“Yes. Well, I’ve never been any good at faces. Names I’m all right on, but faces, no.”
“I’m the same way. Except I don’t remember names all that well either.”
“I read that somebody’s written a book about how to get better at things like that. Remembering. Some system, I think. You connect the name with something else. I don’t know.”
“Cigarette?”
“I really should get back to work.”
“So should I.”
“One more won’t hurt, though.”
“No.” Walt handed her a cigarette and cupped his hands around the match until she’d managed to get it lit. Then he lit one for himself.
They smoked a while.
“I almost did it,” Imogene said finally.
“Did what?”
“Asked you what you were thinking. I hate it when people ask you what you’re thinking. That and ‘what’s the matter?’ People ask that too.”
“Constantly.”
“It’s really nobody’s business what you’re thinking. Don’t you think so?”
“I was embarrassed,” Walt said. “That’s why I ran away.”
“Yes.”
“You knew, didn’t you? That it was me.”
“Yes. Are you nervous?”
“Absolutely. All the time. Very.”
“No. I mean now.”
“You mean more than ordinarily?”
“Yes.”
“No. Why?”
“I don’t know. I am. I just wondered if you were.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, if you want to know the truth, I am, too.”
“Why are you?”
“I don’t know. Why are you?”
“I don’t know. But we’re sounding stupid again.”
Imogene smiled, nodding. She ran her fingertips over the grass, back and forth, back and forth.
Walt stared at her face.
When she turned to him again, he was still staring, and he tried very hard not to move.
“See?” he said. “Sometimes I look at people.”
Then he looked away.
“I never do this,” Imogene said. “Not often, anyway.”
“Do what?”
“Just sit. Just talk.”
“Why don’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
“In the dorm at night? I thought girls did that. Sort of their national pastime. Hen parties, aren’t they called?” Yes.
“Girls don’t much like you, do they?”
“Not much.”
“That’s too bad, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Have you always been pretty?”
“Yes.”
“One of my big problems is that I never ask personal questions.”
Imogene said nothing.
“Listen. You can’t help the way you look. It’s your cross, that’s all. I understand. It’s the same with me. I’ve always been fantastically handsome.”
“You’re not fantastically handsome.”
“Oh, I am too.”
“You’re not handsome at all. You’re funny-looking. And you’re always pushing your silly glasses up over the bridge of your nose. And if you’re not going to comb your hair, why don’t you get a crew cut? And shine your shoes once in a while. And tuck in your shirt—it’s always hanging out in the back. And look at me.”
Walt looked at her.
“And smile.”
He did that, too.
“No, it doesn’t help. You’re just awful.”
“I know.”
“You can stop smiling.”
“I will if you will.”
“Nut,” Imogene muttered, and she threw her head back. “It’s just such a beautiful day.”
“If you like beautiful days.”
“Except I’ve got so much to do.”
“Likewise.”
“I mean, I’ve just got to get back to work.”
“You’re not the only one.”
“I mean, if I don’t get that paper done I won’t pass the course, and if I don’t pass the course I won’t graduate. Just think of that.”
“All right. I’m thinking.”
“So what.”
“Huh?”
“So what if I didn’t graduate from Oberlin? Lots of people didn’t graduate from Oberlin. Winston Churchill didn’t graduate from Oberlin.”
“Neither did Johnny Weismuller.”
“Or Shoeless Joe Jackson.”
“How do you know about Shoeless Joe Jackson?”
“My father wanted a boy. I’m going to swear. To hell with Abnormal Psychology.”
“Sing it out.”
“I mean, after all, the sun is shining.”
“That it is.”
“And Vitamin C is good for health.”
“Nothing better.”
Imogene clapped her hands. “And besides, it’s nice here.”
Walt stretched full on the grass. “It’ll do,” he said.
