The Panty Raid (3 page)

“So, how did your session go with the dean?” she asked him. “I suppose that bringing me here means you weren’t restricted to your dorm.”

“No, that would have been cruel and unusual punishment,” he said. “I requested a firing squad at dawn. They give you a last cigarette, you know. It’s the only time we get to smoke on campus.”

The solemnity feigned in his explanation brought a burst of laughter from her throat.

“No seriously, what happened?”

“Well, the truth is, it’s worse than execution. We’re being punished by party making.”

“What?”

“The dean wants the men of Baldridge to learn how to interact with ladies in a more socially acceptable manner,” Hank explained. “So we’re required to hold a formal dance and invite the ladies of Compton to attend.”

“Oh, my gosh!” Dot said.

“And it gets worse.”

“How?”

“Because some snitch, under torture no doubt, revealed that I was the ringleader of the panty raid,” he said. “I’ve now been drafted as dance committee chairman.”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes,” Hank said.

Dot was really laughing now. The image in her mind of the loud, clumsy, boisterous residents of Baldridge

Hall sedately sipping punch and passing plates of petits fours was too funny to keep a straight face.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” he said. “To me it’s similar to the feeling of having cold water doused on my head.”

Dot put her hand over her mouth in an attempt to stifle the hooting that threatened to break out.

“I’m sorry,” she managed. “Not for defending my dorm, but for imagining your punishment to be a great joke. I’m sure you guys will give a lovely party.”

He nodded with a sham of solemnity. “Yes, it will be charming, no doubt. What do you think, gardenias or chrysanthemums for the table decoration?”

“It depends on what time of year you plan it for.” “It’s got to be before Thanksgiving break,” he said. “Then autumn leaves would be your best bet.”

“See, that’s just one of those basic things that a guy doesn’t think about,” Hank said. “I told the dean I thought it would be impossible.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that he thought it would be impossible for a bunch of Baldridge boys to get inside Compton Hall in the middle of the night.”

Dot shrugged. “Maybe you are just the man to do it.” The soda jerk brought the chocolate-coconut malt in its tall glass and set it between them. He picked up the shiny quarter and replaced it with a nickel in change. The drink was topped off with two bright green straws and a cherry.

Hank reached over and carefully picked up the cherry by its stem.

“I believe the crowning glory always goes to the lady,” he said.

She liked his hands. They were large, sun browned and seemed no stranger to hard work. The ripe, red fruit was delicate, but there was no clumsiness in the way he held it.

“Yum,” she said, reaching to take it from him.

He tutted and shook his head, preferring to carry the prize to her lips. She bit. “Sweet,” she told him.

“Yes,” he agreed.

“I was talking about the cherry.”

“I was talking about you.”

Dot ignored that comment and focused her attention on her soda straw. She took a sip of the ice-cream concoction and made appreciative noises.

“This is really delicious,” she said.

Hank leaned forward slightly, putting his mouth on his own straw to taste it as well.

“It’s good,” he agreed. “And I’d never have known that if I hadn’t run into you.”

“So the cold water was worth it.”

“Some guys tell girls they’d march through hot coals to get to them,” he teased. “You already know that I’d shiver up a wet ladder.”

They shared their shake, sometimes talking, sometimes laughing, sometimes complaining about the shreds of coconut that got caught in the straws.

“You know what I like about sharing a soda?” he said to her as they neared the end of the glass.

“Saving half the price?” she suggested.

He shook his head. “Being so close to a girl I like. And the way I see it, there’s not a much better way to spend time together out in public. Seated close enough to smell the scent of your hair, our faces almost touching, our mouths open, our lips pursed. When you think about it, sharing a soda is almost like kissing.”

Hank’s eyes were all soft and dreamy. Dot was sure he needed another cold douse of reality. She jumped to her feet and grabbed the nickel off the counter.

“Let’s dance,” she said.

They made their way toward the back of the joint, where a half-dozen couples were crowded together on a square of hardwood dance floor.

Dot walked directly to the brightly lit jukebox that was spinning out rock and roll. She leaned against it, reading the tunes available for play. She felt Hank’s presence right behind her. He didn’t so much as graze her, but he was standing so close it somehow felt more intimate than touching. When he spoke, his words were very near her ear and the whisper of his breath sent a shiver down her body.

