The Carlton Club (20 page)

Instead, he pulled her toward him, cradled her head against his chest and held her.

“Let’s get some hot chocolate,” he mumbled into her hair, his voice slurred.

“What?”

He put his arm around her and guided her toward the too bright lights of the ferry boat canteen. By the time the boat docked in Seattle, fortified by a mug of hot chocolate and a shared cigarette, they were warm again, ready for the cold ride home on James’s motorcycle.

An old station wagon was parked in the driveway at James’s house. James stopped at the curb but didn’t turn off the engine.

“Shall I get off?” Leslie asked.

What is he doing home so early? James wondered. His father usually started his Friday afternoon drinking in a bar and often didn’t arrive home until midnight, but he was home now. That meant trouble.

James hesitated.

“Leslie, I have to go in by myself. So, maybe I should just bring your books to the party at Larry’s tomorrow night?”

How will I explain that to Alan? Leslie wondered. Why couldn’t she go into James’s house?

“I don’t mind waiting out here. I’m not cold,” Leslie said easily. She did mind waiting. James’s neighborhood scared her, and she was cold; but it would be best to get her books now.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be right back.”

James wasn’t gone long. Leslie thought she heard shouting from inside the house. Then she heard a door slam. James appeared carrying her books and an extra parka.

“Is everything OK?”

“Sure,” he said not looking at her. “Here, wear this.”

It was twenty minutes by motorcycle with James driving from his house to hers. Twenty minutes from one world to another.

In the final twenty minutes of a confusing, exciting, wonderful afternoon, Leslie had one last chance to touch him, to talk to him, to be alone with him, until when? Twenty minutes to try to decide if he really had wanted to kiss her when she touched his face with her hands. His eyes said so, but he didn’t. What made him change his mind? Could she make him change it back? Should she ask him who owned the old station wagon and why there was shouting? Was he angry that she had made him go in his house to get her books?

Did I do something wrong, James? When will I see you again? Kiss me, James.

By the time they reached her house, Leslie’s mind was exhausted. She knew she couldn’t, wouldn’t, question him. She didn’t even care about the answers. She just didn’t want him to leave.

They walked in silence to her front door. James carried her books.

“Do you want to come in?” Leslie asked finally. Unlike his house, hers was safe for visitors. She hoped it didn’t offend him.

James frowned, his expression thoughtful.

“I’d better not,” he said.

“You would be welcome to stay for dinner,” Leslie pressed gently, detecting his hesitancy. He was considering it.

“No.”

“At least come see the way I have framed the picture you gave me.”

That was a mistake. James stiffened and withdrew a step.

“I can’t stay, Leslie.”

“OK,” she said lightly, reaching for her books, handing him his parka, all the while aching inside.

Leslie clutched her books against her breasts and looked at the doorknob. All she had to do was touch it, and he would leave. She couldn’t move.

“Hey,” James said, touching her cheek with his finger, “Leslie.”

“Yes?” Her eyes met his.

“Thank you for coming with me. I had a nice time,” he said.

He kissed her, lightly, beside her mouth.

Then he left.

At the swim meet the next day, Leslie set personal and meet records in the one hundred meter individual medley and the fifty meter freestyle.

“I guess you’re feeling better,” Alan said after the meet.

“What? Oh. I feel fine.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty tonight.”

The party at Larry’s—nominally a Valentine’s Day party—was a typical gathering of Leslie’s friends. It provided a Saturday night social function for everyone. Those without dates visited with friends, gossiped about school, speculated about the college acceptances that would be sent in two months and discussed movies and albums and, in occasional philosophical moments, life itself. The couples usually retreated to the darkest room of the house to dance, to kiss or to be alone.

New relationships formed and old ones dissolved at such a rate that the profile of each party was unique. For the past three months, Alan and Leslie alone emerged as the enduring, constant couple. They were so comfortable with their relationship that they usually spent as much time visiting with their unattached friends in the brightly lit living rooms as they did closeted with the new couples in the darkened dancing areas.

