Читать книгу Peyton Place - Grace Metalious - Страница 15

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Constance MacKenzie provided ice cream, cake, fruit punch and assorted hard candies for Allison’s birthday party, and then retired to her room before an onslaught of thirty youngsters who entered her house at seven-thirty in the evening.

My God! she thought in horror, listening to thirty voices apparently all raised at once, and to the racket made by thirty pairs of feet all jouncing in unison on her living room floor to the accompaniment of something called “In the Mood” being played on a record by a man to whom Allison referred reverently as Glenn Miller.

My God! thought Constance, and there are still apparently sane people in this world who take up schoolteaching by choice!

She sent up a silent message of sympathy to Miss Elsie Thornton and all others like her who had to put up with many more than thirty children every day, five days a week.

My God! thought Constance, who seemed unable to stop calling on her Maker.

She picked up a book and tried determinedly to shut her mind to the noise that came from the living room. But at nine-thirty things became so quiet that Mr. Glenn Miller’s music was clearly audible, and Constance began to wonder what the children were doing. She turned out her bedroom light and moved softly into the hall toward the living room.

Allison’s guests were playing post office. For a moment, Constance felt her face stiffen with surprise.

At this age? she wondered. So young? I’d best go in and put a stop to this right now. I’ll have every mother in town down on my neck if this ever gets out.

But she hesitated, with her hand on the door jamb and one foot on the threshold. Perhaps this was the regulation party game these days for thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds, and if she burst into the living room mightn’t Allison, to quote her daughter, “Simply die of embarrassment”?

Constance stood outside the darkened living room and tried to remember at what age she had begun to participate in kissing games. She concluded that she had been at least sixteen. Could her shy, withdrawn little Allison actually be playing such games at thirteen?

For the first time since Allison’s birth, Constance felt the finger of fear which is always ready to prod at the minds of women who have made what they considered to be “A Mistake.”

A quick picture of her daughter Allison, lying in bed with a man, flashed through her mind, and Constance put a shaking hand against the wall to steady herself.

Oh, she’ll get hurt! was the first thought that filled her.

Then: Oh, she’ll get in trouble!

And finally, worst of all: SHE’LL GET HERSELF TALKED ABOUT!

After all I’ve done for her! thought Constance in a flush of angry self-pity. After all I’ve done for her, she acts like a little tramp right under my nose, letting some pimply-faced boy paw her and mush her. After the way I’ve slaved to give her a decent bringing up!

A frightened anger, which she did not realize was for a dead Allison MacKenzie and a girl named Constance Standish, filled her and was directed at her daughter.

I’ll fix her in a hurry, she thought, and took her hand away from the wall.

The voice which came to her then, before she could step over the threshold, filled her with such relief that she began to tremble. Allison was not playing the game; she was on the side lines, calling the numbers.

For a moment Constance could not move, and then, weak with vanishing apprehension, she almost giggled aloud.

The unkissed postmistress, she thought. I should be more careful. I almost made a fool of myself.

When she felt that she could walk, she returned silently to her bedroom. She turned the light back on, stretched out on her chaise and picked up the book she had dropped. Before she had read one sentence on the printed page, the fear came back.

It won’t always be like this. Someday Allison won’t be content with just calling the numbers. She will want to join in the game. Soon I am going to have to tell her how dangerous it is to be a girl. I’ll have to warn her to be careful, now that she is thirteen. No, fourteen. I’ll have to tell her that she is a year older than she thinks she is, and I’ll have to tell her why, and I’ll have to tell her about her father and that she really doesn’t have any right to call herself MacKenzie.

These thoughts set up a hammering in her temples, and Constance put a knuckle between her teeth and bit down on it, hard.

Allison was always the postmistress at parties where kissing games were played. This was of her own choosing and, in fact, if she was voted down for this job, she refused to play the game at all, saying that it was time for her to leave anyway, and making her escape before anyone could protest. When Selena said that after all this was Allison’s birthday, and it wasn’t right for her to be postmistress at her own party, Allison said, “Well, I’m not going to stumble around in the dark letting any old boy kiss me! If I can’t call the numbers, we won’t play at all.”

Selena shrugged. She didn’t really care who called the numbers as long as she could play herself.

Mr. Glenn Miller’s orchestra sobbed a ballad of love and moonlight and Allison said, “A letter for number ten.”

Selena felt her way through the dark room and into the foyer. Rodney Harrington groped for her and when he touched her, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the mouth. Then he went back into the living room and Allison said, “A letter for number fifteen.” Ted Carter went into the hall. He kissed Selena gently, holding her by the shoulders, but when she realized who her partner was, she pressed herself close to him and whispered, “Really kiss me, Ted.”

“I did,” Ted whispered back.

“No, silly, I mean like this,” said Selena and pulled his head down.

When she released him, Ted was gasping, and he felt his ears redden in the dark. Selena laughed, deep in her throat, and Ted grabbed her roughly.

“D’you mean like this?” he asked, and kissed her so hard that he felt her teeth scrape against his.

“Hey!” yelled Rodney Harrington from the living room. “What’s going on out there? Give somebody else a chance.”

Everyone laughed when Selena came back into the living room.

“A letter for number four,” called Allison, and the game went on.

At ten-thirty, two or three girls said that they had to be home by eleven o’clock, and someone snapped on the lights.

“Nobody gave Allison her thirteen spanks!” cried one girl, and everyone began to laugh and push toward Allison.

“That’s right,” they agreed. “Thirteen spanks and one to grow on.”

“Time to take your medicine, Allison!”

“I’m too big to spank,” said Allison. “So don’t anybody dare try.”

She was laughing with the others, but there was a threat behind her words.

“O.K.,” said Rodney Harrington. “So she’s too big to spank, kids. Lay off. She’s big enough to kiss now.”

Before Allison could run or dodge, he pulled her to him and pressed his mouth against hers. He held her so tightly that she could feel the buttons on his coat digging into her. His face was damp and he smelled of lavender soap and sweat, and he pressed her body in a curving arc against his, so that she thought that she could feel the moist heat of his skin through all his clothing.

“Oh!” gasped Allison, when he released her, her face scarlet. “Oh, how dare you!”

She rubbed the back of her hand vigorously against her mouth and kicked Rodney as hard as she could in the shins.

Rodney laughed. “Be careful,” he warned, “or I’ll give you one to grow on!”

“You’re hateful, Rodney Harrington,” said Allison, and then she burst into tears and ran out of the room.

Everyone smiled a little uncertainly, but they were all too used to Allison’s swiftly changing moods to be actually uncomfortable.

“Come on, kids,” said Selena. “The party’s over.”

She led the way to the dining room where Constance had provided a rack and clothes hangers. Everyone took his own coat and then drifted toward the front door.

“Good-by, Allison,” they called up the staircase.

“ ’Bye, Allison. Happy birthday. It was a swell party.”

“Good-by, Allison. Thanks for asking me.”

In her room Allison lay in the dark, feeling tears that were almost cool against her hot face.

“Hateful,” she whispered. “Hateful, hateful, hateful!”

Her stomach quivered as she remembered Rodney’s wet mouth and the heaviness of his soft, full lips.

“Hateful,” she said aloud. “Hateful. He spoiled my whole party!”