“Three songs for a nickel,” he said. “You pick two and I’ll pick one.”

“Okay,” Dot said. Carefully she chose both for content and dance style. She wanted to keep moving and send a message.

“Why Do Fools Fall in Love?” by Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers was her first choice, A7. Followed by C4, Patience and Prudence singing “Gonna Get Along Without You Now.” Both tunes were good for bop or jitterbug jive.

“My turn,” Hank said, quickly punching the buttons for Elvis Presley’s “Love Me Tender,” unmistakably a romantic waltz.

Her choices played first. Dot had never been a great dancer, and Hank was not exactly the suave, debonair type who could really lead a girl across the floor. But they were well matched. Dot lost all sense of being self- conscious and together they managed plenty of one- handed swings, twirls and sugar pushes.

They were both laughing and exuberant by the time the slow dance began to play. Hank pulled her into his arms, snuggling his chin against her hair.

“You’re holding me too close,” she protested.

He moved away slightly, just enough to look at her.

“I’m just practicing for our Panty Raiders’ Cotillion,” he explained. “I’m sure the dean won’t want any rock and roll at a formal dance.”

“If you want to stay out of trouble,” Dot told him, “then you guys should definitely stick to the fox-trot.”

“Whatever it takes to keep you in my arms,” he answered.

In his arms was exactly what the dance felt like to Dot. He’d clasped her palm traditionally, but held it close to his shoulder. His other hand was at her waist, but instead of being at the side, he laid it along the small of her back. There was barely an inch of daylight between their bodies and the space crackled with electricity.

Dot closed her eyes and tried to breathe in the essence of the sensation. She tried to understand it. There was sweetness and a languid quality that was almost lazy. But there were also huge waves of excitement and a thrill that nearly overpowered her.

She opened her eyes to meet his, looking directly at her. Mirrored there was the same ravel of longing and uncertainty that twisted inside her. It was frightening.

Dot pulled away. Fortunately, her retreat coincided with the last notes of the love song, so she had hope that her withdrawal might have been interpreted as natural.

“I…I need to get back to the dorm,” she said.

There was a question in his eyes for just a moment and then he nodded.

“I’ll walk you,” he said.

It wasn’t the ideal escape, but Dot didn’t argue.

He picked up their books at the counter and they headed out the door together. She felt very nervous walking next to him. She wasn’t sure what had happened between them on the dance floor, but she was certain she didn’t want to talk about it.

Hank must have understood what she was feeling, because he made it easy for her.

“So, I told you what the dean said to me,” he pointed out. “What about your visit to Chariker Hall?”

H
ank Brantly was
a guy who knew what he wanted. He’d known it since he was ten years old. He wanted to be a man.

As clearly as if it were yesterday, he could remember his father squatting down beside him to wipe Hank’s tears.

“You can’t cry,” Henry Brantly, Sr., had told him. “I have to leave and you can’t cry. You’re the man of the house until I get back. I’m counting on you to take care of your mother for me.”

Hank had bit down on his lip to stop the tears and nodded bravely.

“You mind your mother, do what she tells you, and take care of her for me. That’s your job. You have to be a man. Can I count on you for that?”

“Yes, Daddy,” he had assured him.

His father leaned forward and kissed him on the lips, just like he was a baby. Then he stood up to take Hank’s mother in his arms.

Five minutes later, the bus took Henry Brantly away. Hank and his mother stood in the snow watching until it was completely out of sight. They never saw him again. And Hank never forgot his promise. But it was a hard one to keep.

For one thing, his mother didn’t seem to want or need his help. Quite the opposite, in fact. Hank was never involved in any decisions. His mother was a grown-up adult woman—she didn’t need a child to give her advice.

They moved to the city so that she could work in a defense plant. After the war was over, she lost her job. They moved a dozen times after that. The world had no plan for a woman on her own. His mother was constantly searching for steady employment and a chance at security. She worked long hours, sometimes at two jobs. Hank had taken care of himself until he was old enough to work as well. His mother finally found some security, but not with the money he’d sent home from his meager paycheck. While he was in the service, she’d married an elderly widower. The old man had health problems and required a lot of care, but Hank’s mother felt she was set up for life. Hank felt somehow he had failed.

