Whisper Their Love Read online

  "Made it myself," Mary Jean Kennedy said. She gave Joyce a tentative poke. "Hey, you haven't heard a word I said. Get up or you'll miss breakfast."

  Joyce pried her eyelids open. Sunshine flooded in at the uncurtained window and lay over the heaps of clothes on the floor. "Gosh, it's hot."

  "That's one thing about pajamas, they soak up the drips." Mary Jean slept raw. Now she stood on one foot, pulling on a pair of black and chartreuse pedal pushers. Her skin was clear cream, her breasts full and heavy with dark-ringed nipples.

  Mine are prettier, Joyce thought, but hers are more—voluptuous. "Can you wear that to class?"

  "First day, nobody does any work." Mary Jean buttoned her waistband. "You circulate around and get your books, meet the teachers and so on. What a bunch of squares!"

  "All women?"

  "You could call it that. Matson in science is supposed to be a man, but personally I think he's a fairy. The gym teacher's a dike." Mary Jean pulled a chartreuse middy over her head, knotted a black chiffon scarf around the collar. "They had a young prof here once," she said, "but he got two girls in trouble at the same time and the board fired him. I think prob'ly they knocked him down and took it away from him," she added thoughtfully. "This is no place for anybody with normal glands."

  Breakfast was fruit and coffee, hot rolls and bacon and hominy grits. Joyce had read about hominy grits but she had never really believed in them before. They tasted like chicken feed, cooked. The meal was served by two young Negro women.

  One was slim and had sad eyes; the other was cheerful and motherly-looking, with a roll of stomach under her starched apron. The girls ignored them. Joyce felt she ought to say good morning, or make some sign of recognition. At home she had been on the debating team with Betty Montgomery, the only colored girl in school, and they were good friends. Also Uncle Will always opened his Chicago Tribune, when it arrived a day late by RFD, to see how the Supreme Court was making out with the integration question. But she wanted to be like the others, so she made no sign.

  After breakfast a small, bright-eyed freshman with her hair skinned back in a pony tail offered to walk to the registrar's office with her. Her name was Bitsy Harrison and she was the third generation of her family to be educated at Henderson Hicks.

  Anyway, she knew her way around. The red brick buildings all looked alike to Joyce and she wondered how she would ever find her way from one to the other in time for classes. It was worse than the first day of high school in Ferndell when the big yellow bus rolled off down the street and left the country kids standing on the corner beside the big many-windowed building. For weeks, then, she had a recurrent nightmare of being lost in strange winding halls and blundering into strange classrooms. Now she stubbed her toe on the brick sidewalks, which went up and down hill following the terrain, and was glad to be following Bitsy. The very way Bitsy's heels hit the walk was sharp and independent-sounding.

  "It's old-fashioned," Bitsy said with affection in her voice. "Hasn't changed much since my gramma was a girl. They had coal stoves in the dorm then. Imagine."

  The buildings were comfortably familiar inside—long halls with white fountains (like bathroom fixtures) and fingermarked cream plaster walls. Classrooms with armed chairs, one in the back row for a left-handed pupil; Webster's Unabridged on a stand near the window; flattop desk on a little raised platform; pictures, Washington looking uneasy in his false teeth, some Roman orator in a toga. Smell of chalk and sweeping compound, mingled with Evening in Paris and Ecstasy. She signed registration cards and received an armful of books in a room like the one where she had taken her IQ test at Community, trembling with nervousness for fear of being classified for all time with the dumb pupils. Here there were no tests except being white and able to pay, but the old insecurity made her knees wobble as she waited in line.

  The curriculum had been planned, or had grown, to develop attractive wives in the junior-executive, ten-thousand-dollar bracket. Joyce signed up for Art Appreciation, Elementary Spanish, and Design, then added up her credits and elected Hygiene rather than swimming or corrective gym. The hygiene teacher, who was athletic coach too, was a thin, flat woman in very long, narrow shoes that turned up at the toes. She had no figure, but her hair, surprisingly, was worn long and bundled up in a bird's nest under a net.

