Читать книгу Spring Fire - Vin Packer - Страница 5

IT WAS TWO-THIRTY IN THE AFTERNOON, late September, with the sun beating down the way it does then in the Midwest, and the dust in the streets. The girl, Susan Mitchell, was wearing a green linen suit that clung on her large body heavily, a round white straw hat from which short pieces of blonde hair hung limply, and brown and white shoes with low heels that made her long feet look longer. She was not pretty. She was not lovely and dainty and pretty, but there was a comeliness about her that suggested some inbred strength and grace. It was in her face. It was in the color of her eyes—deep blue like the ocean way out there, but quiet and still. It was in the structure of her cheekbones, high and firm coming down to pull her chin up. She walked that way, too. She walked easy and sure. She was following College Avenue down to where the main gate was, and the road that led through the gate to the campus of Cranston University. All around her there were signs in the windows of bookstores and drugstores and dress shops and bars and the signs said: “WELCOME BACK C.U.”

The gate was open and the wide slate walks surrounding the immense green lawn were dotted with boys and girls, walking together in groups, sitting alone on benches, standing thoughtfully in doorways, and waiting wearily in long registration lines. Susan Mitchell had registered two weeks ago.

“You’ll have enough to think about during rush week,” her father had promised, “without worrying about getting yourself enrolled. We’ll do it early. Then you can concentrate on impressing those sorority gals. Don’t be nervous either. Remember, your father still loves you, no matter what.”

And so it was there again—his fear for her. His fear that she was not good enough. Because he had not been. He had worked hard, and not gone to college, and not had luxuries, and not learned not to say “ain’t,” and not anything. Until the war and the men came that day and looked at the factory and talked with him and signed papers and he was rich then. And then he was afraid.

He had driven her from Kansas City to register, and when she had finished, he had asked someone how to get to “Greek Town,” and with him she had first seen it.

Greek Town was the home of the sororities and fraternities and it was magic over there, close to the stadium, within walking distance of the campus, but not huddled up in narrow streets the way the dorms and boardinghouses were. It was magic, with street after street of grand houses—brick, stucco, stone, and fresh white wooden houses. Each one had a gold plaque with shining Greek letters, and nearly all of them had spacious yards, winding driveways, and huge white columns that stood impressively, symbols of magnificence. Then she too had felt a thin shiver of fear.

Tomorrow she would go to the sorority houses to be judged; but now as she walked on the campus she forgot about that momentarily, and smelled the grass that had been cut and watered, and it was good. The ivy, crawling up along the walls of the building, was massive and cooling, and the big trees made shade along the path. She sat for a while on the rock bench there where the breeze came along, and it was peaceful.

A group of laughing girls passed, arms entwined, faces glowing with excitement.

“… anyway,” one of them was saying, “it turned out he was from St. Louis—Webster, in fact—and he knew loads of kids I knew.”

“My God!” another shrieked. “Didn’t you tell him I was from Webster?”

Later Susan Mitchell walked back toward the gate and the street leading to the hotel where she was staying. A convertible whizzed by and kicked up clouds of the dust that settled near the curb, and at the corner when it turned, the tires squealed nervously. In the doorway of a restaurant, a tall boy stood holding hands with a small, brown-eyed girl whose hair was flaxen. “God,” he said, “all summer I had you on my mind, Annie. No bull, I thought about you all summer.”

When Susan Mitchell reached the lobby of the hotel, the low leather couches and chairs were filled with girls, and several rows of luggage were lined up near the desk. She asked for her key, wary of the arrogant, crooked-nosed clerk who always yelled, as he did now. “Speak up, girlie,” he said. “I ain’t deaf and I can’t read lips.”

“Susan Mitchell,” the girl said louder. “Four-o-one.”

He handed her the metal key with the wooden tab attached and she hurried off to the waiting elevator.

“Good God,” the uniformed pimple-faced boy said when she stepped into the small box. “You girls! Up and down all the damn day long! I never seen the likes of this bunch. The sororities are welcome to you!”

“The next name, girls,” Mother Nesselbush said, “is Susan Mitchell.”

