The Slipper (8 page)

“Let me make the arrangements, Julie. You won't have to register. You can audit the class—sit in,” he explained. “As for your paying a tuition, we won't worry about that.”

He had talked with her for a long time, trying to persuade her to attend the class, telling her that in all his years in the theater he had rarely witnessed magic like the magic he'd seen that evening. Working with her would be a joy for him. She would be doing him a favor. Julie had listened, unable to believe this was really happening to her, and in September, despite her reservations, despite Doug's vehement objections, she started coming to class, and now he wanted her to try out for
The Glass Menagerie
. He wanted her to play Laura.

Julie trudged across the campus in her old brown coat, a dull, insignificant sparrow compared to the swarm of merry, noisy students in brightly colored sweaters and bulky jackets and vivid woolen caps. No one spoke to her. No one really noticed her. Julian Compton had been wonderfully kind to her. She admired him with all her heart, worshipped him, in fact, although she was careful not to show it. Strange as it might be, he actually believed she had talent, believed she could become a real actress, and her playing Laura would be the first real test of his belief in her. He would be bitterly disappointed when she didn't show up for tryouts tomorrow night, but … How could she ever explain to him that it was out of the question?

She hadn't the time, to begin with. She had to go to work at the Silver Bell every afternoon at three except Sundays, and she worked until ten. Even if she won the role, there was no way she could attend rehearsals, and even if she could attend, there … there was no way she could go out there in front of all those people and let them stare at her and see all her faults, all her deficiencies. She hadn't that kind of courage. She wasn't that brave. She could give a puppet show for children, yes, she loved children, children presented no threat, but … Julie sighed and left the campus, heading toward the row of shabby brick apartment buildings where she and Doug rented a basement flat. She could be Laura, a magnificent Laura, but only in the privacy of her own fantasy, not in front of the glare of spotlights, not in front of hundreds of hostile eyes. How could she explain these things to Mr. Compton, and how could she explain about Doug?

Doug would have a fit if she even mentioned trying out for the role. He had been livid when she told him about meeting Mr. Compton, about his wanting her to attend the drama class. It was a preposterous idea, he protested. It was senseless. It was stupid. It would be a complete waste of time, and she hadn't the time to spare. She'd make the time, Julie told him. It couldn't do any harm just … just to sit in on the classes, without paying any kind of tuition, without getting any credit. Doug had continued to object, and he had finally shrugged his shoulders and said if that was what she wanted to do, fine, she could do it, she could make a fool of herself, but he would have no part of it. For once Julie had gone against his wishes, and although he hadn't said anything else about it, she knew he resented her going to the classes. Whenever she tried to tell him about them, tell him about what she had learned, he just smiled that patient, superior smile and changed the subject. He didn't mean to hurt her feelings. He didn't mean to be cold. Julie realized that. He was working very, very hard and things hadn't been easy and he was under a lot of pressure and … and he hadn't wanted to get married in the first place.

Julie went down the short flight of steps and took out her key and let herself into their flat. It was rather chilly inside. The radiators were on the blink again. Although Julie had tried her best to make the place comfortable, make it pleasant, it still looked exactly like a basement that had been converted into a flat to bring in extra money. There was a living room, a bedroom, a bathroom, a small kitchen. Worn linoleum covered the concrete floors. The concrete walls were a dingy grayish brown, a network of exposed pipes festooning one side of the living room. There were only two windows, set high up on ground level, and there was never enough light, but it was cheap and Julie consoled herself with the knowledge that one day, after Doug got his law degree, they'd have a much finer place.

Doug was stretched out on the faded salmon-pink sofa, a pile of cushions behind his back, a law book in his hand, a grave expression on his face as he studied by the light of the floor lamp. He was wearing tennis shoes and tan corduroy pants and an old chocolate-brown sweater, yet he still looked like a prince, just as he had that first time she saw him in the McCanns' pool house. He was tall and had a sturdy muscular physique and thick, wavy brown hair that was rich and glossy and always a bit unruly, errant locks invariably tumbling over his brow. His features were handsome, the cheekbones broad and flat, the jaw strong, the lips full and pink, generously curved. Behind the black horn-rimmed glasses his slate-blue eyes were stern and intelligent, but they could gleam with smoky passion, too, reflecting hunger and need. Julie still found it amazing that this glorious male was her husband now.