But that was not what he revealed to Dot on their walk back to the dorm that night. When he talked about himself, his family, there was more fact expressed than feeling.

“My father was killed in World War II. He’s buried in Foggia, Italy,” he said. “I remember trying to find the place on the globe at school. Apparently, it’s not large enough to have it's own dot. I’d like to go there sometime, just to see, you know, where it happened.”

Dot nodded.

“When I was drafted, I hoped that maybe I’d be sent to Europe,” Hank said. “But it doesn’t work that way. If the army gets the tiniest hint that you want to go to Europe, they send you to Korea. And if they think you want to go to Korea, you’re Germany bound or the Canal Zone or the Arctic Circle. So, you’ve got to really push for a transfer to a place where you don’t want to go, so they’ll be sure not to send you there.”

She was smiling at him. Hank already loved that smile. A man could spend a lifetime looking at a smile like that, he thought.

“Did you like military life?”

“I hated it,” he answered. “I was proud to serve, glad to be done. It just wasn’t my cup of tea. Some guys really like the camaraderie and soldiering. And there’s an edgy thrill to the combat zone that really gets under a guy’s skin. In between hating it, you almost love it. But I’ve had enough of that to last me forever.”

They talked all the way to back to the dorm. Hank, who had never thought of himself as a big talker, suddenly discovered he had a lot to say. And he felt comfortable saying it to Dot Wilbur.

When they got to Compton, they sat on the porch and continued their conversation. All through dinner and until dark, they talked about school, home, travel, families, the world at large and the quality of cafeteria food.

At ten-thirty the porch lights blinked the signal for lockup. Girls had to be in their dorm rooms early. The guys were allowed to come and go as they pleased. The rules were based on the theory that young men should be treated like adult human beings, and young women should be held within the restraint and protection required for their gender.

“I’ve got to go in,” Dot told him. “Our door monitor is a real stickler. If you’re a half minute past time you get demerits.”

“Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble,” he said. “You’ve already been to see the dean this week.”

She smiled at him, but there was a vagueness to it, as if she’d just remembered something worrisome.

“Can I call you?” Hank asked.

“Sure,” Dot said, hurrying to the doorway along with other girls, and told him the phone extension number.

Hank stood there on the steps of the porch for a moment. A young woman with a huge load of books whizzed past him, but she was too late—the door was closed right in her face and she had to ring the bell.

He turned and walked back to his dorm, thinking about the day, thinking about Dot. As he entered Baldridge, he was immediately surrounded by questions, problems, suggestions. The whole place was abuzz with discussion about the dance they were to give.

Hank could hardly listen. His thoughts were completely focused on something else.

“We’ll have an organizational meeting tomorrow,” he suggested. “We’ll talk about all of this stuff then. Right now, there’s something else I’ve got to do.”

They let him pass and he hurried to the small closet at the end of the hallway with a narrow wooden bench. He went inside, shut the door, sat down and picked up the phone.

He gave the extension number to the operator. It rang several times. “Compton Hall, second floor,” a female voice answered.

“Dot Wilbur, please,” he said.

Hank waited several moments as her name was called out

“Dot Wilbur! Telephone for Dot Wilbur!”

Finally she was there. “Hello, this is Dot.”

“You did tell me I could call you,” Hank said by way of greeting.

There was a moment of startled silence and then he heard her laugh. “I don’t think you’ve had time to miss me,” she said.

“Oh, yes, I have,” he told her. “The minute you were out of sight, I thought of a million things I wanted to say to you.”

The two of them stayed on the phone for over an hour. The operator in Dot’s dorm finally came on the line to warn them that it was almost “Lights Out” and that their call would be terminated.

“Can I see you tomorrow?” Hank asked her.

She said yes, but clearly, the next morning when she walked out of Compton’s front door, she was surprised to find him waiting.

“You did say I could see you,” he pointed out.

She laughed and shook her head. “I guess I was thinking afternoon, not after breakfast.”

“I thought we could walk to class together.”

