Moving On (35 page)

“That’s absurd,” Patsy said. “We’re perfectly safe.”

“We are now,” Dixie said. “Nobody’s yanking me out of my own Cadillac.”

“That rape was a month ago and she was just a high school girl,” Patsy said. “Between us we could beat him off if he showed up. Just because it was in this parking lot is no reason to panic.” Her window was remotely controlled, and she looked around to see it going up.

“We might inspire him,” Dixie said. “Two sexy things like us.” As soon as the windows were up she started the air conditioner and cold dry air blew against their legs.

“Between us we could scream loud enough to scare an army,” Patsy said, arguing only for the sake of form.

“They use chloroform,” Dixie said as the car shot backward. “You don’t get time to scream. Let’s go to Neiman’s.”

They whirled out of the parking lot onto the frontage road in front of a giant gravel truck, made a tire-screeching U-turn, and were soon on the freeway heading toward town at a clip so rapid it inspired Patsy to fasten her seat belt.

Dixie was driving with only the heel of one hand on the wheel, cutting smoothly from lane to lane and passing whole schools of cars. There was a look of delight on her face, which forty-five years of life had left plump and virtually unwrinkled. The skyline of downtown Houston appeared ahead of them, indistinct in the hot mists. The inside of the car had become chilly.

“Why must you pass everyone?” Patsy asked.

“The more you pass the more you’re ahead of.”

“I see why you liked Sonny Shanks. The two of you drive alike. On the other hand you hate rapists and I think he’s probably a rapist. I told you what he did to me.”

“He just has a crazy sense of humor,” Dixie said. They curved off the freeway and stopped at a light in front of an antique shop. “I might like some rapists personally, if they weren’t niggers or Nazis. It’s the idea I hate. Sex is bad enough when you do it voluntarily.”

Patsy was surprised by the remark, for her aunt’s affairs were legend. She had been married only once, to a short, fat, goodhearted oilman named Squatty McCormack; they had divorced after three years but Dixie had lived lavishly ever since on the fruits of Squatty’s undimmed devotion. He kept her in cars, clothes, and cash, and in return she kept his favorite bourbon in her liquor cabinet and let him come by and get drunk at her place once in a while, whenever he was up from South America.

“I thought you liked men,” Patsy said a little timidly. “Most people think so, anyway. Momma used to hold it against Daddy, how much you liked men.”

“Poor Garland,” Dixie said, zooping past a blue pickup. “Married to her thirty years and she’s more frigid than me. At least I’m a good cook. I do like men. I’ve had the greatest bunch of boy friends in the country. I even sort of like Squatty, especially when he’s in South America. Now he’s going to Alberta—did I tell you that? Big new field up there. The poor little bastard will probably freeze to death.

“The only bad thing about men is they’re either queer or they want to screw you,” Dixie went on. “The ones who want to screw you are the most fun to hang around with, so I keep having to do it. It’s too bad it never much works, but I guess if it did I’d just go getting married all the time.”

Patsy didn’t know what to say and said nothing. Talk of sex made her shy, no matter who she was talking with. She looked at her aunt and her aunt looked quite merry and happy. She wore a bright orange dress and was as bright of eye as a girl of sixteen. Her energy and her good spirits were so attractive that it was easy to see why men took to her.

“Anyhow, men have always been the only people for me,” Dixie said, looking at a man on the sidewalk, a Cajun type with long sideburns and a ducktail. “I did once know a trombone player it worked with. Boy would I have married him if I could have talked him into it. He wouldn’t have me, though, and then he got shot dead accidentally in a bar in Lake Charles.”

She was tapping her fingers irritably on the steering wheel and looking for gaps in the downtown traffic. “I wish Neiman’s would get a suburban store,” she said. “I hate coming downtown. My one objection to men is that I can’t enjoy myself when somebody’s grunting in my face. Maybe I started off wrong. I raped myself with a carrot when I was about twenty.” She looked over and saw that her niece was blushing.

Patsy was sorry the subject had come up. The thought of her aunt poking herself with a vegetable was startling and unappealing.