  "That's to show she's female," Bitsy explained. "You'd never guess it otherwise." The teacher slapped an assignment on the board in an Egyptian scrawl and thumped off down the hall beside her student secretary, a giggling little girl in a pinafore.

  Mary Jean was lying on the bed eating a Hershey bar when Joyce got back to the dorm. She looked over the schedule cards. "You sure aren't going to strain your brain."

  Joyce didn't answer. She thought about Aunt Gen leaning over the dining table on her last night at home, dish towel in hand, the light shining on her glasses and wrapped-around braids. Aunt Gen had an idea she ought to be taking some solid subjects.

  "Seems like she'd get more at the State U," Aunt Gen said, looking worried.

  Mimi, chain-smoking and endlessly walking from window to window, said, "Oh, for God's sake, Gen! I know I've been a terrible mother, but honest, it's been all I could do to make both ends meet."

  Uncle Will said with dignity, "We ain't complaining. We both think the world of Joy."

  Mimi lit another cigarette, dropping her half-smoked stub in a saucer since there were no ashtrays at the farm. "Then you better be glad she has this chance. Girls from some of the finest families in the country go to Henderson Hicks."

  She wasn't sure what Mimi expected her to get out of being here, but it wasn't history or Latin.

  The girls from the finest families stood around her in the lounge, waiting for the lunch gong. Their clothes were casual to the point of sloppiness, they wore baby-pink lipstick and flat sandals, their faces were as composed as if charm depended upon impassivity. Joyce began to worry about her clothes, which had already taken a lot more time and attention than her courses. She and Mimi had picked them out with help from Charm and the Ladies Home Journal, and doubtful consultations with Vogue. Even her shorty pajamas had come from Ferndell's one specialty shop instead of Penney's or the mail order. Now she wondered. Too fussy? Too kiddish?

  A small brunette said, "Ah'm just crazy about that skirt," and Joyce glowed. It was important to be accepted.

  Lunch was like dinner the night before, beautifully served but not quite enough of it. There were bits of fat pork in the string beans and a side dish of some slippery green vegetable that was new to her. Okra, Mary Jean said. She didn't care much for it. But the dining room was attractive by daylight, too, and afterwards they went up to the lounge. It didn't seem quite fitting to sit on the floor in pedal-pushers, the way Mary Jean was doing, and she was relieved when a maid came to the door and said softly, "Telephone, Miss Kennedy."

  "That was Bill," Mary Jean said when she came back. Her eyes were bright. "You want to go on a square date tonight? Blanket party?"

  "Sure, I'd love to."

  "I don't know this boy," Mary Jean said carefully. "He's a freshman. Pledge, you know. Bill has to look after him. He might have pimples or be feeble-minded for all I know."

  "Well, he's taking a chance on me too."

  "True."

  "Freshman where?"

  "Caton College. Relief station for lonesome women, you know. Bill's a senior this year, the dirty bird." Her voice deepened possessively. "The bum."

  "You like him, don't you?"

  "He has his good points."

  The heat didn't lift. They spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking and putting away their clothes. That is, Joyce unpacked. Mary Jean put a few dresses on hangers and then stretched out on her bed, an arm over her eyes. "I'm going to catch me a little shut-eye. No tellin' when we'll get in tonight." The hall echoed with voices; footsteps clattered in and out of the bathroom; down the corridor someone was practicing "Minuet in G" on the violin, the first few "bars over and over. Mary Jean slept, snoring
a little.

  Even after the sun went down there was no breeze, only a sort of breathless hush. Either this climate is terrible or I'm tired out, Joyce thought, peeling off her damp clothes after dinner. She went into the washroom and waited her turn for a shower stall. The room was full of girls washing their hair and scrubbing each other's backs and all talking at the same time.

  "Never saw so many happy drunks in my life," Sue-Ellen Levey shrieked. "So I told my mother I was staying all night with her, and she told her mother she was staying with me, and we went up to these kids' cabin," the redhead said. Her towels were purple, like her shorts. She paused to glare at Joyce, and Joyce felt good about having a date and said, "Well, excuse me for breathing," and set her soap and toothbrush down on the edge of the basin.