Doug looked up and saw her and put his book down. He sat up, stretching, throwing his shoulders back. Julie smiled. Despite his shrewd intellect and grave, serious demeanor, he had a healthy, animal quality and a lazy sensuality that filled her with delight. Doug liked his comfort. He liked his pleasure. Adjusting his horn-rims, he watched as she took off her coat and scarf and put them aside. He looked sleepy. He'd been studying since early in the morning, cramming for tomorrow's exam. Doug studied constantly, grimly determined to be the top man in his class.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“A little. It's cold in here. You'd better put on a sweater.”

“I'm all right.”

“The goddamn place is either boiling hot or freezing cold. I called the super about the radiators, but he hasn't done anything yet.”

“I'll fix you a bowl of hot soup,” she said.

Doug didn't answer. He yawned, shook his head and then reached for the heavy law book. Julie longed to go over and stroke his cheek and brush those errant brown locks from his brow, but he had his mind on the exam now and she knew it would irritate him. Instead, she went into the kitchen and opened a can of vegetable beef soup and emptied it into a pan and put it on to heat on the ancient gas stove. She loved cooking for him, waiting on him, making him comfortable. Sometimes she wished she didn't have to work so hard and be away so much of the time, but she was doing that for him, too, and it made the long hours easier to bear. When Doug married her, Julie had vowed that he wouldn't have to drop out of school and that he would be able to go on and get his degree in law, even though her parents had disowned her and Doug's father withdrew all support.

But we've done it, she thought. Fortunately tuition for his senior year at Claymore had already been paid, and after … after the miscarriage, she had been able to find a job at Safeway and made enough money to pay expenses, though they'd eaten a lot of bologna, a lot of beans, and Doug graduated with top honors and won a partial scholarship to law school and that helped a lot. When she lost the job at Safeway she'd been able to do baby-sitting, and then she got her job at the Silver Bell and they were making it. Barely, but they were making it, without any help from his father or her parents. Julie took a box of saltines and two bowls from the pine cabinet, remembering that summer in Tulsa over two years ago when her prince had come, when her whole life had changed abruptly.

She was fifteen years old and had just finished the tenth grade, a pretty girl, her complexion clear then, not yet marred by acne. Shy, sensitive, she was always reading, usually a book of plays she'd taken from the library, her head full of fancy notions both her parents were quick to ridicule. They were good, honest, hardworking folk, the salt of the earth and damned proud of it, no time for nonsense, no patience with foolish adolescent dreams. Neither of them had finished high school, Okies, struggling to survive during the depression years, just like the Joads, both beaten down by life, toughened up, survivors. They couldn't understand how they'd spawned such a fey, dreamy child. “Artistic” she was, according to her teachers. Artistic wouldn't pay for the groceries. She'd find that out soon enough. Things were good for all of them that summer of her fifteenth year. They were living in the servants' quarters in the McCanns' palatial mansion. Her mother was the housekeeper, her father the gardener-chauffeur, and they were taking care of the place while the oil-rich McCanns were in Europe seeing cathedrals and museums and buying a lot of vulgar, expensive junk to impress the folks back home in Tulsa.

Julie volunteered to help out in the house, but her mother was brusque, had her own staff, didn't need some clumsy, ineffectual chit of a girl underfoot mucking things up, getting in the way. Her father was harsh and uncommunicative, busy taking care of the grounds and keeping the cars shiny, rarely even noticed her existence anyway, certainly didn't have time for her now, and so Julie had the whole summer to while away. It was hot, hot, the fierce Oklahoma sun blazing down, sprinklers keeping the grass green, the flower beds blooming. Julie longed to swim in the enormous pool, the water so blue, cool and inviting, but her parents wouldn't let her, the McCanns wouldn't approve. She could spend time in the pool house, though, as long as she didn't bother anything. It was large, as big as a lot of houses were, with changing rooms, showers and a lounge with wet bar and comfortable, summery furniture. Julie spent almost all her time there.

