“Drizzle,” she said. “I’ll go back for the umbrella.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said guiltily.
“No, that’s all right.”
He stood alone and looked out at the rain, waiting for her return. He was disappointed thus far, but he told himself to snap out of it, everything would work out, what the hell did he expect so soon, their first date, did he want her to greet him on the living-room couch, her skirt up over her head? The thought startled him a bit because he had not seriously considered the idea of taking Cara Knowles to bed until just now. He toyed with the idea for a moment, and then put it out of his mind, not realizing that the idea was all a part of his initial disappointment, not realizing that he had already disqualified her as any serious contender for his heart. When she returned with the umbrella, he opened it for her and stepped out into the rain first. It was a woman’s umbrella, dainty and small. She climbed under it and he found half of his body in the rain, and this annoyed the hell out of him, even though he’d willingly walked in the rain without any covering before.
“We certainly picked a night, didn’t we?” she said.
“It doesn’t matter much,” he told her. “We’ve got a car, and we’ll be inside most of the night anyway.”
“I like rain, anyway,” she said. “Sometimes I just put on a raincoat and galoshes and go walking up the Concourse in the rain. It’s very soothing.”
He had the feeling that she had said this many times, too. “Is it?” he asked.
“If you like rain,” she answered, smiling.
They reached the car, and he unlocked the door for her and helped her in. He went around to his side and stood in the rain for several moments before she realized his door was locked and slid over to open it for him.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t realize—”
“That’s all right,” he said. “Rain makes you grow.”
“You’ve had enough tonight to make you another McQuade.”
The reference bothered him. He told himself it was male vanity, but it still bothered him. He was not exactly a half pint, even if he were not as tall as McQuade. He started the car and swung around to the Concourse.
“One good thing about rain,” he said, “it keeps folks at home. We’ll have a dance floor we can really dance on.”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I thought one of the places up on Central Avenue.”
“Oh, fine,” she said. “This is a good night for drinking and dancing, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” He wanted to say more but he couldn’t find words. He shut up, painfully aware of the silence that had shouldered its way into the car.
“This is a nice car,” she said. “What is it?”
“Oldsmobile,” he answered.
“It’s very nice.”
“Well, it gets me where I want to go.” The cliché rang in his ears. He almost winced.
“That’s the important thing, I suppose.” She paused. “Did you notice I’m wearing Julien Kahn shoes?”
“I noticed them right off. Black Magic.”
“Is that their name?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“We make good shoes.”
“Yes, of course.” Dammit, there it was again. Of course, of course, of course. “We’re one of the top houses,” he said lamely.
“Have you been with the firm long?”
“Eleven years,” he said.
“Not really?”
“Yes. Yes, I have. Why?”
“No, it’s just that I don’t know anyone who’s been with anyplace for such a long time. You must really like your job.”
“I do.”
“I can see why it would be exciting. A fashion shoe, there’s always a little glamour that rubs off, I suppose.”
“Don’t you like your job?”
“Well, it’s all right. It gets a little dull sometimes, and Mr. Manelli isn’t exactly an exciting man to work for, if you know what I mean.”
“He’s something of a clod,” Griff said. “I can see your point there.”
“Do you like Manelli?”
“Well…” Griff smiled. “Why don’t we forget all about Julien Kahn for a while, okay? We’ll pretend the factory doesn’t even exist.”
“That would suit me fine,” Cara said.
They went to a place called Skippy’s, and Griff was surprised to find it packed to the eyeballs, in spite of the rain. Their waiter took them to a table too close to the bandstand, but there was nothing else available, and they realized all the places along Central Avenue would probably be just as crowded. There was a good deal of noise in Skippy’s, and a good deal of smoke, and when the band started playing, they could barely hear each other speak. They fled to the dance floor. The floor was jampacked. Cara felt good in his arms, but it was almost impossible to dance, and he felt hot and awkward and clumsy. She was pressed tight against him, her body molded against his. He could feel the mounds of her breasts through the thin dress she was wearing, and below that the firmness of her stomach. He realized abruptly that no one on the floor was really dancing. It was a sort of vertical fornication exhibition, and the thought embarrassed him and he sensed Cara’s embarrassment at the same moment. It was as if they had been stripped naked and thrown against each other. Her body against his did not excite him; his embarrassment squashed any excitement he might have ordinarily felt, making him feel like a degenerate in a crowded subway car. He wondered if Cara thought he was enjoying this, and he wanted to say something about it, but he figured any mention of it would only aggravate the situation. For a brief moment, there was an open spot on the dance floor. He moved into it, and Cara pulled her body from his gently, and then the spot closed in upon them, shoving her against him with rude forcefulness, exaggerating their nakedness.
“We’d better sit down,” he said.
She nodded and smiled tremulously, but there was something of accusation in the smile. They fought their way back to the table, and he grasped for his drink anxiously.
The trumpet player blasted away at his back.
“It’s pretty crowded,” he shouted.
“Yes,” she said. She seemed to want to adjust her clothes, like a prostitute after a brief tussle in bed with a stranger.
“I had no idea—” he started, but a trombone behind him ended the sentence for him in a throaty growl which seemed never to finish. He waited until the piano chorus, and then he said, “This is a good night to get pleasantly looped, don’t you think?”
“It might not be a bad idea,” she said, and then she sighed a curiously forlorn sigh.
They began drinking in earnest. There was a feverishness about the way they drank. It was as if they both realized this evening was going to be a bust, and they had to do something about it, and damned fast. They had to dull their senses, they had to weave a fantasy which did not exist, they had to become a part of something they had both expected and which somehow had not materialized. They drank quickly, hardly tasting what they drank, drinking because they wanted to get as high as possible as soon as possible. And perhaps because they drank so determinedly, their drunkenness was a long time coming, and even when it came, it produced a forced gaiety which was as strained as their earlier sobriety had been. The liquor put a high flush on Cara’s face, and it darkened the brownness of her eyes, giving her a somewhat feral expression which she had not worn at the start of the evening.
“What’s the use?” she said to him thickly.
“What’s what use?” he answered.
“What’s the use?” she repeated, leaning over the table toward him. “You get a pattern, and then you got a pattern.”