Lilli's Quest

by Lila Perl

We all exchange greetings and Roy gives me an unabashed hug and kiss. I had somehow expected him to be dressed in his Navy whites, but he’s in polished civilian dress, a navy blue suit and shiny satin tie. I notice Uncle Herman studying the rear of Roy’s car and memorizing the license-plate number.

  Like Karl, Roy seems to have grown taller and broader-shouldered in the intervening years. He slings himself into the driver’s seat, lights a cigarette, and we’re off, heading not downtown as I expected, but north out of the city. I feel tremulous and uneasy, and not at all as familiar as I thought I would be with Roy. He’s lost that “baby-blues” look that I found so endearing during our short acquaintance.

  Roy opens the window and flicks out his partially-smoked cigarette. “Has anyone told you lately? You are one beautiful lady. Smart-looking, expensive-looking, too. A lot different from that kid crying in her pajamas in the middle of the night, getting kissed for the first time. Hey, that was your first time, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I find myself replying shyly, not at all the way I want to sound. “But that was a long time ago.”

  “Oh yeah, I understand. You probably had lots of fellas since then that you never wrote me about.” Roy leans over and presses my thigh with thick, purposeful fingers. “Huh? Huh? Come on Lilli, you can tell your old friend, Roy.”

  I don’t like the direction that his interrogation is taking. I realize that I don’t know Roy at all, that I never knew him, and that it was stupid to agree to go out with him. I try to change the subject. “So, how does it feel to be home after so long in the Navy? You’ll have to tell me about your experiences. And, by the way, where are we going?” We are already out of the city limits and on one of the countrified winding parkways that lead upstate toward places like Harper’s Falls and beyond.

  Roy smiles dreamily and licks his lips. “I wish, kid, that I could tell you we’re going to the cabin. Wouldn’t that be the perfect setup? But, you know, it’s summer, and a whole gang of my cousins are up there now.”

  I panic silently at the very suggestion. What is Roy thinking? He’s no doubt become a man of the world since his adventures abroad, and perhaps, knowing I’ve gone abroad on my own, he thinks that I have had affairs, too.

  “So,” he goes on, “I thought of this neat little roadhouse, not too far up, that a crowd of us used to drop in on for a steak and a beer on a Saturday night. Music and dancing, too. You know, it’s where Sinatra got his start.”

  Sinatra! It’s a relief to get off the subject of the cabin in any case. “Oh yes,” I remark. “Isabel and I and a friend of hers went to the Paramount Theater at Times Square to hear him sing. It was in January 1943. Girls threw their underwear to him on the stage. Bras and even panties. I couldn’t understand it.”

  Roy turns and stares at me with a strange expression. “That’s because you were this sweet, innocent kid from Europe. I’ll bet it ain’t that way now.”

  He pulls into the parking lot of a sprawling wooden building, its name strewn across the façade in bright-red neon lights, which also advertise “Dining and Dancing Nightly” and a “Full Bar.” As Roy steps around the car to help me out, I find myself reliving a scene from my life in England: Mr. Rathbone has decided to stop at a roadside pub to quench his thirst. He ushers me into the unfamiliar establishment, where I eat a cheese and pickle sandwich, while he becomes blowsy and bleary-eyed. Later, he wants to rest in a “lay-by.”

  The roadhouse lobby is decorated in mock-rustic style with the stuffed heads of nimble, horned forest animals. Beyond the entrance is the sound of a live band and of uninhibited merriment.

  Roy demands a table for two beside the dance floor and looks around with an air of satisfaction. He turns to me and strokes my cheek with lingering fingers. “When I used to come here with the fellas, we always sat in the bar. Now I’m here with my best girl. A college girl. Real class. And she gave me her very first kiss, too.” Roy leans back and licks his lips again, something I don’t remember him doing in the past. But how much time did I actually spend with him? And wasn’t my emotional response to him based mainly on gratitude for my rescue and for being an American fighting man soon to see action? What was I even doing out there in the dark that night, barefoot and dressed in pajamas?

