by Pamela Morsi
“I assume that he wouldn’t have to start in the typing pool.”
“Look, Miss Wilbur,” he said, “I’m sure you’re a very bright girl. I could sugarcoat it for you, give you false hope. But the truth is, science careers will never be open to women. Go into teaching, it’s a field where you could be useful and helpful. It’s really your only option.”
As Dot walked back to the dorm, she should have been fuming. But somehow, she wasn’t angry anymore. Who was there to be angry at? Wojciechowski? Dr. Falk? Her high school principal? Her dad? All the men in the world? Most of the women, too, for that matter? If she started being mad, where would it ever stop?
That was why, on the night of the Panty Raiders’ Cotillion, she changed her mind.
“I’m going,” she announced to her girlfriends, all of whom were already in mid-preen.
A startling chorus of screams erupted and all three of them jumped into action.
“We don’t have much time,” Maylene complained.
“Oh, we’ll make it,” Eva assured her. “Trixie, where’s the dress?”
It was immediately produced from the closet. A confection of bright lavender taffeta, it had an abundance of matching tulle petticoats.
“Here, try it on, let’s see if it’s going to need any adjustments.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Dot said.
“Fine is not good enough,” Trixie told her. “Tonight you’ve got to be positively dreamy.”
Dot thought the dress fit very well, but the girls agreed that the strapless sweetheart bodice needed a little tightening in the waist. Maylene hurried down the hall to get Barbara, who was an excellent seamstress. Barbara’s roommate, Esther, came along as well.
“What’s going on?” an anonymous voice asked from the hallway.
“Dot’s going to the cotillion after all,” Trixie answered.
The word spread from doorway to doorway and, within minutes, Dot and Trixie’s room was shoulder to shoulder and a dozen more watching from the entrance. The noise, the exuberance, the excitement, was extremely contagious and within minutes, Dot and all those around her were giddy with jitters.
A half-dozen hands worked to twist Dot’s hair into a dramatically upswept French roll. She hardly recognized herself in the mirror.
“Do you think it’s too much?” she asked.
“Trust me,” Trixie told her. “You look just like Grace Kelly.”
“Grace Kelly is blond,” someone pointed out. “Dot looks more like Jane Wyman.”
“Not Jane Wyman, Natalie Wood.”
“Natalie never wears her hair this way.”
“Well, she should.”
Two dozen would-be makeup experts argued about her face. Dot was among the group that wanted to go with her basic peaches-and-cream with some powder for the shine on her nose and a smudge of pale pink lipstick.
“This dress is just too dramatic for that,” Eva insisted. Instead they plucked her eyebrows to a thin line and darkened them with pencil. Mascara and an eyelash curler gave her a sleepy, sexy look. And the vivid red that Eva chose for her mouth drew immediate attention to the fullness of her lips.
“I don’t even look like me,” Dot complained.
“You do, only better,” Trixie said.
“This is what you could be,” Maylene told her, “if that’s what you wanted.”
Tonight, Dot decided, it was exactly what she wanted. The dress fit perfectly after Barbara’s adjustments, the heavy boning in the bodice as rigid as a corset. Trixie loaned her a pair of white opera gloves that came up past her elbow. The flair of the ballerina-length bouffant skirt emphasized her small waist. The hair and heels made her seem majestically tall and willowy. The bare shoulders were daring and very grown-up. She was no bobby-soxer, but a fully adult female, confident and desirable.
The image practically took the wind out of her sails.
“Are you sure?” she asked Trixie.
“The poor guy will never know what hit him,” she replied.
It was only a couple of minutes before seven when the girls of the second floor made their way downstairs. The noise from the hallway was deafening and the gathering of gowns in the living room was as colorful as an exotic flower garden. The scent in the air was a heady mix of Chanel No. 5, Tabu and Shalimar.
“They’re here!” Mary Jane Coulter screeched from near the window.