At her feet, sitting on the wide tan rug, the members of Tri Epsilon polished their nails, knitted, rubbed cold cream into their skin, and rolled their hair up on rags and iron curlers and bobby pins. Mother Nesselbush thumbed through the papers on the card table in front of her. She was a fat woman with a nervous twitch in her jowls and short, squat legs. Twenty years ago she had been a slim coed with long golden hair, a gay young face, and a heart-shaped Tri Epsilon pin attached to her budding bosom. Five years ago, when J. Edman Nesselbush fell dead, she returned to the Cranston campus and took over the duties of the housemother at Epsilon Epsilon Epsilon. Now she was a wide dowager with wiry gray hair and a worn, wrinkled face. In place of the pin now, there was a gravy stain from the noon meal slopped onto her broad, lace-covered chest.

“Now,” Mother Nessy began, “a little about this girl.” The information on Susan Mitchell had been obtained by Edith Wellard Boynton, ’22. Mrs. Boynton relished the task. She was a superior sleuth, and she would often come from an assignment with copious notes on such intimate details as the estimated income of the candidate’s father; the color of the guest towels in the candidate’s bathroom and the condition of said bathroom; the morals of the candidate, the candidate’s mother, father, brother, and sister; and ever important, the social prestige of the candidate’s family in the community. Then she would type up her notes and send them special delivery.

Susan Mitchell’s report read:

An absolute must for Tri Epsilon. The Mitchell girl is 17. Her father is a widower and a millionaire. There are no other children. The Mitchell girl owns a brilliant red convertible, Buick, latest model. Edward Mitchell belongs to Rotary, Seedmore Country Club, Seedmore Business Club, and Seedmore P.T.A. Susan has been educated in the best private schools. She is not beautiful, but she is wholesome and a fine athlete. Every room in the Mitchell home has wall-to-wall carpeting. There are four bathrooms. No mortgages. Edward Mitchell’s reputation is above reproach. They are definitely nouveaux riches, but their social prestige in Seedmore is tiptop. Susan has a fabulous wardrobe. Kansas City Alum Association puts a stamp of approval on this girl, and a definite “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

When Mother Nesselbush finished reading what Mrs. Boynton had written, there was a sudden minute of silence. Then Leda Taylor spoke up.

“What if she’s a muscle-bound amazon? Do we have to pledge the girl just because her father is worth a mint?”

Leda Taylor did not have a father. Not a father she knew. Jan, her mother, had raised Leda single-handed, with the help of her job as a dress designer and a good stiff Martini. It had not been easy for Jan. As Leda grew older, Jan’s age became more obvious to men and she always had to say, “I had my baby when I was a baby, really—I was just a baby when little Leda was born.” Little Leda grew fast and fully and richly. She had long black hair that shone like new coal, round green eyes, a stubborn tilt to her chin, proud pear-shaped breasts that pointed through her size 36 sweater, and long, graceful legs. Jan had taught her never to say “Mother.” Leda said “Jan.” She said, “Oh, God, Jan is getting higher than a kite!” when they were all out on parties like that—Leda and the men who clambered after Jan and Jan with her glass raised and her voice growing shrill. Leda said, “Jan, for the love of God, let me pick my own men. I don’t want your castoffs,” when she was home in the summer and Jan was always entertaining. Then in the fall, Leda said, “Take it easy, Jan. Stay sober,” and the train moved away, toward Cranston and college and the house.

Mother Nesselbush sighed and answered Leda. “This is a pretty strong note, dear. You know our alums never make their requests quite so adamant.”

Kitten Clark tapped her nails angrily on the top of the glass coffee table. She was the official social chairman for the sorority, the girl who was responsible for seeing that Tri Eps dated fraternity men. Her motto was pasted up over the mirror in the soft jade-green room where she and Marybell Van Casey lived: “If he’s got a pin—he’s in!”

Underneath these words, a penciled addition to the rule read blithely: “Like Flynn!”

“Nessy,” Kitten said, “so far on our list we have four goon girls. Legacies. We have to take legacies, but we don’t have to take Susan Mitchell! What did the K.C. alums ever do for us?”

Viola Nesselbush straightened herself, tugged harshly at her corset, and leaned forward intimately. She whispered in a rasping tone, one finger held forward significantly. “Now listen, girls. Remember that new set of silverware you all want for the house? The one with the Tri Epsilon crest on it? Well, girls, if we pledge this little girl, I think the K.C. alums will see to it that you get that silverware. In fact, girls,” she added coyly, “I’ll personally guarantee it.”

A spontaneous round of applause rose from the gathering, and the faces of the Tri Eps grinned approval. “She may be halfway attractive,” Marybell Van Casey offered. “After all, just because she’s a sweat-socks is no sign she’s utterly repulsive.”

