Separate Beds (11 page)

“But you can't help it.” Marie shrugged as if it were a foregone conclusion.

“Oh, come on,” Catherine said in exasperation.

“Once you've been in this place you realize that no girl who comes here is immune to the man who's the other half of the reason she's here. How could she be?”

Although Catherine wanted to deny it, she could not. It was true that when she'd heard Clay Forrester's voice something had gone all barmy in the pit of her stomach. She'd grown shivery and hot all at once, light-headed and flustered. How could I! she berated herself silently. How could I react so to the mere voice of a man who—two months after the fact!—forgot that he'd ever had sexual intercourse with me?

The minute she came home from classes the following afternoon, Catherine knew something was up. The atmosphere was charged, the girls giddy, giggly. Everyone turned suddenly helpful, advising her to go upstairs and get her studying done right away, not to worry about setting the table—Vicky would do it for her. Someone suggested she do her nails and Marie suggested, “Hey, Catherine, how about if I blowdry your hair? I'm pretty good at it, you know.”

“I did it this morning, thanks.”

Behind her back Marie made an exasperated gesture, followed by a rash of questions about whether or not Catherine had ever worn purple eyeshadow. Apricot blush? White lipliner? By the time she went down to supper Catherine accosted the crew with a sly look on her face. “All right, you guys, I know what you're up to. Marie's been talking, hasn't she? But this is
not
a date, so don't misconstrue it as one. Yes, someone's coming for me, but I'm going exactly as I am.” There stood Catherine, confronting the whole dining room full of critical faces, dressed in faded blue jeans and an outsize flannel shirt, looking like she should be slopping hogs.

“In that!” Marie fairly choked.

“There's nothing wrong with this.”

“Maybe not for a game of touch football.”

“Why should I primp? I told you, it's
not
a date.”

“The word is out, Catherine,” Grover proclaimed. “We all know it's
him!”

Marie, without question the group leader, put a hand on her hip and sing-songed, “Not a date, huh? What'sa matter, Catherine, is he old and feeble or something? Hasn't he got any hair on his legs?”

They all started laughing, Catherine included. Someone else picked up the teasing, carrying it forward. “Maybe he's got body odor! Or halitosis. No, I know! Ringworm! Who'd want to dress up for a guy with ringworm?” By now they were circling Catherine as if she were a maypole. “I know, I bet he's married.” But what had started out to be funny suddenly angered Catherine, who saw the girls as a pack of feral animals, nipping at her, closing in for the final attack.

“Nope, I know he's not married,” Marie informed the group. “It's got to be something else.”

“A priest then, a man of the cloth. Oh, shame, shame, Catherine.”

“I thought you were my friends!” she exclaimed, confused and hurt.

“We are. All we want to do is see you dolled up for your fella.”

“He's not my fella!”

“You bet he's not, and he won't be either if you don't get out of those everyday rags and paint your nails.”

“I am not painting my nails for Clay Forrester. He can go to hell, and so can all of you!” Catherine broke from the circle and ran upstairs.

But she was not allowed to sulk, for momentarily Marie appeared, leaning against the door frame. “Tolly doesn't allow anybody to skip meals around here, so you'd better get back down there. The girls were just having a little fun. They're all quite a bit younger than you, you know, but you're the one who's acting childish by coming up here and sulking.”

Catherine threw a derisive glance at her roommate. “I'll be back down,” she said coldly, “but tell the girls to lay off! It's nobody's business how I dress.”

Supper was an uncomfortable affair for Catherine, but the rest carried on as if nothing had happened. She sat stonily, her nerves as taut as fiddlestrings.

“Pass the strawberry jam,” Marie requested, eyeballing a silent message to Vicky, on Catherine's left, then to Grover, who was refilling milk glasses. When Grover reached Catherine, she made sure a cold splat of milk landed in the angry girl's lap. Catherine's chair screeched back, but she only glared silently at Grover.

Marie's voice was as smooth as melted butter. “Why, Grover, can't you be more careful?”

Grover set down the milk carton, grabbed some napkins and made a show of swabbing the wet leg of Catherine's jeans. Titters started around the table as Catherine viciously yanked the napkins away and said icily, “It's okay, forget it.”

But as she leaned forward to pull her chair back up to the table, a hand shot out from her left, bearing a biscuit, oozing jam. The sticky strawberries caught Catherine on the left temple, smearing into her hair, ear and eyebrow.

