“Now it’s my turn to say ouch.”
“Why, Sonya?”
“I took you for younger, that’s all.”
In spite of the butterflies I had in my stomach, you could even say blue-tail flies, I found myself liking this girl, and then a funny thing happened. When I pulled up in front of my house, several cars were there, as usual, with open spaces between. To slip into one of them, I pulled up next to a car, then did the usual parking maneuver: I angled toward the center of the street, then dropped back to catch my rear wheels on the curb. Then I pulled up and cut my front wheels, to throw my front end toward the curb. Then I backed and snugged into the open space, with front and rear wheels touching. But of course, half the time I was twisted around, to look out the rear window and see what I was doing.
That brought me facing her. But she twisted around too, and that brought her facing me. Her head touched my coat, and as it did I could swear she inhaled, as though sniffing what I smelled like.
Chapter 2
I live in college Heights Estates, in a big brick house painted white, with dark green shutters, dark green trees, and dark green grass. College Heights Estates is a swank development, but most of the places are hummocky. The houses stand on rolling ground, or have hills rising behind, or to one side or the other.
My place, though, is on the flat, and for that reason somewhat special. It has a center hall, with steps on one side leading up, powder room and coat closet across on the other side, and beyond the steps a partition, with a door that leads to a den — the kitchen, pantry, and storage area being beyond that. Just inside the front door, before the steps begin, is a wide entrance foyer, with arches on each side, the one on the right leading to the living room, the other to the dining room. Topside, on the second deck, is a master bedroom and three junior bedrooms, the master with its own private bath, the others with a bath off the hall.
It just suggests being a mansion, and I need it like I need Buckingham Palace, but I got it in a trade, so cheap it was practically a gift, and I suppose vanity entered in: I couldn’t resist living in it. So I said good-bye to Jane Sibert, bought furniture at the Plaza, and when it arrived moved in.
Once I got it organized, it cost less than you might think. I hired on a gardener, bought him a sit-on-it mower, and let him do his stuff. Also, I took on a cleaning woman, a character named Modesta, to make the bed every day and keep the place in order. Except for breakfast, which I made myself, I took my meals out, mostly at the Royal Arms, a pretty good place near the Plaza, where I practically became a boarder. All in all, at not too much expense, I lived quite stylishly.
I showed Sonya into the living room, saw vac tracks on the rug, and told her: “The cleaning woman’s already been here, so we’ll have the place to ourselves. If you’ll give me a minute to call my office, I’ll straighten some things out there, and then be free to hear what you have to tell me.”
She said okay and I used the hall extension. Mabel, the switchboard girl, answered, and I had her give me Miss Musick, my secretary, and started it off very breezy: “Helen, something’s come up, that may keep me till afternoon, but will you have Jack Kefoe call the owner of that Riverdale house, and tell him I sold it for him? At our advertised price? And will you ask him to call the lawyers and get them started doing their stuff? But he’ll know about that.” She could have called the owner, but I wanted Jack to do it, as he was the salesman assigned to the deal, and I wanted to reassure him that though I’d closed with the owner, it was still his sale, and that I wasn’t cutting in. In my business you keep your salesmen happy, and especially you keep their confidence, so they know you’re not playing them tricks.
Then I asked, “Has anything come up?” and she said my mother had called, twice. I said okay, I’d call her back. When I asked, “Anything else?” she mentioned the proofs of our ads for the Sunday papers, which ordinarily are my special concern, but I told her: “Just check them against the copy, and if everything is in order, phone our release in.” And then, “Anything else?”
“Yes, Mr. Kirby,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “A girl called, wanting to talk to you, and when I said you were out, she asked when you’d be in, and I told her we expected you any minute. She didn’t leave her name, but — Mr. Kirby, she seemed upset and so did your mother. I had the feeling there’s some connection, and that — this girl means trouble.”
“Fine, I’ll duly get the shakes.”
“Well you needn’t laugh.”
“I’ll be on my guard against her.”
Her habit of imagining things under my bed was kind of a joke between us, and I played it the way I would have, if the girl hadn’t been right in my own living room. When I went in there, she was making the grand tour of the pictures I had on the walls, one or two paintings of ancestors Mother had, the rest were big color photos of houses I’d had something to do with, all hung above the bookcases that lined the room, which stopped at eye level.
She said, “I love your books, Mr. Kirby — and that house I’ve seen — and that one — and that one. They’re beautiful, just beautiful.” And then, “Was that me she was talking about?”
“Probably. She said a girl called in.”
“What did she say about me?”
“That you mean trouble, she thought.”
“She didn’t know the half.”
She laughed, and I asked, “Would you like a Coke?” But at that she bit her lip and it seemed she wanted to cry.
When I asked what the trouble was, she said, “It’s what you say to a child — you know nothing else to say, but there she is, so you ask will she have a Coke. Suppose I said yes, what then?”
“I’d get you a Coke, that’s all.”
“Well, no thanks. I’m not a child!”
She did sob as she said that, and I began to get the picture, of how this girl could crack jokes, for a minute from force of habit, the kind of jokes young kids crack, and then remember the mess she was in, which wasn’t a joke at all. I put my arms around her, patted her, and got my handkerchief out. After I’d wiped her eyes I let her blow her nose, which made her laugh again.
I sat her down and said, “Right, let’s begin.” The furniture’s modern and full-size to go with the 30x18 room, upholstered in beige, in contrast with the rug, which is light maroon. But flanking the fireplace are sofas, with a cocktail table between, and I put her on one, taking the other myself, facing her. But facing her that way, as she sank back on the cushions, meant a perfect up-from-the-knees view of the most beautiful legs I’d ever seen, and they rang a bell — I knew I’d seen them before. She asked, “You want to hear it all? You want me to commence at the beginning?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Then, I won’t leave anything out.”
But I was beginning to note how she talked, in the funny, left-handed way that Southern Maryland people have. She didn’t say anything, she said innything. But all I said was: “Shoot!”
“Did you know Dale Morgan, Mr. Kirby?”
“The teacher who got killed? No, but I heard of her.”
“She was my best friend, and it all began with her. I was just starting at Northwestern High, and she was a teacher there. And then Burl, he raped her. But then when he raped her again, she kind of enjoyed it, and so they fell in love. She followed him to Japan and followed him back, and then got killed when her car hit a culvert. And he was so broken up, I tried to do what I could, to ease the sorrow he felt. He’d pick me up after school and buy me a malt, and at night take me out, to the movies or some kind of club. But then I began to feel, it wasn’t a torch for her, but more of a lech for me, if I may use such a word.”