  "That's Charlene Wilkens," Mary Jean identified the redhead from her description. "She's one of these professional honeychiles, the kind that makes a hit with college men up north." She pulled on pink shorts, a striped shirt. "She had a thing for a married man who worked in a fillin' station last year. I wouldn't go out with a married man, not even if I lived to be a dried-up old maid." Mary Jean completed her outfit with embroidered cloth flats. Joyce asked, "Don't you ever wear pants?"

  "What for?"

  She wondered what you did on a blanket party, but was ashamed to ask. She put on shorts too and a sleeveless blouse and touched her lips with Cerise Poppy from Mimi's new line, but left her face shiny like Mary Jean's. "We look all right together."

  "Except we can't wear each other's clothes. I'm too tall."

  "No, I'm too short."

  "Have it your own way."

  "Don't we have to get permission to go out, or something?"

  "We're supposed to sign the book in the hall. But if we don't sign out, then we don't have to sign in, see? Besides, Bannister hasn't been around all day."

  It sounded reasonable, but it felt illicit and dangerous crossing the leaf-rustling area in the dark. Under the railroad arch a yellow convertible waited. The two boys leaning against the car were not quite men yet, but you could tell they thought of themselves as men and pretty sharp, too. Bill was stocky and fair, with sprinkled freckles and a flattop. Tony, the freshman, was dark and skinny. His Adam's apple stuck out and the rest of him hadn't quite caught up to his hands and feet, but just the same, he was a College Man, and not too bad-looking, Joyce thought. She sat down beside him and pulled her shorts down, exactly like a Victorian belle adjusting her hoops—and for the same reason, to give her hands something to do. She didn't know how to start a conversation, but at least she was conscious that there was nothing wrong with the way she looked.

  The way Bill drove, they couldn't have talked anyhow. Wind whooshed past, singing in their ears and carrying the smell of exhaust fumes, mown grass and blacktop hot from the sun. People on street corners looked after the bright car, admiring or resentful.

  Tony dropped his hand to Joyce's knee. She ignored it. There is nothing you can do about a hand on your knee, it's not high enough to call for moral indignation and it's hard to act reluctant without seeming prissy. She sat unmoving, careful to make no sign of responding. After all, she reminded herself, I just met this character about fifteen minutes ago.

  The countryside was strange to her. At home you rode through flat country, with little clumps of trees along the riverbanks and gently rolling fields. This was up-and-down country, and after they turned off the highway onto a gravel road there were tangled stretches of woodland, thick with underbrush right up to the barbwire fences. These woods looked as though they might harbor snakes and vultures.

  Tony yelled, "Hard on the tires," as they jounced, and Bill shrugged.

  "Those woods look as if wolves lived in them," Joyce said, trying to put the ominous in words.

  Tony wasn't interested in scenery. He squeezed her leg. "The wolves are all in the car," he said. His fingers were thin and hot.

  The lake lay flat under an orange moon and the sandy beach stretched on and on, unbroken. Farther down the beach some picknickers had made a bonfire; their grotesque shadows moved between the leaping flames and the sky. Bill said, "Get busy, you females."

  Joyce caught the army blanket and the carton of beer. It made a heavy load. The sand slewed under her open sandals.

  She slid against Tony and he caught her and held her, too tightly, so that she dropped the blanket. Bill walked back under the edge of the wooden pavilion where the slot machines and pop vendors were locked up for the night. "All clear," he said. He dropped the other blanket and reached out his hand. "Opener." Mary Jean slapped it into his palm. He opened beer cans and handed them around. "God, that's good and cold," he said proudly.

  Joyce didn't like the bitter medicinal taste of beer much, but the sweat-beaded can felt good against her cheek. She held it there and let the others reach for seconds. Tony spread a blanket on the sand and squatted down on his heels. She could see his throat wiggle up and down as he gulped. The boys had shucked off their slacks and were in swimming trunks, narrow strips of dark-colored stuff against skin that looked white in the moonlight. Bill was blocky and solid—the kind of man who grows a potbelly in the middle thirties—but Tony's ribs stuck out. He hasn't really got his growth yet, Joyce thought. Everybody knows girls are older than boys the same age. The thought made her feel protective and maternal.