“Oh, my, look what I've done,” Vicky said innocently.

Catherine leaped up, anger bubbling uncontrollably. “What kind of conspiracy is this! What have I done to make you all so hateful?”

Just then Marie, their ringleader, arose, wearing her piquant smile and came to put her arms around Catherine. “We only want to help.” Catherine stood in the circle of Marie's unwanted hug, holding herself stiff.

“Well, you have a strange way of showing it.”

But just then Marie drew back with a false gasp, and Catherine felt something warm and cloying plastering her shirt against her back where Marie's arm had been.

“Now I've really done it. I got gravy on your shirt, Catherine.” Then with a sly glance at all her coconspirators, Marie suggested, “We'll just have to see what we can do about it, won't we, girls?” And standing back, hands on hips, the shorter girl surveyed Catherine critically. “Have you ever seen such a mess in your life?”

Catherine, dumbfounded, only now began to suspect the method behind their madness as smiles bloomed all around the table. One by one they passed her on their way upstairs, each offering something.

“You really should wash your hair. I have a bottle of strawberry shampoo.”

“And I have some yummy Village Bath Oil you can borrow.”

“I haven't done my laundry yet. If you'll leave your jeans and shirt in the hall, I'll throw them in with my stuff.”

“Institution soap is the pits. I'll leave mine in the bathroom.”

Marie swiped a finger across Catherine's temple, then sucked the jam from it. “Yuck! I guess we'll have to give you a fresh hairdo after all.”

“For heaven's sake, get her upstairs and do something with that jam, Marie!”

Marie winked at Catherine, reached out a small hand, waiting. In the moment before she placed her own in it to be led upstairs, Catherine felt a lump lodge in her throat, a curious, new growing thing, a learning thing, a trusting thing. But before she quite decided how to deal with it, she was in their hands.

Many times during the next hour Catherine raised her eyes to Marie's in the mirror, understanding now, feeling warmed and grateful because they cared—they all cared so very much. “You're crazy, you know,” she laughed, “you're all a little bit crazy. It's not even a date.”

“By the time we get done, it will be,” Marie deemed.

The pile of makeup that appeared would have put Cleopatra to shame. With gratitude but reservation, Catherine accepted pedicure, manicure, coiffure, jewelry, even lacy underwear, all offered with the best and most optimistic intentions. After holding her dress while she slipped it on, the stubby Marie stood on top of one of the beds to fasten a gold chain around Catherine's neck.

“Hey, when you gonna grow up, Marie?” someone quipped.

“Hadn't you noticed?” she rubbed her belly. “I'm growing daily, only in the wrong direction.” Laughter followed, but subdued now, almost reverent, while Catherine stood in their midst, looking unbelievably lovely.

“Go on, have a look,” Marie prompted, nudging Catherine's shoulder.

Catherine walked to the mirror, fully expecting to see a Kewpie doll looking back at her. But she was stunned at the surprisingly lovely woman reflected there. Her hair was glowing, flowing back from her face as if its golden streaks were blowing in the wind. The makeup had been done tastefully, giving her cheeks a delicate, hollow look, her blue eyes a new luminous size and glitter. The gloss on her lips reflected a bead of light, as if she'd just passed her tongue along them and left them provocatively wet. Small gold hoops at her ears complimented the shadowed length of her neck and emphasized her delicate jawline, while the loop of gold around her neck drew her eyes downward to the open collar of the soft, blue wool shirtwaist with its long sleeves and front closure. The collar stood up in back, flared open in front, leaving a bit of exposed skin above the highest button.

Without conscious thought, Catherine lifted a manicured fingertip and touched the hollow of her right cheek, the hollow she'd never been aware of before. Her own sober eyes stared back at her approvingly, but with a new worry in them.

My God, she thought, what will Clay Forrester think?

Behind her the girls observed the telling movement of her fingers upon her own cheek, the hand that rested briefly upon her pulsing heart as if to say, “Can it be?” And while the silent group stared, a frowsy, brown-haired fifteen-year-old with tortoiseshell glasses came forward. In the mirror, Catherine saw her coming and fought to control emotions that bubbled up and threatened. She did not want to be their hope. She did not want Clay Forrester to think she'd done all this for him. But while the hopelessly plain Francie came forward, Catherine knew that for this one evening she was doomed to play the role these girls so desperately needed her to play.

Francie, who had never spoken a word to Catherine before, came forward, bearing a bottle of Charlie perfume.