But that night, troubled by Leslie’s mysterious behavior the day before, Alan pulled her away from the others early in the evening.

“Let’s dance, Les.”

James arrived at ten. At least Leslie first noticed him then, leaning against a wall in the dance room, smoking a cigarette and drinking beer from a can. He stared at her, his face eerily illuminated each time he inhaled.

Leslie stared back at James, her face resting against Alan’s shoulder, her arms wrapped around him, swaying gently to the Beatles’ “Hey Jude.” Leslie didn’t blink. She watched James with wide-eyed curiosity.

Do you want me, James?

James returned her stare, unblinking, unflinching, his eyes hidden in shadows between puffs of his cigarette.

Dance with me, James.

Halfway through the dance, Alan raised Leslie’s chin with his hand and guided her mouth to his. They kissed, moving slowly to the music, for the rest of the song.

By the time they stopped dancing, James was gone.

April fifteenth was the date on which all colleges notified applicants of their acceptance or rejection by the school. That year, their senior year, April fifteenth fell on a Saturday. A party was planned at Alan’s parents’ summer cabin at Sparrow Lake thirty miles north of Seattle. It was scheduled to begin after the day’s mail had arrived in Seattle and continue until midnight. The girls had to be back in their homes in Seattle by one. The boys would spend the night at the cabin.

Alan and James arrived at the cabin at ten Saturday morning to set up. They put food and beer in the refrigerator, gas in the water ski boat, wood in the fireplace and coals in the barbeque. Alan and James didn’t need to wait for the day’s mail. They already knew their college plans. James had been accepted at the University of Washington and had decided to attend. Alan had been offered numerous athletic scholarships. He decided to go to the University of California at Los Angeles because of UCLA’s recent record in NCAA swimming championships.

But Alan was anxious about the news that the mail would bring to Leslie. She had applied to two schools in California: Pomona, in the Los Angeles area, and Stanford, three hundred miles away. The distance between Los Angeles and Stanford was substantial, but it was still closer than Leslie’s first choice: Radcliffe was a continent away. Alan assumed that Leslie would be accepted at all three schools. He desperately wanted her to choose one of the California schools. He wanted to be near her.

In the past few weeks, Leslie and Alan had frequently discussed the decision Leslie would make. Sometimes their discussions were careful and gentle. Too often they were bitter.

It was Leslie’s decision. Still, if by some chance she wasn’t accepted at Radcliffe, she would be in California.

Betty, Joanne and Robin arrived at Leslie’s house one minute ahead of the mail truck. Betty’s mail had arrived mid morning bearing news of her acceptance to Smith, her first choice. She had picked up Joanne, who already knew she was staying in Seattle at the University, and Robin, who was rejected by Vassar but still had the luxury of choosing between Bryn Mawr and Swarthmore.

Susan and Leslie were already at the curb watching the mail truck’s painfully slow trek up the street.

Finally the mail was in Leslie’s hand. She extracted the envelopes from Stanford University, Pomona College, Radcliffe College, Antioch, University of Michigan and Cornell University. She selected the one postmarked Cambridge, Massachusetts.

It was thin. Too thin, Leslie thought, her hands trembling. She took a deep breath and opened it as Susan, Robin, Betty and Joanne watched.

Welcome to Radcliffe College
.

“I’m in,” she whispered. “I got into Radcliffe.”

“Hurray!”

“Of course you did. Whoever doubted it?”

“Congratulations, my sweet girl.”

“Leslie, are you ready to go?”

“Now I am,” Leslie said, lifting the bag that contained her swim suit, towel and extra clothes and handing the six envelopes, unopened except for the acceptance from Radcliffe, to Susan. “Here, Mom.”

“Aren’t you going to open these?” Susan asked, thinking about Alan.

“I’ll take these two,” Leslie said, selecting the envelopes from Stanford and Pomona. “I’ll open them on the way to the lake.”

Leslie didn’t want to open them yet. She didn’t want to think about anything but how happy she was to have gotten into Radcliffe. To be going to Radcliffe. She had made her decision as soon as she read the first word of the letter. Welcome.

