrify him that this time the obstacle in the path of his desire had been his wife.
As the years passed, Leslie continued to “boss” his mills and his town, but he did not “boss” his son. This, too, was of his own choosing. It pleased him when he saw reflected in Rodney the traits which were his.
“Got gumption, that kid has,” Leslie often said. “There's not a trace of the weak-kneed Fullers in him.”
In this, Leslie Harrington was badly mistaken, for Rodney was weak in the terrible, final way in which only those who are protected and surrounded by powerful externals are weak. Rodney never had to be strong, for strength was all around him, ready-made to protect and shield him. Nor was Rodney driven by a compulsion to succeed as was his father. True, he liked to win well enough, but not to the extent that he would fight and struggle to win, especially if his opponents happened to be his physical match. Before he was ten years old, Rodney knew that there was nothing worth winning that involved effort, for without effort he could win anything he wanted from his father. He had merely to ask or, later, to hold out his hand, and whatever he wanted was his. Yet Rodney was not a fool. He knew that it was politic for him to please his father whenever he could, especially when it involved no sacrifice on his part. Thus, when he had been younger and his father had wanted him to associate with “nice” children, Rodney had done so. It made no difference to him. He could be King anywhere. And later, when his father had wanted him to go to New Hampton, Rodney had gone willingly. He hated school anyway, so it did not matter to him where he went. When he was expelled, he had not been afraid to come home and face his father.
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