April North

by Lawrence Block

  “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 hu
ng 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.

  5

  BY five o’clock she had finished her shower. By five-ten she was dressed, and by a quarter after five she was nude again and pawing around for something better to wear. She rejected dress after dress, scurrying through her closet in a hectic rush to find the one garment which would suit the occasion better than any other.

  A dress to be seduced by Craig in, she thought—a very special sort of dress. She remembered a line she had heard somewhere: “The ideal dress makes a man want to rip it off you,” and she looked for that particular type of dress. The closest she came, ultimately, was a green affair which her mother had insisted made her look at least five years older. This, according to Mrs. North, was why the dress was unsuitable. It was also the main reason April had purchased it in the first place.

  The top was silk, a tailored sort of top with a muted Chinese print. The skirt, tight and trim, was a darker cotton. Somehow the overall effect was the ultimate in sexiness but with no hint of cheapness. The skirt hugged her hips securely, swept in at her slender waist. The top was tight around her breasts, and the neckline dipped slightly to give a hint of the majestic cleavage below. Without being too obvious, the green dress managed to make quite clear the undeniable fact that April North had a highly desirable body.

  She had bought it but she had never worn it. Antrim lacked occasions where such a dress would be suitable. She might have worn it to the senior prom, in fact had planned to do so. That was out now.

  But she could wear it for Craig.

  She had the dress halfway on when she stopped suddenly and peeled it off again. She remembered how Danny Duncan had struggled with the clasp on her bra, how he had worked her panties down over her hips. She didn’t want Craig to struggle—although it was a good bet that his hands would be deft at such a task. She wanted it easy for him. She wanted to take off her dress and be nude beneath it. Completely, entirely nude. And ready for him.

  When she put the green dress on again, there was nothing under it but April North. The silk blouse of it was sensuously luxurious against the tips of her big breasts, and her inner thighs rubbed together when she walked, rubbed in an earthy rhythm.

  She studied herself in the mirror. I am sexy, she told herself. I am terribly sexy, and under this dress there is nothing but sexy little me—nothing but naked flesh.

  Naked flesh.

  She stayed in front of the mirror, combing and brushing her long hair. No pony tail tonight, she knew. No bun, no bangs, nothing but light brown hair falling freely over her shoulders. She put on a pair of plain black suede, high-heeled pumps. No stockings, she thought. No stockings, because she was not wearing a garter belt to hold them up. Just a body, a dress, and shoes.

  She looked at her watch. He was coming for her at six and it was ten minutes before six already. Ordinarily she would have waited upstairs, then would have called to her mother that she would be down in a minute after he arrived. Then she would keep him waiting five minutes, maybe ten.

  But she knew intuitively that this would not work with Craig. That particular sort of feminine deception would not impress him in the least. She left her room, walked downstairs, and took a seat in the living room.

  Her mother appeared, the inevitable dishtowel in one hand. “A shame you’ll miss dinner again,” she said. “Two nights in a row. And you know how you love fried chicken.”

  “Craig’s taking me to dinner.”

  “I know, April. Boys don’t usually take you to dinner, do they?”

  “Craig’s older,” she said. “Besides, his parents aren’t living. If he didn’t take me out, he’d have to eat alone.”

  “You could ask him to have supper with us, April. There’s plenty of the chicken—”

  She had to struggle to keep back laughter at the picture of Craig at a family dinner. She imagined all of them sitting around the table stuffing their mouths with fried chicken, wiping greasy hands on cotton napkins and talking about business at the drugstore, the latest item of importance before the Ladies’ Aid, and Link’s prowess at football. That would be just the way to start off an evening with Craig, she thought. That would send him screaming out of the house, leap into his Mercedes and point it for New York.

  “Not tonight,” she said gently.

  “Not if you’ve made plans, I suppose. Some other night, April. Invite the poor boy over.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  “Not having any family—”

  Something started to burn on the stove, and Mrs. North vanished hurriedly. April sighed. There was a cigarette in her purse and she wanted it desperately. But she could imagine her mother all upset at the idea of her smoking in front of a man. She sighed again, and the doorbell rang.

  She answered the door herself. He smiled, then looked her over. His eyes started with her face and moved downward to her shoes, lingering with interest at certain areas. Then he gazed into her eyes again.

  “Lovely,” he said.

  She took a breath. He was dressed exquisitely in a brass-buttoned summerweight blazer and a pair of tailored Italian slacks. His hair was combed back and his moustache was neatly trimmed. His eyes, bright as beads, gleamed at her.

  “Would you like to come in?”

  “And meet the folks?” The sarcasm in his voice was almost gentle. “Of course, April. I’d love to.”

 
They were in the car, racing along 68, and the wind was tossing her hair all over hell and gone. She let the wind flick ashes from her cigarette. Craig had impressed hell out of her parents, she thought. In just a few moments he had won them over forever. Her father now thought Craig was mature and level-headed, a young man astutely aware of the dangers of creeping socialism and the need to keep the government out of business. Her mother was just as certain that Craig regarded church and family and sacred awe, that he helped old ladies across streets and befriended stray cats.

  Even Link had been impressed. In his eyes, Craig was strong and solid, a top athlete and a devil with the women. Which, she thought, was true enough.

  “Where are we going, Craig?”

  “Springfield.”

  “Springfield?”

  “For dinner,” he said. “Springfield is an ugly little town with very little to recommend it. It has to its name one good hotel, three fourth-rate whorehouses and one fine restaurant. One exceptionally fine restaurant, unbelievable for Ohio.”

  “What’s the name of it?”

  “Kardaman’s,” he said. “You’ll like it.”

  She liked it. Kardaman’s was located on a side street just a few doors off the main stem of the city. It was housed in a white frame dwelling set back a good distance from the street. A neatly painted signboard announced the restaurant’s name and nothing more. A white-coated Negro greeted Craig by name and ushered them to a table. It was the only table in one small room off the main dining room. Through the window April could see the outskirts of Springfield. The Negro, whom Craig had addressed as Paul, lighted two candles with a wooden match, shook out the match, and hurried away.

  “This is lovely,” she said.

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “What’s good here?”

  “Drinks, first of all.” A waiter came over and Craig ordered scotch on the rocks for both of them. When the drinks arrived they touched glasses and sipped the liquor. She was developing a taste for scotch, she thought. Soon she would know how to tell one brand from the next.

  “Your parents are nice people,” he said.

  “I suppose so.”