She heard Miss Parker playing the Christmas songs as everyone sang.
We three Kings of Orient are. Smoking on a big fat cigar. It was loaded, and exploded. Blam!
But only Charles had sung it that way. And never when Miss Parker could hear him.
Then they were opening their presents and Charles was watching her out of the corner of his eye, every freckle on his face standing out because he was blushing. Chocolate-covered cherries. She’d never liked them that much before, but she thanked Charles and told him they were her favorites. And every Christmas after that, even after Charles was grown up and had an important job with the government, he had given her a big box of chocolate-covered cherries.
Betty frowned in concentration. There was a word for what Charles had done, a bad word. It started with a T and ended with an R and it had been in one of the crossword puzzles she’d loved before she’d gotten so sick. The clue was “one who informs or betrays.” And the word was . . . traitor! Betty shivered a little, even though the room was nice and warm. Charles, the traitor, was dead and he hadn’t loved her after all. He’d just used her to try to hurt Daddy. Still . . . sometimes she missed him, and she missed Daddy, too. She was almost sure that Daddy hadn’t come to see her since she’d moved into this lovely mountain chateau. Was Daddy dead like Charles?
“What’s the matter, Betty?” The image vanished as her secret friend reached over to wipe a tear from her cheek. He was so kind, she couldn’t help but smile.
“That’s better. I like to see you happy. Have another piece.” He was holding out the box, so she took one, just to please him, even though the candy didn’t taste like it used to. She put it into her mouth before she remembered that she had to tell him about her undertaker collection, but it wasn’t polite to speak with your mouth full. She chewed, and swallowed, and, as her eyelids closed, her message for him turned into a shimmering butterfly with gossamer wings and drifted away.
Hal sat on the floor of his office, surrounded by stacks of his discarded work. He figured he must really be drunk, or he’d never have dragged out all his old portfolios. These drawings were his slush pile, the stuff he hadn’t used for one reason or another.
He picked up an early drawing and examined it critically. This was a stripped-down version of Chiquita Chicken without her lace mantilla and red high-heeled shoes. Probably no one would recognize her.
Hal frowned as he noticed the date on the bottom. This drawing had won the local cartoon contest. He had been seventeen that year, a senior at Jefferson High and wildly in love with a stunning blond cheerleader named Marcie Wilson, who didn’t seem to know that he existed even though her locker was right across the hall from his. Hal still remembered the morning that his winning cartoon had appeared in the paper, and Marcie Wilson, the lovely subject of every one of his adolescent fantasies, had actually stopped him in the hall to congratulate him. “That was a great chicken you drew, Hal. Are you going to the dance tonight after the game?”
Hal had shifted from foot to foot. He hadn’t even planned on going to the game. “I don’t know. I might drop in for a couple of minutes.”
“Oh, I hope so!” Marcie had reached out to squeeze his arm. “Shall I save you the last dance? And then maybe you could drive me home.”
Hal had walked away in a daze, right past the room where his European history class was meeting. He’d turned around and run back, sliding into his seat just as the final bell rang. Mr. Harmon had given a rousing lecture on the battle of Waterloo, but Hal hadn’t heard a word.
Just as soon as they’d parked up on the overlook, Marcie shrugged out of her blouse and turned that dazzling smile on him. “Everyone says you’re going to be famous, Hal. Isn’t that just wonderful?”
“Yeah.” Hal wasn’t thinking about fame and fortune. He was too busy staring at Marcie’s lovely white breasts in the moonlight. “They’re wonderful, all right!”
Marcie giggled. “Oh, Hal, you’re so funny. Touch them if you want to.”
Hal reached out to run tentative fingers over her smooth warm flesh. His fingertips tingled, but Marcie’s little groaning sounds made him draw back quickly. “I’m sorry, Marcie. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Marcie giggled again. “You didn’t, silly. It felt wonderful.” She reached out to pull him closer. Hal’s head swam with the sensation of being this close to her deliciously soft skin.
Marcie groaned again and held his head tighter. Hal thought he’d died and gone to heaven and then a headline popped into his mind. Promising young cartoonist found smothered by Marcie Wilson’s breast. What a way to die!
It could have gone on for hours, Hal didn’t know. He was vaguely aware of the cars whizzing past on the causeway below, but maybe that was the sound of the blood coursing through his veins. Marcie’s fingers played in his hair, combing and twisting playfully. He’d never known that individual strands of hair could tingle with delight.
“Will you do a drawing of your darling chicken for me, Hal? I’d just love to have one to hang in my bedroom.”
“Sure. I’ll do that, Marcie.” Hal didn’t even recognize his own voice. It was low and muffled, and he felt himself gasping for breath. He wondered if he was too young to have a cardiac arrest.
“I want you to sign it, too.” Marcie was very serious as she wiggled away. “An original Hal Knight to hang where I can look at it every time I get ready for bed. Will you promise to do that, Hal?”
“I promise, Marcie.” Hal would have promised anything just as long as Marcie didn’t put on her blouse again.
“You’re so nice, Hal. And I’ve got something for you, too. Just look.”
Hal looked down just in time to see Marcie pull up her skirt. He gasped out loud as he saw she was wearing only a baby blue garter belt.
“God!” It was a combination sigh and prayer. He’d seen pictures of women with no clothes on before, but he’d never expected to see Marcie Wilson like this.
Marcie giggled and caught his hand. “I just don’t know if I should let you or not. Maybe if I had that drawing, I might. You have some art paper with you, don’t you, Hal?”
“Art paper?”
It took a minute for Hal to understand what she wanted. Then he straightened up in the seat and grinned as he reached for the drawing pad he always carried with him. He’d dash off a drawing of Chiquita Chicken for her and Marcie would let him do what he’d been dreaming about for months. What a deal!
His hands were trembling and he had to take a couple of deep breaths to make them steady enough to draw. He’d spent a lot of time perfecting Chiquita Chicken and it should have been no problem to draw her now. But Marcie had slipped down in the seat and she hadn’t put any of her clothes back on, even though he’d flicked on the dome light. He ruined three sheets of drawing paper before he finally got a rendition of Chiquita good enough to give her.
“That’s wonderful.” Marcie smiled as he showed her his drawing. “Sign it, Hal. And then turn off the dome light. You’ve been so nice to me that I’m going to be just as nice to you.”
Hal’s head reeled as he scrawled his name on the bottom of the drawing. What a night this would be!
Hal poured himself another drink and didn’t bother to sip it. Marcie Wilson was probably an overweight matron by now, but the thought of that night still made him sick. The most beautiful girl in the senior class and he hadn’t been able to do it. Naturally, she’d told her girlfriends, and they’d spread it all through the school. Hal had spent the remainder of his senior year in an agony of embarrassment.