Casey’s voice was tinged with defiance. She was a major in physical education, and all of her classes, with the exception of English and vertebrate zo, took place in the arid surroundings of the gymnasium. Her build was heavy and muscular, but her face was pleasant and attractive and she was pinned to a Delta Pi who played baseball.

The president of Tri Epsilon sorority rose gracefully and stood beside the piano facing the group. She wore a crisp pair of white shorts, a black halter, and a black velvet ribbon in her hair. Her name was Marsha Holmes, and there was a mild, poised quality about her that commanded respect and admiration from her sorority sisters. Whenever Marsha spoke, her gray eyes watched the individual faces of her audience carefully, and her low husky voice made her words sound wistful and honest. Marsha had learned much about people from her father, the Reverend Thomas Holmes, and the serenity she wore so easily had been practiced long years at church functions.

“I think everyone agrees,” she said calmly, “that Susan Mitchell is excellent Tri Epsilon material. The purpose of a sorority is to help a girl grow, and if Susan needs our help, it will be our privilege to give it to her. Let’s all make a special effort to show Susan that Tri Epsilon is a friendly house—the kind of house that she would be proud to live in.”

For a moment there was a holy stillness. Leda blew a cloud of smoke up into the air in tiny rings. She said, “Amen!” She said, “Amen and hail the new Christ child!”

The following morning, a few minutes before the taxis arrived with the rushees, Mother Nesselbush gave the final instructions.

“Remember, girls, the phonograph is your signal to dance with one of the rushees. Don’t, for heaven’s sake, girls, don’t leave a girl without a partner. You’ll be able to tell a whole lot about a rushee by dancing with her. Notice how she dances, and in speaking to her, try your best to determine whether she would make a satisfactory Tri Ep. We know most of the facts on these girls, but it’s up to you to verify them. And one more thing. In regard to the Mitchell girl—be patient. She may not look like a Tri Ep, but girls, I’m to the point where I’ll insist that she be one. Now—go to it, and good luck!”

Susan Mitchell arrived in the first taxi along with four other rushees. Beside them she looked like a great hound dog that had been forced to romp with a select group of dachshunds, Pekinese, and toy poodles. Her manner was sprightly and buoyant, and she lacked the poised reserve of the others who walked with her up the long path to the marble steps, where Kitten Clark waited to greet them. She was smiling when her hand caught Kitten’s, and her voice was too impetuous and ingenuous. “Hi,” she said. “Hot, isn’t it?”

Kitten glanced hastily at the name tag. She should have known. The dimples came in her cheeks, and her hand guided Susan lovingly toward Mother Nesselbush. “This is Susan Mitchell,” Kitten said. “Mother Nessy will introduce you to the girls.”

Mother Nesselbush’s fat fingers reached for Susan’s arm, and as she led her through the porch door to the living room she exclaimed, “What a lovely name! Susan! Or Sue? Which one do you like best?”

“Most folks call me Mitch,” the girl answered, and Mother Nessy said, “That’s a darling name! Mitch!”

Marsha Holmes interpreted Nessy’s wink correctly. She rushed forward immediately and checked the name tag. Then she sat beside Susan Mitchell on the divan and she talked in that mellow, soft voice. She brought the girl cool mint punch and round jelly cookies, and she punctuated every sentence with “Mitch.” Through the house she guided the girl, showing her the neat, pastel-colored rooms, the grand tile bathroom with the glass shower and tub stalls, the spotless white kitchen, the cellar with the washing machines and dryers and irons, and the closed-off section known as The Den, where Tri Eps brought their dates for ping-pong and Cokes. Soon Kitten Clark finished greeting the rushees and joined the entourage, and Marybell Van Casey followed along, and Jane Bell, the pert, efficient rush chairman, and they were all smiling and saying, “Do you like it, Mitch?,” “Wait till you see this, Mitch,” and “You are going to come back, Mitch?”