She was uniformly shushed by the more mature up- perclassmen in the room. The housemother, Mrs. Livingston, looked at her disapprovingly and then gestured with her hands for silence.
“Young ladies,” she began. “I wish that Miss Elizabeth Compton could be here herself tonight.” The housemother gestured toward the nineteenth-century portrait above the fireplace. “As hostess for her father, Governor Compton, she set an example of modesty, gentility and prudence that each of you should strive to emulate.”
As Dot gazed up at the woman in the painting, the face appeared to be one of squinty, hard-lined unhappiness. She’d been honored by having her name grace a women’s dormitory. What were her achievements? Dot was aware of none, except being born in a prominent family. Was she exactly what she appeared, a dried-up, humorless old maid? Was that the life Dot was expected to esteem? But most probably, she had no opportunity to be anything else. Like Dot, Elizabeth Compton’s place in the world was most likely not at any time in her own control.
“I expect each of you,” Mrs. Livingston continued, “to behave yourselves in a fashion that honors your school, this group of women and most of all, your upbringing. Have a lovely time!”
She clapped her hands and the beautifully attired residents formed one long line. Outside, the men from Silas Baldridge had done the same.
For the sake of propriety, each of the gentlemen would be presented to Mrs. Livingston. She would then introduce the gentleman to the young lady next in line. He would then escort that girl to the dance.
As they slowly moved forward in the line, Dot heard Trixie’s whispered prayer aloud.
“Please don’t let it be somebody short,” she pleaded. “No short guys. He can be stupid. He can be ugly. He can wear glasses. But nobody shorter than me, please!”
As they neared the door, Trixie began counting. She was sixth from the doorway. She counted out six white sport coats beyond the door.
“Oh, my God!” she muttered under her breath. “He’s a shrimp. He’ll come up to my shoulder. He’s practically a dwarf.”
Dot counted out for herself and saw that, indeed, the guy Trixie was numbered up for was a couple of inches shorter than Trixie herself.
“Trade places with me,” Dot said.
“He’s shorter than you, too,” Trixie said.
Dot shrugged. “Not so much,” she said. “And it really doesn’t matter.”
Trixie hurried to comply, showering words of gratitude on her roommate.
When Dot stepped onto the threshold, she pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders against the coolness of the night air. She smiled warmly at the short, red-haired, freckled-faced guy who stood in front of her.
“Buzz, do you mind if I cut in here?” a familiar voice said to the side.
All eyes turned to Hank, who’d been handling the introductions.
“Sure thing,” the redheaded guy said. “Mrs. Livingston, this is Henry Brantly.”
“Mr. Brantly,” the housemother acknowledged him with a nod. “May I present Miss Dorothy Wilbur.”
Hank bowed. “Miss Wilbur,” he said. “You look beautiful tonight, as always. I’d be so honored to escort you to the dance.”
Dot took the hand he offered.
Chapter Eight
All week long Hank had devoted himself to the prospect of the dance. It was his salvation, his distraction. Every idle moment was somehow filled up with the image of Dot. She was the first thought that entered his mind when he awakened in the morning and the last, heartbroken sadness that kept his nights sleepless and long. When big things happened, like his acce
ptance to a very good graduate engineering program, she was the one he wanted to tell. When little things happened, like the construction-paper turkey that had been hung up in the stairwell, Dot was the person with whom he wanted to share that story.
He also wanted to hear what she had to say. He was anxious to know if she had met with Mr. Wojciechow- ski. He wanted to know what the man had told her, if she thought he might give her a chance. He wondered if her bus ticket to visit her parents had shown up. If she’d talked to Dean Glidden again. But mostly he speculated about whether she’d attend the cotillion and if he’d get a moment alone with her.
As committee chairman, he took on the task of doing the introductions. There were more boys at Baldridge than girls at Compton, so more than two dozen guys would be going stag. He volunteered to be one of those.
And he’d had every intention of fulfilling his duty. That is, until he caught sight of Dot standing in the doorway.