The morning was bright and crisp, and the stately oaks and maples around campus were ablaze with the colors of autumn. The smell in the air was all harvest moon and pep rallies. Dot fit perfectly in the picture in her shirtwaist gabardine with the circular skirt.

Hank asked to carry her books, but she declined.

“You’ve got a tall enough stack of your own to manage.”

“Carrying my books is an effort,” he told her. “Carrying yours would be an honor.”

Dot laughed and shook her head. “I don’t need so much honor,” she said. “I just want to be a classmate, a friend.”

Hank raised an eyebrow at that statement.
Classmate
and
friend
were not descriptions of the relationship he wanted. And last night, it didn’t seem like the direction they were headed. This morning, however, she was all business.

“I’m headed to the science complex,” she told him. “You don’t need to go that far if it’s out of your way.” Hank chuckled. “I know exactly where you’re going. And I am headed in that direction. We’re in the same Organic Chem class—I guess I failed to mention that.”

Dot appeared completely surprised. “I can’t believe that I never noticed you,” she said.

“You never notice anybody,” he told her. “You keep your eyes straight ahead and all your focus on Dr. Falk, which is a good idea. I don’t think you could put it past the guy to sneak up behind you and put a knife in your back.”

He’d meant the words as a joke, but he could tell by the color in her cheeks that she found it too true to be funny.

“Falk’s a jerk,” Hank declared. “The way he treats you is lousy and everybody in class knows it.”

Dot glanced quickly in his direction. “If that’s true, then why do I always hear laughter all around me?” Hank looked her directly in the eyes. “I’ve never laughed,” he said honestly. “And I’ve never understood it. Dr. Falk would be the first to say that women are the weaker sex, yet he singles you out for abuse. It’s bullying. And it’s like having things both ways. He won’t treat you like an equal, nor will he give the gender deference that he’s supposed to believe in.”

“It’s because female students have disappointed him so much in the past,” Dot said.

“Really?”

“That’s what Dean Glidden says,” she told him. “Dr.

Falk has invested time and effort into promising women students, only to have them throw it all away for marriage and children.”

“Nothing we ever learn is thrown away,” Hank said. “Of course not,” Dot agreed. “But great scientific breakthroughs are not made in suburban kitchens.”

She had a point, Hank thought. But it was not one he really wanted to pursue.

“I think you and Dean Glidden give Dr. Falk too much credit,” he said instead. “The man doesn’t act like a dispirited educator, just a coward and a bully. He doesn’t talk to male students that way, because one of them would catch up to him after hours and pop him a good one right in the kisser.”

“Well, that’s an idea,” Dot said. “If I want to be taken seriously as a college woman, I can always resort to fisticuffs.”

“It would probably be a fair fight,” Hank said. “The prof is, more than likely, the kind who hits like a girl.” Dot was smiling as they made their way to the second-floor lab. Hank felt strangely proud of that. He didn’t remember seeing her come into class in such a happy mood.

They took their seats across the room from each other. She gave one final glance in his direction, still obviously in a pleasant frame of mind.

Unfortunately, Hank wasn’t the only one who noticed. “Miss Wilbur!” Dr. Falk boomed out. The room quieted immediately. “Have you discovered something about Organic Chemistry to giggle about?”

“No, sir,” she answered. “I was thinking of something else.”

Dr. Falk snorted a huffy, disapproving sound. “Undoubtedly you were daydreaming about feminine nonsense and trifling folderol.”

There was no reasonable response Dot could make to such an accusation.

“No, it was me, sir,” Hank said, speaking up.

The entire class, including Dr. Falk and Dot Wilbur, turned to stare in his direction.

“You’re saying Miss Wilbur was thinking about you?” That suggestion was offered even more snidely and with unveiled derision.

“No, sir,” Hank answered, feigning complete innocence. “I just thought that if you were reading student’s minds, you must have got your wires crossed. I’m the committee chairman planning Baldridge Hall’s cotillion, so if you’re picking up brainwaves from the classroom, I’m the one thinking about ‘feminine nonsense and trifling folderol’. What do you guys think?” He directed his question to the rest of the room. “Crepe- paper mums or dogwood blossoms made of ribbon?”