Mitch felt confident and proud. She sat at the bridge table with the Tri Eps flocking to her, and her eyes saw the wretched lanky girl in the corner near the window, alone, fumbling frantically with her purse, feigning an interest in its contents, ignored by the smooth busy figures in white. Another girl in a creamy yellow suit enjoyed the same attention Mitch received, the white formals reaching to light her cigarettes, bending to smile benignly, kneeling adoringly at her feet as she sat there in the stuffed chair and let the cool breeze from the porch ruffle her hair lightly. There was a fat girl in a red suit standing awkwardly with Mother Nesselbush in the doorway of the room, not speaking, looking fearfully at the assembly. A small, pug-nosed rushee with a flip feathered hat whispered fervently to two Tri Eps. Mitch saw them all, hearing the voices talking to her on all sides, answering and listening and watching until her eye rested on a girl standing near the piano. The girl was beautiful. Her white gown began just above her breasts and came in tight at her waist and full down to her ankles, where it ended and allowed spike-heeled silver shoes to glister clean and clear. She was picking up records from a stack there on the top of the piano, reading the labels, and dividing them into two piles. When she felt Mitch’s fixed look, she answered it and Mitch grinned, looking back quickly at Kitten, who was explaining how the Tri Epsilon house had been redecorated over the summer. For several minutes Mitch knew that the girl was staring at her now, and a warm flush rose to her face. There was something about the girl. She had never seen her before, but there was something familiar in that fast second when they had looked at one another.

In a moment the phonograph was turned on, and throughout the room girls paired off and moved to the center of the floor. Kitten grabbed Mitch’s hand. “Do you like to dance?” she asked, pulling her forward. Mitch nodded, and as they danced, Kitten held her off so that she could talk and watch Mitch’s face.

“How do you like Tri Epsilon?” she asked.

“Fine,” Mitch told her, and naïvely, “but of course, I haven’t been to the other houses yet.”

Kitten said, “You will come back, won’t you, Mitch? We all hope you’ll save your most important dates for us. Try to save two and eight.”

“I didn’t know there was a difference.”

“Yes.” Kitten smiled and pressed Mitch’s hand. “There certainly is. Will you try?”

Mitch said she would. At the hotel she had heard the rushees talk ecstatically about the Tri Eps. They were rated tops nationally, and the Cranston chapter was the leading sorority on the college campus. A hot stir of pleasure enveloped Mitch. She had not known the fear her father had known for her when she had thought of rush week, but there was always the subconscious worry that she might be too uncut and plain for sorority sophisticates. During the summer the college catalogues and booklets had come through the mail, and she had flicked through the pages, seeing the pictures of debonair, glamorous young people her own age. But not like her. Mitch knew that then—and again when Kitten talked to her and Marsha walked with her, and Marybell Van Casey sat beside her and smoked long cigarettes and talked about tennis and swimming and things Mitch understood. Still different, all of them. Mitch was aware of that fact, but she no longer pondered the differences. They liked her anyway. They wanted her to join Epsilon Epsilon Epsilon.

Jane Bell danced with Mitch. Casey. Kitten again. Marsha. The lilting lyrics of “Temptation” filled the room. Suddenly Mitch felt a wave of uncanny turbulence, relieved then when she turned and saw the girl standing next to her. The beautiful girl who had stood at the piano. Marsha laughed and said, “Mitch, I don’t think you’ve met Leda Taylor.”

Susan Mitchell was taller than Leda Taylor. Leda held her and led her along the waxed floor. Mitch was conscious of her own breathing, coming in gasps and causing her chest to heave uncomfortably against Leda’s. She smelled the faint pungent perfume that Leda wore, and her hand on Leda’s bare shoulder was hot and rough. The words to the song sounded loud in her ears, and they embarrassed her, dancing to them close to this girl.

“So you’re Susan Mitchell,” the girl said, and Mitch could not hear her own answer. She did not talk for those minutes when they were together before the music ended, and Leda Taylor did not talk again. When it was over, a note sounded on the piano, and Marsha Holmes hummed the note.

“Form the loving circle,” Marsha said. “Join hands.” Leda grasped Mitch’s hand tightly. As the Tri Eps hummed the melody, there was a slow swaying motion in the circle of girls, and when the words came, Mitch could feel Leda’s eyes on her.

“Love you, I love you,

Come be a Tri Ep girl.

Love you, I love you,

Come be an Ep-si-lon pearl.”

Mitch looked down at Leda and then away toward the French doors and the drapes and the sun outside.

“Take my hand and hold it, dear,

Let me make my message clear.

Love you, I love you,

Come be a Tri Ep girl.”

“I suppose,” Leda said when the song was finished, “that you’ll come back.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see you then,” Leda said. She said, “I’ll see you then, and glided away while Mother Nessy ran forward to hug Mitch. “The taxis are waiting, dear,” she told Mitch, “and we have to hurry you all away. Remember, Susan, Tri Epsilon is counting on you. We hope you’re counting on Tri Epsilon.”