The letters from Stanford and Pomona didn’t matter. Except that she had to tell Alan. Maybe, if she was lucky, the letters from both would begin with
We are sorry to inform you.

Unfortunately, as Leslie discovered when she finally opened the letters five minutes before they reached the cabin, she was accepted by both.

Leslie, Betty, Joanne and Robin were among the last to arrive. Everyone else had shared their news, some jubilant, some disappointed, all adjusting as the afternoon wore on and they shared the joy and the disappointment with their friends.

Everyone knew how much Leslie wanted to go to Radcliffe.

“So, Leslie, are you going to be a Cliffie?” someone asked as soon as she entered the cabin.

“Yes,” she said firmly, looking at Alan across the room. “Yes, I am.”

For the next five minutes, Leslie learned about the fates, bad and good, of her friends. Eventually she worked her way over to Alan who had retreated to a far corner of the cabin and was staring at the lake.

“I’m going to Radcliffe, Alan,” she said quietly.

“I heard.”

“It’s what I want. What I’ve been working for.”

“I know,” he said bitterly. It was what you were working for before you met me, he thought. And I haven’t made a difference. He looked at her. “Did you get into Stanford or Pomona?”

“Yes. Both. You’re being unfair. I didn’t try to talk you out of going to UCLA, to get you to look at East Coast schools.”

“I know. I wish you had. I wish you had cared enough to try.”

“I’m not going to let you spoil this for me,” Leslie said.

She grabbed her bag, crossed the living room and went outside to the shed across from the main cabin. They used the shed for the girls’ dressing area during parties. Leslie bolted the door and changed into her old blue tank suit. She hadn’t worn it for years but decided it would be fine to wear under a wet suit if she did any water skiing. The water was too cold in April to swim or water ski without a wet suit.

Leslie was going for a swim anyway, despite the cold. She pulled on the tank suit she had purchased in eighth grade. It still fit perfectly in the hips and waist, but it was tight, too tight, over her breasts.

It didn’t matter. No one would see her, and she had to swim. She had to swim, as fast as she could, until she was exhausted. She had to burn off some of her energy—her ecstasy—from being accepted at Radcliffe. And some of her anger with Alan. Then, when she was calm again, she would rejoin the party.

Leslie threw her towel over her shoulders, unbolted the shed door and walked, barefooted, across the lawn and down the four cement stairs that led to the sandy beach. She left her towel at the water’s edge and walked without hesitation into the lake.

As soon as the water was deep enough, Leslie flopped onto her stomach and began to swim. She did the stroke that required the most energy and concentration: the butterfly. The water was barely tolerable.

After twenty minutes of swimming as fast as she could in the frigid water, concentrating on nothing but the style and pace and rhythm of her stroke, Leslie was exhausted. She swam back toward shore. When the level was waist-deep, she stood and trudged, head down, through the cold heavy water toward the beach. She thought about the reason for her icy swim—her acceptance to Radcliffe—and smiled. It still felt so good.

“A little cold, isn’t it?”

Leslie looked up, startled. James sat on a piece of driftwood smoking a cigarette, staring at her. At all of her.

Her wet shivering body was covered with goose bumps as she hastily pushed her dripping wet chestnut hair off her face. James stared at the startled blue eyes and the full lips with the half smile that faded when she saw him. Her boyish hips and legs and her round firm breasts that pressed for freedom against the sheer fabric of the too small blue tank suit were subject to his gaze.

Leslie felt naked. She was naked except for the flimsy suit that became almost transparent when she was wet and her body was rigid from the cold.

James was staring at her, smiling, holding her towel.

“James,” she breathed unable to move.

James stood up and walked toward her. He draped the towel around her like a cape. Leslie gratefully pulled the edges of the towel together.

She was clothed again. Modest. Hidden from his inquisitive, penetrating eyes.

“Did you work it all off?” he asked.

“What?”

“Your fight with Alan.”

“We didn’t have a fight.”

“Oh.”

“He’s annoyed because I’m going to Radcliffe instead of somewhere close to him.”

“He’s hurt.”