“Jim a grunter?” Dixie asked. She had never much liked Jim, as Patsy well knew. She thought he was wishy-washy, and wishy-washy men put her off.

“No, of course not,” Patsy said. “Don’t say anything bad about him, please.”

They whirled into a parking lot. The attendants knew Dixie and came on the run.

“Jim’s darling,” Dixie said, grabbing her purse and taking a final look at herself in the rear-view mirror. “He just doesn’t know the difference between living and existing. He should have hung around Sonny more. Sonny knows that much.”

Patsy was angered, but her aunt was out and off and she didn’t want to argue with her back. They crossed the street on a Don’t Walk sign and were honked at, which flustered her. Going to Neiman’s was not a good idea, anyway. Jim was on a poverty kick again and would not take it kindly if she bought anything, and he would take it even less kindly if she let Dixie buy something for her. She knew she would see something she wanted and be put in a quandary. More and more often, it seemed, she found herself in quandaries, some of them impossible to resolve. They were going to a party at the William Duffins’ that evening—a great honor, apparently, for only a few of the most favored graduate students had been invited. For so serious an occasion she could conceivably get away with a new dress. She looked at several but bought none. Dixie’s buying embarrassed her. It was completely random, but it seemed to delight the salespeople. Soon a string of them were following her like ants, each with his own bit of grain. Patsy found only one thing she could not resist, a lovely glass rose stem, heavy and beautifully simple. She paid for it and once again left with only one package. Dixie had seven.

“I’m hopeless,” she said cheerfully, surveying the back seat full of shopping bags. “I don’t know what I’d do if Squatty stopped giving me money. Most of the men who could afford me wouldn’t be dumb enough to marry me. What did you buy?”

“Just something to put a rose in,” Patsy said.

4

L
EE
D
UFFIN WAS DRESSING
but had gotten only as far as panties and a half-slip. She sat at her dressing table looking at herself in a triple mirror. Bill Duffin sat across the room in a cheap but comfortable green armchair reading a book catalogue and whistling happily from time to time.

“Happy, are you?” Lee said. Her hair was blond and cut very short. She was thinking of having it streaked.

“Damn right,” Bill said.

“You’re happy and I’m well preserved. I am, don’t you think?”

“In the face. There was never much of the rest of you to preserve.”

“Better thin than fat,” she said.

“Books I picked up for four bits are now worth forty and fifty dollars,” he said. “My prescience is making us rich.”

“If books could only screw, it might even make us happy,” Lee said, turning slightly. She was so small breasted that she seldom wore bras.

“What a trite complaint,” Bill said. “I’m happy enough.”

“Sure,” Lee said. “I’m happy because I’m well preserved and you’re happy because you’ve got six thousand books. Once every ten days or so we even have a pleasant conversation. I wish the girls were still at home. At least they talked to me.”

“Find you a chum,” Bill said. “There’s bound to be a faculty wife or two who has similar problems.”

“Nobody not married to you could have anything in common with me,” Lee said. “When do the kids arrive?”

“Shortly. Want a drink? It might inspire you to finish dressing.”

“Vodka and tonic,” she said.

She finished while he fixed the drinks, and when the graduate students began to come nervously in, the Duffins were there to dazzle them. They had bought a house in Southampton, on Dunstan Street, an old high-ceilinged house with a long living room that had been shelved to hold four thousand of Bill’s six thousand books. The Duffin library started with Henry James and came forward and included almost every modern writer of note, English, Irish, or American. Most of the books were fine bright copies and the collection shone brilliantly against the dark-stained bookcases. Among the nervous poorly dressed graduate students and their self-conscious wives the Duffins shone just as brilliantly—Bill tall and very confident and condescendingly amiable, ready with drinks and high-level academic gossip; Lee just as confident, quite impenetrable but poised and friendly and in a wild yellow dress. She moved from wife to wife inquiring about progeny and schools and the like. There was a Rolling Stones album on the phonograph, turned rather loud, a fact that unsettled many of the graduate students. The novelty of a professor who played the Stones was a little disquieting—almost frightening. In the past they had all done their level best to be conservative and unobtrusive at faculty gatherings, and it was unnerving to think that they might suddenly be expected to loosen up and be swingers. The Carpenters came in slightly late. Patsy was the only graduate wife with enough dresses to make brooding over what to wear a problem, and in any case she thought it ill-mannered to get to a party precisely on time. She had chosen a black and white dress with thin shoulder straps, so her arms were bare. Jim was as nervous as the other graduate students, and as soon as he got in the door and collected his drink he slipped over to the knot of males who were standing by the bookcases talking scholarship and admiring Duffin’s books without quite daring to touch them.