When Walt got to the geology lab that evening, Blake was waiting for him. He kissed her lightly, unlocked the door and followed her inside. Walt began setting up the stage for rehearsal while Blake, after watching him work a while, began to play “The Volga Boatman” on the piano. “So what’d you do today?” Blake said.
“Nothing much.”
“Oh?”
“Just goofed around.”
“I saw you,” Blake said then, playing high trills on the piano.
“Oh.”
“That’s right. In the square. From eleven till two. The poor girl must have been starving. Why didn’t you buy her lunch?”
Walt said nothing.
“Oh, I bet I know why. You’re probably still putting on your poverty act.” She began to play “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?” Why don’t you tell her that your old man’s loaded? Might score a few points.”
Walt continued setting up the stage.
Blake banged out “The Wedding March.” “Tonight you make the pass, right? That the plan? Tonight, when you walk the bitch home.”
“What are you talking about? I walk you home at night. You know that.”
“Not tonight, buddy. Tonight I’m leaving early. Does that make your little heart go pitty-pat?”
“I really—and I know you couldn’t possibly believe what I’m about to say, but I honestly, cross my heart, et cetera—do not want to fight with you.”
“Who’s fighting? I’m flying the dove of peace myself.”
“Yeah-yeah-yeah.”
“Tonight’s your chance, buddy. There’ll be just the two of you under the moon. No me around, cramping your irresistible style. Think you’ll make it? What do you figure your chances are?”
“In the first place, I’m not gonna walk her home—”
“Bet me—”
“Shut up. And in the second place, I am engaged to this slightly erratic nut and since even an attempted seduction might be considered an act of infidelity, I would doubt—”
Blake began to play “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Walt started out of the building.
“Who said I was finished?” Blake began.
“You’re so nasty sometimes it still surprises me.”
Blake smiled. “A bitch like her, you know what she’ll do if you make a pass, buddy? She will laugh, right in your—you should pardon the expression—face.”
“You mean like you do?”
“That’s right.”
“Why do you like to see me squirm?”
“You do it so good,” Blake said.
Walt worked that night. He directed the rehearsal with what he-hoped was gentle but firm efficiency, going over skits again and again, staging and restaging song after song, driving himself without letup. He worked harder than he had ever worked before, because Blake might be right, of course, about him making a pass at Imogene, and he didn’t want to think about it. He had thought about it every moment as they lay chatting on the grass, and if
it had not been daylight, if they had been alone, well, he just didn’t know.
For the first half of the evening, as Blake sat at the piano, he began to think that she had changed her mind, that she wasn’t going to leave, but then quietly she was gone, and somebody else was playing the piano, and Walt immediately sought out Branch and made an appointment for after rehearsal and Branch was free so that was that. He continued rehearsing, moving from skit to song and back, chain smoking, giving a suggestion here, throwing out a notion there, never raising his voice, never looking at anybody, and he was surprised at quarter of twelve when Branch told him it was time to stop, that the girls had to be back in their dorms, so with reluctance he let them go and they went, and when he turned to start talking with Branch, Branch wasn’t much interested in prolonging the discussion, partially because Walt really had nothing new to say and partially because Branch felt a cold coming on and in spite of Walt’s pleadings Branch nodded and stammered and left, leaving him alone in the room, alone except for Imogene, who quietly was cleaning up, disposing of coffee cups, cigarette butts, the usual debris.
“You’re gonna be late,” Walt said. “You better get home.”
“It’s all right. I got a special Per.”
“I’ll clean up. You better get home.”
“I don’t mind, really. It’s woman’s work, tidying.”
“Get on home!”
Imogene looked at him then, nodded and started out the door.
“Hey.”
She stopped.
“I’ll clean it up tomorrow. It’s too late now. I’m bushed.” He walked outside and locked the door. “ ’Night.”
“ ’Night.”
She started moving to the right while he cut quickly across the street into Tappan Square. See? Walt thought. I didn’t do it. I didn’t walk her home.
“Good night, Imogene,” he called.