He’d always thought her pretty. Hank had noticed that the first time he’d laid eyes on her. But tonight, tonight, wow! She was flat-out, knock-down, crazy-man gorgeous. Suddenly, the idea of some other guy walking her to the dance was completely unappealing.
“Do you mind if I cut in here?” he’d blurted out.
Hank was sure he looked like an idiot. He wasn’t supposed to be cutting, he wasn’t supposed to be escorting. His job was introducing and he was just walking away from it.
Buzz, ever steady and unflappable as he was, didn’t even bat an eyelash. He did the introduction perfectly and as Hank took Dot’s arm, Buzz turned to the guy behind him to get an introduction to Dot’s roommate.
Each man standing up for the next was probably not in the etiquette book, but Hank was past caring. He had Dot on his arm and a lazy ten-minute stroll for just the two of them.
The color in her cheeks was bright. He thought her hand trembled against his bicep. But maybe it was his own arm. He had never felt so jittery around a woman before. He’d never cared as much as he cared for Dot.
“I’m so glad that you decided to come,” he said.
“I hadn’t planned to,” she admitted. “But at the last minute... well, I just couldn’t miss it.” She lowered her tone perceptibly. “I missed you.”
Hank felt his nervousness melt with a sigh of relief.
“I missed you, too,” he said.
She smiled up at him.
“Thank you for getting me the interview with Universal Research Labs,” she said. “It was very kind of you to do that.”
“Kind?” he responded. “It was kind to them. They’d be lucky to have you. And you deserved a shot at their company. How did it go?”
Dot shrugged. “About as badly as you’d expect,” she said.
Hank shook his head, disappointed. “It’s their loss,” he said.
Dot ignored the comment and changed the subject. She asked him about his Thanksgiving plans, of which he had none. She talked about her impending bus ride to see her family.
Hank told her about the graduate engineering program.
“You have to go,” she said.
“Maybe,” he told her. “It’s a good opportunity. But my money from the GI Bill runs out about halfway through, so I’m not sure I can afford it. But I’m thinking about it.”
“I’m sure there’s a way,” Dot said encouragingly.
Hank was buoyed by her confidence.
They joined the line of couples when they arrived at Baldridge. The conventions begun at the girl’s dorm were carried out here. The gentlemen presented the young ladies to their dorm mother, Mrs. Pritchard. She welcomed them and invited the couples inside. The civilities only took a couple of minutes, but it was formal enough to keep both sexes on their best behavior.
With Dot’s hand still in the crook of his arm, he led her through the foyer where the office was being used as a coat-check room. Dot removed her shawl and handed it to Hank. The sight of the exposed flesh of her shoulders hit Hank like a fist in the solar plexus. His Dot, the person that he loved, was the smartest girl in school, the most beautiful woman on earth and also the sexiest creature he’d ever imagined. It was all he could do not to take her in his arms that very moment.
He did manage to maintain his gentlemanly composure as he offered his arm once more and escorted her into the main living room.
There was gushy appreciation from most of the young ladies as they entered the room. Hank turned slightly for a glimpse of Dot’s reaction.
The canopy of vines and leaves gave the feeling of a sheltered forest glade. The magical aspect was enhanced by the curved bench seating in little grotto niches with pagan statues. In the far side of the room, a waterfall cascaded down a rock face and flowed along a tiny river that separated the refreshment tables from the dance floor. A dainty little bridge, just wide enough for two, was the only connection of the two areas. The five-piece band was setting up in what appeared to be a cliff cave hidden behind gossamer curtains.
Dot’s mouth dropped open and then, amazingly, she burst out laughing.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Yes, yes I do. But it’s unbelievable,” she admitted. “It’s so...so much. It’s fussy and girly, yet all this greenery and wood, you know that only guys would do that.”
“I think the difference is, when you ladies put on a party, you know it’s only one of many. We knew this might be the only one we’d ever do. So we had to get all our ideas in at one time.”
“It may be just once, but I don’t think any of us will ever forget it,” she said.