Patsy was not at all nervous. Instead she was feeling happy and expectant and was just at that stage of her pregnancy when she seemed all bloom. She was looking splendid and knew it and was very in the mood for a party. The Duffins kept her a few minutes, exchanging pleasantries, and then she went over and stood chatting with Emma. Bill Duffin went to the bar and from that hostly vantage point stood watching her. He was impressed—a fact not lost on his wife.

“You look like a spider who’s just come upon a fly,” Lee said mildly. “Have another martini. It will blur your vision.”

“Lovely girl,” he said. “I saw her at the drugstore and never dreamed she was a graduate wife. I think I’ll sit down and discuss profound issues with my students while I watch her.”

“Try not to let your tongue hang out,” Lee said.

Instead of sitting down, Bill took several of the students from his Eliot seminar over to the bookcases and showed them his Eliot collection, which numbered one hundred and thirty items. “It’s not a bad author collection,” he said modestly. “I was lucky and got my ‘Prufrock’ years ago, before it went out of reach. I wasn’t so lucky with
The Waste Land
—I’ll probably never own a first issue. Some of these magazine appearances are extremely hard to come by now.”

He showed them some of the little magazines, English, American, or Continental, each magazine in a separate cellophane cover. The students scarcely knew what to say and handled the magazines fearfully, very afraid of damaging them. Only Jim was really at ease. He was fascinated. He had never seen such books or such curious magazines. A number of the books had Eliot’s neat signature in them, and one or two of the late ones had short inscriptions to Duffin. Long after the other students had murmured their awe and gone back to their drinks Jim lingered by the bookshelves, Duffin with him. It had never occurred to Jim that books could be collected in that way or that they could look so attractive in a room. William Duffin, quick to respond to someone who responded to his taste, brought Jim another drink and continued to show him books. “My Pound collection is probably my best,” he said. “I only know of one better in the world, and his bibliographer owns that. Did you know we’re both from Idaho—Pound and I? I think that’s what got me started on him. I even collect Vardis Fisher, another old Idaho boy.”

Lee Duffin had come over and stood at her husband’s elbow. She looked lovely and seemed in very good spirits. “I’m thinking of starting a collection of penises, myself,” she said. “I’m planning to have them all in beautiful condition. I may even have a few rebound. I don’t think I’ll start with Idaho penises, though.” She turned and left. Jim was very surprised, but Bill Duffin seemed not in the least ruffled.

“She doesn’t suppress her resentments very well,” he said. “It sometimes startles people. Let me show you my Faulkner.”

They turned back to the books. Duffin noticed that Jim’s clothes were better cut than the clothes of the other graduate students. “You collect?” he asked.

“No,” Jim said. “I buy a lot of books but I never thought seriously of collecting them. Maybe I should.”

“It takes money but it’s very interesting,” Bill said. “I better circulate. Look all you want to.”

A little later, while Jim and one or two other graduate students were cautiously looking at the books, Patsy found that she wanted a drink of water and went to the kitchen to wash out her whiskey glass. Lee was talking to Emma, and Patsy was rather glad to get away from the wives for a minute. Her high spirits had flattened a little. For one thing, the Duffins both put her off. They were obviously sizing everyone up but doing it very slyly and, Patsy felt, not so much for political reasons as for their own exalted amusement. It was impossible to talk easily to the other graduate wives, largely because the Duffins kept the music a little too loud. The Stones or some other rock group were always hearable and were a difficult background to conversation. She had hoped that Hank Malory would be there and was disappointed that he wasn’t. He was the only one of the new graduate students whom she found interesting. All in all it was not as good a party as it might have been, and she felt slightly wasted and a little bored.