Past Kitten Clark and Marsha, Marybell and Jane, their “Come backs” echoing in her ears, Mitch felt the sun on her arms, heard the nervous honking of the cabs’ horns, and remembered only the green color of Leda’s eyes, and the four words, “I’ll see you then.”

That evening Marsha looked up from the stuffed peppers and the tossed salad in front of her. “I noticed you were Susan Mitchell’s partner in the loving circle this morning,” she said to Leda.

“Wasn’t my fault. I danced with her and it happened to be the last dance.”

“Well, what did you think of her?”

Leda toyed with her crust of bread, spreading the butter thickly around the edges and on the sides. “We need the silverware,” she answered.

“But the girl has possibilities, too. I mean, she certainly isn’t backward or shy.”

“I don’t know anything about the girl. I had one dance with her.”

Kitten Clark sat opposite Marsha. She clinked her fork on her plate and said, “Well, believe me, if she were anyone but Edward Mitchell’s daughter, she’d get a nice, fat, round blackball from yours truly. She’s hickey! I mean, absolutely hickey!”

“But she is Edward Mitchell’s daughter,” Marsha broke in, “and let’s all of us remember that. The girl hasn’t pledged yet, you know. Other houses will be after her too.”

Casey said, “She says she swims. We could use her on the intramural swimming team.”

“You’ll find a way to use her,” Leda said. “I’m not worried about that.”

After she said it, she bit hard into the bread and the layers of butter. Casey’s eyes flashed and she spurted out angry words. “What are you talking about?” she demanded. “Since when have you cared a damn whether a girl got an even break in this sorority? You throw a blackball around at the drop of a hat, and all of a sudden you’re so damned self-righteous. This is a new twist.”

Leda knew it. She pushed her plate away and stood up. “Must be the heat,” she said. “I don’t care a hoot about Mitchell. She can go back to Seedmore for all I care. Right now, lover boy is waiting.”

She ran to the side door, to the tall brown-haired boy with the pipe jutting from his jaw, and the sweater that said Sigma Delta, and she murmured, “Jakie,” and moved close to him.

“You finished fast,” he said. “Wanna walk?”

“Yes, Jake-O.”

“We can pick up some beer in Campus Town. Then wanna walk back out—to the stadium?”

“You know I do.”

“You always do. That’s why you’re my baby. Because you always do.”

“Let’s hurry, Jake.”

The long red car waited at the corner for the light to be green, and Mitch sat behind the wheel with Fredna Loughead in the front seat beside her. She had met Fredna at the hotel. Fredna was trying to convince her that Delta Rho was a better house than Tri Ep.

“They liked you too, Mitch,” she said, “and I know they’ll ask me. Why don’t you join with me?”

“I don’t know. I can’t make up my mind. All of them were so wonderful to me.”

“The Delta Rhos aren’t snobs, either.”

The light went green and Mitch saw them. They were standing at the curb waiting. Leda Taylor looked up. There was a brief flicker of recognition, a half-smile. Mitch grinned broadly this time and waved, but Leda took the boy’s arm and turned to talk with him. The car moved away and Mitch watched them as long as she could through her mirror.

“Some buggy,” Jake said. “Rushee?”

“A potential Tri Ep. Father’s a millionaire.”

“She gonna be your roommate?”

“My roommate?”

“Well, you gals have to room with a pledge. I just thought you might pick a pledge with a nice red convertible.”

Leda laughed. She said, “Maybe that’s an idea.”

Back in the hotel room, Mitch finished unpacking some of her clothes. She hung them up and brushed them off, and when she was through, she slipped into her blue-striped pajamas and sat on the bed hugging her knees. She said, “Tri Epsilon,” aloud, and then, “Delta Rho.” She reached over to the night table, where the leather-bound books rested. On the cover of one, there was a picture of the huge house with the six white columns and the marble steps leading up to the door. The words underneath read simply: “Tri Epsilon is a friendly house.”

For a moment she stared at it dreamily, and then, turning the page, she saw the clear full-length picture of Leda Taylor in the black dress wearing the crested crown, smiling. Mitch’s fingers moved delicately down the picture as though she were touching a live object, and they stopped there at the words printed in bold blue letters. They said: “Where every girl’s a queen.”