  Bill tossed away his third beer can. Tony's plunked on the ground beside it. "You're a quiet gal."

  "You're supposed to get men to talk about themselves. It says so in the book."

  He punched another can of beer. Looks like all you do at a blanket party is sit around and guzzle, she thought, smothering a yawn. She lay back on .the blanket and stretched out to look for stars, but the night was overcast. Summer nights on the farm, if you slept out in the back yard you could see millions of stars, from low-swinging planets to tiny pinpricks. And in the winter if you got up early enough there was Venus hanging in the frosty air—so clear, so bright.

  Tony flopped down beside her. He pulled up her knit shirt a little and laid his head against her bare midriff. His hair had just been cut, the stiff bristles prickled her skin. "You're a cute little kid."

  "That brightens up my whole evening." "Let's don't talk. Waste of time." He reached up and touched her shoulder, then moved his fingers down a little. A winey heat ran down her arm and melted into the warm spot where his hand rested. His palm was calloused—tennis, maybe, or a summer job. It tightened against her, then moved again and reached into the front of her shirt. He lifted one breast in his hand, and she felt the bud of it harden and rise. "Nice," Tony said. "I bet you're nice all over."

  She looked nervously at the others. They had covered themselves with half of their blanket, which was moving convulsively. Crazy kids, in this weather. She tried to sit up, but Tony pushed her back. "Don't be scared. I'm not fixing to hurt you. Just wanna feel."

  "You tickle."

  "Like to be tickled?"

  He rolled against her. His elbow dug her in the side, his hand was at her waist "This damn thing's too tight. The elastic."

  "Please don't."

  "Minute."

  His hand was hot under her waistband. Answering heat grew in her. The hand moved. She moved closer. She couldn't help it; she was so scared she couldn't breathe, yet she had to get closer, she had to know. She laid her hand against his and pressed. Fingers dug in. "Ouch," she said.

  "Hurt?"

  "I like it."

  His belt buckle cut into her as he rolled over. Below she could feel the little bulge she always tried not to stare at, yet couldn't help being conscious of when boys were in shorts or basketball trunks. He picked up her hand and moved it. Large and solid, embarrassing and menacing yet mystic and exciting.

  "I got something for you," Tony whispered.

  Joyce stiffened. From somewhere in the past came the smell of freshly scythed grass. The boy in sixth grade, fingering his fly and looking at her out of the corners of his eyes. "Hey, Joyce, I got somep'
n for you," with a mean little snicker. Miss Gordon had come around the corner of the schoolhouse then, while Joyce stood terrified, yet fascinated. Miss Gordon's heavy middle-aged face was a dull red and she grabbed the little boy by one arm and jerked him into the schoolhouse. Joyce couldn't even remember his name now, but she remembered Miss Gordon laying on with a leather strap while the kids looked through the schoolhouse window. Miss Gordon's eyes glittered like Mrs. Severtson's did when Uncle Will brought a cow over to be serviced by the Severtson bull. Excited, yet ashamed.

  The same terror filled her now as when the bull bellowed—a crawling sensation along the back of the neck, a shrinking in the pit of the stomach. Night pressed down, a heavy sky, and this strange boy's hand was at the core of her body. She tried to sit up, but he was heavy on her. She gave him a shove and caught him off balance, so that he went over backwards, looking stupid with surprise. "Hey, for God's sakes."

  "I don't want to." Her voice was cold. She got to her feet, brushed the sand off her shorts, and pulled down her rumpled shirt. "I guess I'd better go home."

  Tony lit a cigarette. The flame jiggled as if his hand were shaking. "Teaser," he said coldly.

  Bill stuck his head out of the other blanket. How could he look and sound so ordinary, if he was doing what she thought? "You ever hear the story about the cat on the streetcar track?" he asked. "Damn cat went to sleep, and the streetcar comes along and cuts the end of its tail off. Cat whirls around, yowlin' and spittin', and the streetcar tears its head off." He rubbed his cheek against Mary Jean's shoulder. "Moral is, don't lose your head over a piece of tail."