Hank was pleased.
“Let me get your corsage,” he said, and led her over to a nearby table.
The corsage was actually a collection of brightly colored, painstakingly collected autumn leaves, stacked from the largest, the maple, on the bottom to the poplar and hawthorn on top. They were sewn together with contrasting ribbon that was fashioned into a pom-pom on top.
“These are wonderful,” Dot said.
Hank nodded, feigning solemn sincerity. “We hold them very dear. Before these bows were finally completed, we had several freshman contemplating a jump from the water tower to end it all.”
Dot chuckled lightly and shook her head.
“May I do the honors?” he asked, holding up the leafy adornment and a long, stickpin.
“Oh...please,” Dot agreed.
Now that he had the opportunity, Hank almost balked at the task. The material of her gown came up only slightly higher than her bosom, which, Hank couldn’t help but notice, looked equally tempting in this fancy, bright lavender dress as it did in her everyday sweaters.
The fabric curved along the rounded edges of her breasts, drawing attention to the hint of cleavage between them. Hank’s reaction to that nearness was physical. Deliberately, he cleared his throat and wished he could clear his thoughts as easily.
His hands were shaking so badly he feared he might jab her with the pin. He managed not to. And with only a bit less dexterity than an engineer should be expected to have, he got the silly piece of greenery attached to the highest part of the material that covered her right breast.
Hank no longer knew what to do with his hands. He wanted to use them to touch her, caress her, discover her.
None of those things were acceptable in the middle of the main living room of his dorm. Fortunately, at that moment, the band began to play.
“Let’s dance?” he suggested.
“Okay.”
They were the first couple on the floor. An encouragement undoubtedly to the hesitating young people on the sidelines. The opening number was “When My Sugar Walks Down the Street.” Hank’s fox-trot was not as good as his jitterbug, but the thrill of holding Dot in his arms was sufficient incentive for him to give it his best.
He tried to keep her at a respectable distance. It was the polite thing to do, of course, but Hank wasn’t motivated by that. He was afraid that if he held her in his arms, he’d never be able to let her go. But as the dance floor becam
e more crowded, he had to hold her closer. Even in the up-tempo numbers, they hardly had space to separate them.
It was a slow, tender rendition of “Allegheny Moon” that finally had her snug and safe in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder. The seductive scent of her was too alluring. In the dim light and the privacy spawned by the crush of those around them, he leaned down to plant a simple kiss on her bare shoulder. She shuddered and surprisingly moved closer against him. Hank could feel the curves of her body. Dutifully, he kept his hand at her waist, but there were so many other places that he wanted to touch. One dastardly moment, as the music playing got the best of him, he allowed his hand to drift lower to the roundness of her backside. Through the slick fabric and a thousand yards of stiffened petticoats, he felt absolutely nothing. But apparently Dot did.
Her chin shot up and her mouth opened slightly in a startled O.
“Sorry,” he said, quickly, and moved his hand back to where it belonged.
To his complete surprise, Dot grasped his hand in her own and moved it down on her rump. That, in itself, was shocking enough, but to Hank’s surprise and delight, Dot went up on her tiptoes and wrapped both of her arms around his neck and plastered her body against his.
Hank now had two hands free. One he kept down on her bottom. The other he eased up along the bodice of her gown, slowly, hesitantly, giving her every opportunity to push it away. She didn’t. In an epoch or an instant, he found himself actually caressing her breast.
Suddenly, everyone around him was applauding. The music had apparently ended and he’d not noticed. Guiltily he stepped away from her. The color in her cheeks was high and hot. He silently cursed the undignified reaction that was straining at his trousers. He was as bad as some pimply, teenage kid getting an erection on the dance floor.
He glanced around to see if anyone was looking at them. Nobody’d noticed. All the couples seemed to be intent only upon each other.
Hank glanced back at Dot. She was smiling shyly up at him. She was so beautiful, so generous, so vulnerable.