“Hurt?”

“You’d rather go to a city where you know no one and take the chance of making new friends than be with him. It speaks for itself. Of course he’s hurt.”

“You think I should follow Alan to Los Angeles?”

“I think you should do what you want to do.”

“I think I’m a little young to give up my life and my dreams for someone else, don’t you?”

James shrugged. He stared at the water and avoided her eyes.

“If Alan were the right person for you, you could make the commitment,” he said distantly.

I could stay at the University of Washington, James, if you wanted me to. I would stay, she thought, amazed at the realization. Or if you wanted to spend your life working at the logging camp, maybe I could be the cook. For the right person I could make the commitment.

“Leslie! James! We’re going to water ski now. Leslie, you’ve already been in?”

Leslie and James were joined on the beach by the others. Alan continued to keep a cool distance from Leslie despite her attempts to approach him.

They water skied, played volleyball, barbequed hamburgers and roasted marshmallows. When the sun set, they turned down the lights and turned on the music. Leslie watched Alan dance with Betty, Joanne and Robin. He was showing her that he could have a good time without her.

It won’t work, Alan, Leslie thought. I won’t feel jealous or sorry. I won’t apologize, and I won’t change my mind.

Leslie glanced at her watch. Eleven. They had to leave by midnight. Maybe someone would like to leave now, but it didn’t look like it. From her vantage point in the corner of an overstuffed sofa, no one was ready for the party to end.

“Let’s go,” he whispered in her ear.

James. She hadn’t seen him for a while. She assumed he had left.

Without saying anything, Leslie followed him. James went to the kitchen for a can of beer, then he led the way outside toward the woods that surrounded the cabin. After five minutes, James found a fallen tree. He leaned against the stump and lit a cigarette.

“Leslie?” he asked offering her a cigarette.

“No, thank you. I’ve quit.”

“That’s good. Terrible habit. Would you like some beer?” he asked, raising the can of beer toward her. She could have some of his.

“No, I—”

“Don’t drink. That’s right. Too young. Against the law.”

“It is,” Leslie protested weakly.

“What’s going to happen to you next year at Radcliffe? Everyone will drink or at least know how to drink. You may even be old enough to drink legally in Massachusetts.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

“And what about dope?”

Leslie looked at him blankly.

“Marijuana,” James said.

“I don’t need it.”

“Natural high?” James asked, his eyes mocking her.

Why was James acting this way? Did he resent the fact that she was going to Radcliffe, too? If he did, why didn’t he tell her?

Leslie sighed and sat down on the log six feet away from James.

“I think you should at least know what it tastes like,” he said quietly after a few silent moments.

“What
what
tastes like?”

“Beer.”

“Oh.”

“I have a way for you to taste beer without drinking it,” he said.

James took a large swallow of his beer and walked toward her.

“Leslie,” James said gently, carefully lacing his strong fingers through her fine chestnut hair. “Come here.”

He pulled her mouth to his and kissed her, a deep warm passionate kiss that tasted, at first, like beer. Then, as the kiss became longer and deeper, it tasted like James.

The moment James’s soft persuasive lips touched hers, Leslie knew what had been tormenting her, confusing her, exciting her for almost three years. It was desire for James. The need to have his lips on hers. The need to touch him and feel him touch her.

James, she thought as she curled her fingers through his black hair and felt her body pressing closer to his. Naturally. Instinctively. James.

His hands held her face as he kissed her. Leslie lost herself in the feel of him, the taste of him, the warmth and strength and touch of him. She heard—felt—a soft deep moan. It was a moan of pleasure and desire and need. Did the moan come from James? Or did it come from deep within her?

They kissed with mouths joined and bodies straining through layers of shirts and sweaters and coats until, breathless, James pulled away. He still held her face in his rough but gentle hands.

“You like it,” he said staring at her, his intense serious eyes glazed with desire. Desire and a trace of worry.

Can I stop? he wondered. I have to.

“I like,” Leslie began, confused by his words and the power of his eyes and the feelings that pulsed through her body. I like you, James, I like it when you kiss me.