During the day she would take her book out to the pool house and make a pitcher of lemonade and stretch out on one of the chaise lounges and read or just gaze out at the pool through the sliding glass doors and daydream. The McCanns had a portable television in the pool house, and in the evenings Julie would slip out and watch
Playhouse 90
and
Studio One
and
Philco Television Playhouse
and dream of one day starring in a drama by Sumner Locke Elliot or Paddy Chayefsky. She'd be every bit as good as Peggy Ann Garner or Pippa Scott or Erin O'Brian, she just knew she'd be. One day. People would laugh if they knew of her secret ambitions, but … it didn't hurt to dream about it.

And then one day in mid-June she looked out through the glass doors and saw the tall, sturdily built boy with the black horn-rimmed glasses and thick, unruly brown hair. He wore only a pair of brief red swim trunks and he looked like a prince, a young god, the horn-rims somehow accentuating his stern, handsome features. He took the horn-rims off, set them on the ledge and dived into the water. He swam strongly, briskly, one lap right after the other, with no splashing or playing about. Julie expected her father to come run him off at any minute, but it didn't happen. After the boy finished swimming exactly fifty laps, he climbed out of the pool, retrieved his glasses and padded toward the pool house. He slid open the glass doors and came inside and stood in the cool gray dimness, his body wet and glistening, dripping on the tiled floor. He didn't see her at first but seemed surprised to find the air conditioner running. Julie knew that she probably shouldn't have it turned on, but she figured the McCanns wouldn't mind too much.

The boy stretched, flexing his arms, arching his back, and she was reminded of some vigorous, healthy animal. She felt strange stirrings inside, and her heart was beating rapidly. The boy sighed, sweeping wet locks from his brow, and then he spied her there on the chaise lounge and scowled, looking hard and intimidating. He asked who the hell she was and what the hell she was doing there and Julie swallowed and tried to speak and finally stammered that she was the McCanns' housekeeper's daughter and had permission to use the pool house if she didn't bother anything. He scrutinized her closely for several moments and then he told her to relax, told her not to be so nervous, said he wasn't going to rape her. At least not yet, he added. His slate-blue eyes liked what he saw. Julie could tell that.

“Came in to get a towel,” he said. “Forgot to bring one of my own.”

“There—there're some in the changing rooms,” she said.

“I know. Be right back.”

He returned a few minutes later, carrying a towel and wearing one of the short terrycloth robes the McCanns kept on hand for guests. He perched on a bar stool and toweled his hair dry and smoothed it back with his hands, completely at home. Julie was uneasy and knew she shouldn't be here alone with him, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to leave. His name was Douglas Hammond, she learned, and he was twenty years old and had just finished his junior year at Claymore University in Indiana and had come home to spend the summer with his father. Gus Hammond owned the house next door, she knew. He was a gruff, crusty oil man, as common as dirt, her parents said, worth a fortune now after several successful strikes. His wife had passed away nine years ago and he openly consorted with those trashy women who hung around at the bars downtown and sometimes even brought them to the house. A crude and vulgar man, drove a flashy Cadillac, spent a lot of time in the fields with his men. Although his house was almost as large as the McCanns', he didn't have a pool. The McCanns had told Doug he could use their pool whenever he liked.

Doug stayed for half an hour, talking, having a glass of lemonade with her, and that night Julie didn't dream of becoming the next Eva Marie Saint. She dreamed of Doug Hammond-disturbing dreams, unlike any she had ever had before. He came back over to swim the next day and the next one, too. They talked and he told her about college and about his problems with his father, and Julie could see that he liked her a lot. He was relaxed in her company, not tense and defensive like he was with his father, and he told her summer would be hell if he hadn't met her. On the third day he gently touched her face and told her she was a pretty little thing and Julie lowered her eyes, blushing faintly, already in love with him. He started coming over to the pool house in the evenings, too, to watch television with her, he said, but the set was rarely turned on. They sat in the shadows, moonlight streaming in through the glass doors, and he held her close and stroked her and Julie knew it was wrong, her parents would kill her if they found out, but he was wonderful, so gentle, so troubled, life as Gus Hammond's son a heavy weight to bear, and he made her feel wonderful, too, made her feel needed and wise beyond her years.