“Here,” she said, “I stole this from you.”

Catherine turned to take the bottle, smiling into Francie's eyes, which held no more sparkle than cold dishwater. “I have a couple of different kinds. Why don't you keep it?” But as Francie extended the bottle, Catherine could see the girl's hand tremble.

“But this one must be your favorite. It's the most used up.”

Francie's eyes impaled her, wavering neither right nor left. Then Catherine smiled and took the bottle and sprayed herself lightly behind her ears and upon her wrists. When she finished she said, “You're right, Francie, it is my favorite, but why don't you put it on your dresser and when I want it, I'll just come in and take a squirt.”

“Really?” Had Catherine been a movie star who suddenly stepped off the screen to materialize before Francie in flesh and blood, the girl could not have been more awed.

This is ridiculous, thought Catherine. I'm not Cinderella. I'm not what they want me to be. But something stung her eyelids as she pushed the bottle of perfume more firmly into Francie's hands, undone by the look in the younger girl's eyes.

Marie, still standing on the bed, broke the tension by quipping, “I think this is what's called a pregnant silence.”

So Catherine was saved from tears, and Francie was saved from shame, and everyone laughed and began drifting from the room until Catherine was left alone with Marie. Impulsively she gave the shorter girl a hug.

“Mutt and Jeff, aren't we?” Marie joked.

“I don't know what to say. I misjudged all of you earlier. I'm sorry.”

“Hey,” Marie reached to fix a certain curl at the side of Catherine's cheek, “we laid it on a little heavy. We understand.”

“So do I . . . now.”

“You're going for all of us, Cath.”

“I know, I know.”

“Just hear him out, okay?”

“But he's not coming to ask me to marry him. We already—”

“Just hear him out, that's all. Give the girls a little something to hope for. Pretend for them that it's real. Promise? Just for one night?”

“Okay, Marie,” Catherine agreed, “for all of you. But what happens to their hopes when it doesn't come to anything?”

“You don't seem to realize that this is a first for them. Just give them something to talk about when he comes to the door. Be nice. Make them dream a little bit tonight.”

Marie wondered how any man could resist a woman as beautiful as Catherine. Being short herself she naturally admired Catherine's height. Being dark, she admired her blondness. Being bubbly, she admired her reserve. Being round-faced, she admired the long elegance of Catherine's face. Catherine was everything that Marie was not. Perhaps that's why they felt so strangely drawn to each other.

“Hey, Cath,” Marie said, “you're a knockout.”

“No, I'm not. You just want me to be.”

“This guy must be something to have a girl like you.”

But just then someone hollered from downstairs, “Hey, what kind of car has he got?”

Knowing before she answered that her response was certain to raise a hullabaloo, Catherine mentally grimaced, then called, “A silver Corvette.”

Marie looked like she'd swallowed a live crayfish. “A what!”

“You heard right.”

“And you're resisting him! No wonder you look pained.”

I do not look pained! thought Catherine. I
do not.

From downstairs issued a noisy mingling of catcalls, wolf howls, whistles, and out-and-out girlish squeals, followed by violent shushing.

“Too bad you have to miss the talk after you leave,” Marie giggled, smirking. “It'll be something tonight. Come on, Cleopatra, your barge has arrived.”

Standing at the top of the stairs Catherine told herself this was not Cleopatra's barge nor high school prom nor Cinderella's ball. But as she clutched her knotted stomach, a little ache of expectation created a quiver there. A damning rush of blood crept up the V of exposed skin behind the blue collar. She could feel it as it rose and heated her cheeks.

This is insane, she told herself. The girls put ridiculous fancies in your head with all their giddy teenage fussing. So your nails are cinnamon and your hair is terrific and you're powdered and perfumed. But none of it is your doing, none of it is because a silver Corvette is coming to pick you up with Clay Forrester behind the wheel. So close your glistening lips, Catherine Anderson, and act like you're breathing normally and don't make more of an ass of yourself than you're already going to seem when he walks in that door and sees you!

Suddenly all the commotion stopped downstairs. Then footsteps ran in every direction and the silence that followed was ridiculous! Somebody, thankfully, got to the stereo and turned it on just as the doorbell rang.

Upstairs, Catherine felt a trembling begin somewhere down low in her groin and silently cursed every girl in this place for what they were forcing her to do. Down below she heard his voice and she closed her eyes, steadying herself.

“Is Catherine Anderson here?”