She waved.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and hurried along a few steps before he stopped again. “See you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
He started walking again, hands out of pockets now, fingers snapping in a soft rhythm as he started singing like Fred Astaire. “I’ll go my way by myself. Here’s where the comedy ends.” He did a glide, then a few taps, then another glide, then he ran out of the square across the street shouting “Hey!”
Imogene stopped.
“Walk you home,” Walt muttered, and he shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Thank you.”
“You might get accosted, you know. Something.”
“Something.”
“An’ I got enough guilt feelings as it is. Think how I’d feel if I found out tomorrow you got accosted or something. I mean, who needs that?”
Imogene smiled.
I can’t just kiss her, Walt thought. Just lunge and grab her and kiss her. I couldn’t do that. She’d never let me. Hell, I wouldn’t let somebody kiss me if they just lunged and made a grab. There’s such a thing as manners. “What?”
“I just asked if you thought we’d be ready. To open. It’s only five days.”
“Everything will be fine. We won’t be ready, but everything will be fine.” Gradually. That was the only way. Make contact first. Maybe take her hand. Walt shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. What if I try to take her hand and she pulls away? She might pull away. Besides, he was never any good at hand-holding. His palms perspired. Hand-holding was jerky, anyway. To hell with it. “It’s really gonna be a good show. Have faith.”
“I’ll try.”
The thing to do was put an arm on her shoulder. On or around, either one. Probably on her shoulder was better. Just rest an arm on her shoulder. Nobody could get mad if you just rested an arm on their shoulder. Just a casual resting of an arm on a shoulder, that was the thing to do. Then, if you snaked your arm right, you could get it around. Then, if you played that loose enough, you could begin applying a little pressure to your arm, so that she’d be a little closer to you. Then closer still. Then you started to slow the pace until you were hardly walking at all. Then, then you did it. Kissed her. Smack on the old lips. Right smack—did she just say something? She was looking at him as if she’d just said something. Quick, Walt thought. Quick, answer her. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not.”
“What?”
“Didn’t you just say something?”
“No.”
“I thought you just said something.”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh.” He smiled quickly. “I do that a lot. All the time, as a matter of fact. I’m all the time thinking people are saying something when they’re not, you know what I mean?”
Imogene smiled.
God, you’re pretty. You really are pretty. You’re really a pretty—the arm! Get to work on the arm. The arm on the shoulder. But casually. Casually. Walt took his hands out of his pockets. His palms were wet, so he rubbed them on his trousers. Now it was just a matter of raising the arm, and almost by accident, plunking it down on her shoulder. Just as natural as can be. Just raise the arm and let it settle on the shoulder. Easy apple pie.
Except why the hell should my arm be on her shoulder? What’s it supposed to be doing there? I’ll never make it. Never. What if she doesn’t want it on her shoulder? What if she says “Why is your arm on my shoulder?” How do you answer a question like that? What do you say? “What arm?” That’s no answer.
“I didn’t hear you,” Imogene said.
“Huh-what?”
“Your lips were moving. Just then. But I didn’t hear what you said.”
“Oh, you mustn’t pay any attention to that. I do that all the time too. Move my lips. My whole family does that. We’re all the time moving our lips. You should see us. Just sitting around quietly, moving our lips.”
“Sometimes I don’t always follow you.”
“I’m very mysterious,” Walt said.
Imogene nodded.
Kirkaby, you’re a fink, you know that, Kirkaby? Fink first class. Now cut the screwing around and do it. Do it! Move that arm! Get that arm on her shoulder! To hell with what she says! She’ll probably love it. She’ll probably say, “I’m so happy you put your arm on my shoulder.” Something like that. So do it! Walt took a deep breath. Then another.
Then he moved his arm.
If he had been paying attention to the fact that they had reached the end of the block and were stepping down to cross the street, the chances are that he would not have elbowed her in the neck. But he was not paying attention. So he elbowed her. Hard.