  We argue about what I should order to drink. It’s 1946, and the drinking age is eighteen, so I can’t use the excuse of not wanting to break the law. Roy says an orange blossom is “nothing but orange juice with hardly any gin.” But one thing I know is that I don’t want to get fuzzy-headed with him.

  He orders a beer for himself, a steak dinner with all the trimmings for each of us, and the next thing I know we’re up on the floor, dancing jerkily to the song, “Doin’ What Comes Natur’lly.” As we bumble our way around the dance floor, I realize that my little black dress is all wrong. It’s much too toned down and even severe. Many of the girls are wearing sweetheart necklines, off-the-shoulder frocks, even full, swirling skirts, which have been out of fashion through the shortages of the war years.

  Having perspired acutely in each other’s clutches, Roy and I now sit down to our drinks and dinner. From time to time we get up to dance to slower, more sentimental songs like They Say that Falling in Love Is Wonderful and the somewhat similar Prisoner of Love. “You know I am,” Roy whispers wetly into my ear as we return to our table, “a prisoner of love. Hey, babe,” he crushes his napkin together in his fist, “what do you say we get out of here and find a little privacy.”

  The final act of my evening with Roy takes place in a parked car on a side street around the corner from my apartment building. He’s already made it clear that he expects a bit more than a farewell kiss, attempting to tightly squeeze my clothed nipples between his thumb and forefinger, and groping for my thighs beneath the hem of my dress. Frustrated at my resistance, he breathes into my ear. “Whats’a matter with you, Lilli. You frigid or something?”

  I flare up with the indignation that’s been simmering inside me all night. In a flash, I’m out of the car, rushing toward the corner of the street and the safe haven of the lobby. I greet the doorman, race for the elevator, let myself into the apartment, and hasten to my room.

  My camping gear is reassuringly strewn about just as I left it, ready to be assembled for my trip next week with my college sisters. How I look forward to the upcoming getaway … fresh air, cool water, healthy activities, and intimate chats, exchanging views and experiences with my “group.”

  My senses still pounding, I grab some paper and begin a letter to Karl. I suppose I’m feeling guilty and ashamed of myself. Could anyone be more different than Roy? Karl is loyal, considerate, responsible, respectful of women, and deeply intelligent. Yet, I’ve promised myself that I’ll make him no promises as a lover. The last thing I want is to raise his hopes and to hurt him. I still feel that the life in England that he has suggested to me may well cut off the possibilities that I look forward to in America after college. But I can’t hold back.

  Dear Karl, I’ve been thinking about one of our conversations before I left. You asked if I might come to London during the Christmas holiday season. If only there were passenger flights available, I would not have to spend so much of our time together at sea!

  Perhaps winter break, between college semesters, would be a slightly longer period of time, and I could manage a crossing then. What do you think?

  I proceed to tell him about my welcome-home party at the Brandts and the bedroom chat with Isabel, Ruth, and Sybil about women’s futures after the war. What does he see happening in England now that the troops are home? Will women return en masse to household duties, or will they seek jobs, even professions? I thank him for his offer to “keep an eye” on my sister. Although we’ve both acknowledged that Helga does not care for him, it is still reassuring to have someone in occasional contact with her.

  I close with more information about next week’s camping trip. And, no, I do not and will never tell Karl about my first and last date with Roy! I want to end my lette
r with affection, not too warm, but warmer than usual.

  What shall I say? Cute, modern phrases are not for Karl and me. We have never called each other by pet names. What shall I say, how shall I let him know that I have not abandoned him, that I still see him every day, waving to me in his broad and gracious manner from the boat dock. Then, a thought occurs. I will translate an old-fashioned German phrase that I have always loved. And so I write:

  I send thee greetings with my whole heart.

  Your Lilli