The new typist had a desk next to me and she was a cute kid. When she said her name was Kraus, Mary Jane Kraus, you smiled because somehow it went with her country-girl face, the strawberry blonde hair done in a bun atop her head, the naive baby-blue eyes set in the soft, round face. She wore print dresses that didn't do a thing for her stocky figure, she rarely spoke, and all in all she was so unsophisticated you wanted to take her in hand, protect her from the big city slickers.
Kraus was sort of fun. When I took her to a Village bar, she was shocked by the homos, but after one drink she would giggle and make moon eyes. It was all good fun, like teasing a kitten. When one of the painters slipped me some tickets and I took her to a play, she was walking on air. She had the usual story: came from a little upstate town, rushed to New York as soon as she graduated business school.
I took her out now and then. I never kissed her or tried to neck her. She looked so healthy and well-scrubbed, somehow sex never entered my mind. I mean, I had some backward ideas myself in those days about sex.
Kimball treated Kraus with her usual, sarcastic manner, correcting her mistakes, roaring when Mary Jane blushed at Kimball's cuss words—telling her to stop wearing those flowery dresses that made her look as though she was on her way to milk a cow.
And from the start, Barrett was too nice to Mary. He hardly ever raised his voice to her, and when Mary told me, “Mr. Barrett is just too wonderful,” I was a little worried about Miss Kraus.
Kimball began to take a sudden interest in me. Maybe she was jealous of the boss making a play for Mary Jane. Whatever the reason, she began to joke with me, making fun of Barrett and Miss Kraus. Nothing nasty, merely clever digs. One afternoon, when I'd fast-changed Barrett out of a ten spot, I sat at my desk and watched the lines in Kimball's figure as she bent over the copywriter's desk.
When she came over to look at a layout I'd done for her, she asked, “Where's Kraus?”
“Guess she's in Big Business's office.”
“She'll soon be getting the business,” Kimball said.
“Forget her. I'd like to take up my rain-check on that drink you once offered me. I also have a couple of seats for a show. Suppose I take you to supper? How about Mori's?”
“That's so sweet of you. What will you do for the next two weeks, diet?”
“What do you mean?” I asked stiffly. I'd never been to Mori's, but people had told me about the place.
“Come off it, Jameson, I make out your pay check every week. Mori's will set you back a week's salary, even with your side rackets. I'll...”
“What side rackets?”
“Don't kid the kidder, Marshal. I know this real estate business, from the petty rackets up to the big ones. Forget about Mori's, and I'll go dutch treat to some less expensive place, if you wish.”
I laughed—to cover my embarrassment. Kimball had a red roadster and she took me to a Chinese restaurant near Columbia University that I'd never heard of, and I made it a point to supposedly know all the good eating spots in the city; it was part of my big-New-Yorker front. It was a small place, but they had real Chinese food, I didn't even know what I was eating half the time, and of course Kimball could use chopsticks. Then we drove downtown and she parked her car near Ninth Avenue and we stopped for a few drinks.
The show was pretty stupid and we walked out after the second act and I took Kimball to a Village bar and we had more drinks and danced, and naturally Kimball was an expert dancer.
She was good company, and when she asked if I wanted to go to her place and kill a bottle, I was all for it. She had floor-through of a private house in Brooklyn Heights, full of modern furniture that was all angles. We had more drinks and I was pretty high, told her about playing football to get out of the mill. She told me about working ever since high schooclass="underline" salesgirl, switchboard operator, secretary, then finally meeting Barrett. She had a fancy ivory-white radio-phonograph and we danced, barely moving, and bulled each other about art and Spain and Hitler and where would it all end.
And I knew I could sleep with Kimball that night, if I wanted to. You know how it is, without any petting or double-meaning cracks, you suddenly feel this happy wave of warmth go through you and you know she feels the same way, and that's it.
I wanted to sleep with her—I always had.
I was wondering how to go about it, what to say, when she took the play out of my hands. We had stopped dancing and were sitting on the rubber and wrought iron couch, when she put her arms around my neck and kissed me hard on the lips. It was a fine kiss, all expertly done. I was so astonished I didn't react. Pushing me away, she laughed, asked, “What's wrong, Marshal?” Her voice was too businesslike.
“Nothing.”
“Yes there is.”
“I was just eh... surprised.”
“What's there to be surprised about? You're young, strong and lean, with silly corn-blonde hair. I don't think I'm too hard on the eyes.... So?” She kissed me again, her lips hard and demanding, her tongue forcing its way into my mouth.
I'm not a sap or a prude, yet I was shocked. I stared at her like a dumb schoolboy and all the time I wanted her, really wanted her.
Marion Kimball smiled at me, asked gently, “This is too sudden, too fast for you? I believe in going fast, living for the present—the future is too far away, too uncertain... maybe a dream.”
“Isn't the man supposed to hand the gal this live-for-the-present line?”
“Maybe. And maybe this is reverse English,” she said, and she laughed—loudly. Her laughter did it.
She became once more the most efficient Miss Kimball laughing at a clumsy young man, her laughter almost a sneer. I had a lot of pride stuck in me somewhere—I still have—and I couldn't have her treating me like a kid.
I said coldly, “Sorry, Kimball, I can't do it like this. Can't go at it this way. Guess it is too quick.” I stood up and poured myself a drink and wondered if I was talking out of my mind because Kimball looked all desire.
She didn't get mad, give me the heave-ho, and I liked her for that. She merely shrugged, said, “Okay, forget it. Mix me a shot, too.”
We sat and talked and even danced, as if nothing had happened—and nothing had. I had another drink and my whisky began to talk. I said, “Kimball, you mind if I call you by your first name?”
“Don't be silly.”
“I'm not silly, just high. Marion, maybe I'm talking out of turn, but there's something I've been puzzling about for a long time. None of my business, but you are attractive, smart, desirable and yet...”
“I'm unmarried?” she cut in.
“Yeah. I'm curious.”
She smiled at me. “Marshal, you're such a youngster, but...”
“Damn it, I'm not a kid, stop treating me like I was the village idiot.”