“Ow.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. Really.” She smiled at him while she rubbed her fingers against the side of her neck.
“I was just stretching. I’m kind of clumsy. I mean, I didn’t mean to elbow you. But like I say, I’m not the most graceful guy in the world, so sometimes I elbow people.” As they started up the street Walt saw she was walking faster than before. And farther away from him. “Nuts!” Walt said, and he kicked at a small rock, sending it flying ahead of him.
“Don’t be upset.”
“I’m not upset. What made you say that? Just because I said ‘nuts’? I always do that whenever I kick a rock. Sort of a password. I’m a terrific rock kicker. When I was a kid I was the greatest rock kicker in the world. Once I kept the same rock going for more than a mile without once breaking stride. I mean, anybody can kick a rock, but to not break stride, that’s something.”
“Jacks were my specialty.”
“I played Jacks too. Not so much in public. I mean, it’s a girl’s game, so I stuck more to marbles in public, but I played Jacks when I was by myself. I was good at it, too. Not great. Just good.”
“I was fantastic,” Imogene said as she pointed. “There’s the dorm.”
Walt stayed even with her as they cut toward the building. Fifty yards to the front door. Sixty at the most, so you better
do it. If you’re going to do it you better get on the stick. Sometimes you just have to take the plunge. Kiss them right off. No working up gradually. Just do it without the preliminaries. Now. Right this minute now—
“What comes after ten-zees?” Walt said. “I remember you work your way up to ten-zees, but then what?”
“Eggs in a basket, then pigs in a pen.”
“Oh, sure, that’s it. Eggs in a basket, then pigs in a pen.” Don’t be a fink, fink. There’s thirty yards to go. Twenty-five and you’ll never get another chance, so make up your mind. One way or the other. Do it or don’t do it. Make up your mind. Think. Think—
He was still thinking when Imogene turned her body.
It was such a graceful movement that for a moment he wasn’t even aware that she had done it, but suddenly she was ahead of him, one step ahead, and then her body turned, pivoted, stopped, and she was facing him—facing him in the darkness. During the moment it took for him to realize her action, he completed one final step toward her. The gap closed. There they were.
Omigod, Walt thought. She’s making a pass at me.
They stood quite still, not looking at each other. Walt waited for her to move, but she didn’t, and then he realized that she was waiting for him to do it, move, act, something. I wonder what I’m going to do, Walt thought, because whatever quandary means, I’m in one, because I’m engaged and that’s important, to me, it is, even though I don’t know if I love her or not, Blake, and Blake says she’s a bitch, Imogene, but if she is I’ve never seen it so I don’t think so, what I think is that she’s beautiful and sweet and kind and maybe even cares for me, not much but maybe a little, maybe, so I wonder what I’m going to do. I mean, of course, I won’t do anything. I just couldn’t. Except she’s right there. Imogene. Waiting for me. The two of us. Together. In the dark. Alone.
Hey, Walt thought. Hey, I better remember this.
The pressure of her breasts against his body; he could feel the tender pressure. They were standing close together, almost but not quite touching, except where her breasts grazed the front of his shirt, and even though the pressure was light, so light, he could feel it. And the date was the eleventh of May; the time: half past twelve. Place: Oberlin, Ohio. More specifically, the lawn of Keep Cottage. More specifically still: close beside a tree, the biggest tree on the lawn, to the left of the front door, deep in shadow. The weather was warm, and a warmer wind washed them from the south. Except for the leaves overhead, there was no sound. The sky? Clear, with the usual number of stars, a wedge of moon. The moonlight was not strong, and the tree branches cut off most of what there was, but a bit of it managed to spot her shoulder, paling her pale red hair. She wore white, a man’s shirt, much too big for her, the sleeves rolled up over the elbows. Her red hair cascaded down, covering the collar of her shirt. Her eyes were bright—pale blue in sunlight, bright only now. Bright was the color of her eyes.