Sorority House
From far off Susan Mitchell could hear the sweet voices of a
fraternity serenading another sorority house down the street.
Mitch turned the light on and looked at the face of the clock. It
was eleven-thirty. She saw Leda’s half-full package of cigarettes
on the desk, and she took one from the pack and lit it.
It was taking Leda a long time. Mitch was numb with torment, and
the sheets on her bed were wrinkled and halfway off the mattress
from her perpetual turning and moving as she waited. The ticking
of the tin clock on the dresser sounded frantic and Mitch made
the ticks come in three beats in her mind—_Les-bi-an_,
_Les-bi-an_, _tick-tick-tick_. The thought foamed in Mitch’s
brain and hurt her. She did not know why she felt dirty when Leda
told her that she was a Lesbian. She thought she should have felt
happy and glad that they were two. But she did not want to be
one.
Tomorrow, she decided, she would move out of Tri Epsilon and into
the dorm with Robin. If she and Leda weren’t put out of the
sorority, she would leave anyway. But she knew she could not
leave Leda. “I love Leda,” she said softly to the darkness, “even
though we’re both that way. I wish she wasn’t that way.”
A GOLD MEDAL ORIGINAL
SPRING FIRE
Vin Packer
New York
Gold Medal Books
Fawcett Publications, Inc.
Copyright 1952 by Fawcett Publications, Inc.
First Printing, February 1952
Second Printing, August 1952
Third Printing, May 1954
Fourth Printing, March 1956
Fifth Printing, July 1958
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or
portions thereof.
All characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to persons
living or dead is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
It was two-thirty in the afternoon, late September, with the sun beating
down the way it does then in the Midwest, and the dust in the streets.
The girl, Susan Mitchell, was wearing a green linen suit that clung on
her large body heavily, a round white straw hat from which short pieces
of blonde hair hung limply, and brown and white shoes with low heels
that made her long feet look longer. She was not pretty. She was not
lovely and dainty and pretty, but there was a comeliness about her that
suggested some inbred strength and grace. It was in her face. It was in
the color of her eyes—deep blue like the ocean ’way out there, but quiet
and still. It was in the structure of her cheekbones, high and firm
coming down to pull her chin up. She walked that way, too. She walked
easy and sure. She was following College Avenue down to where the main
gate was, and the road that led through the gate to the campus of
Cranston University. All around her there were signs in the windows of
bookstores and drugstores and dress shops and bars and the signs said:
“WELCOME BACK C. U.”
The gate was open and the wide slate walks surrounding the immense green
lawn were dotted with boys and girls, walking together in groups,
sitting alone on benches, standing thoughtfully in doorways, and waiting
wearily in long registration lines. Susan Mitchell had registered two
weeks ago.
“You’ll have enough to think about during rush week,” her father had
promised, “without worrying about getting yourself enrolled. We’ll do it
early. Then you can concentrate on impressing those sorority gals. Don’t
be nervous, either. Remember, your father still loves you, no matter
what.”
And so it was there again—his fear for her. His fear that she was not
good enough. Because he had not been. He had worked hard, and not gone
to college, and not had luxuries, and not learned not to say “ain’t,”
and not anything. Until the war and the men came that day and looked at
the factory and talked with him and signed papers and he was rich then.
And then he was afraid.
He had driven her from Kansas City to register, and when she had
finished, he had asked someone how to get to “Greek Town,” and with him
she had first seen it.
“Greek Town” was the home of the sororities and fraternities and it was
magic over there, close to the stadium, within walking distance of the
campus, but not huddled up in narrow streets the way the dorms and
boardinghouses were. It was magic, with street after street of grand
houses—brick, stucco, stone, and fresh white wooden houses. Each one had
a gold plaque with shining Greek letters, and nearly all of them had
spacious yards, winding driveways, and huge white columns that stood
impressively, symbols of magnificence. Then she too had felt a thin
shiver of fear.
Tomorrow she would go to the sorority houses to be judged; but now as
she walked on the campus she forgot about that momentarily, and smelled
the grass that had been cut and watered, and it was good. The ivy,
crawling up along the walls of the building, was massive and cooling,
and the big trees made shade along the path. She sat for a while on the
rock bench there where the breeze came along, and it was peaceful.
A group of laughing girls passed, arms entwined, faces glowing with
excitement.
“... anyway,” one of them was saying, “it turned out he was from St.
Louis—Webster, in fact—and he knew loads of kids I knew.”
“My God!” another shrieked. “Didn’t you tell him _I_ was from Webster?”
Later Susan Mitchell walked back toward the gate and the street leading
to the hotel where she was staying. A convertible whizzed by and kicked
up clouds of the dust that settled near the curb, and at the corner when
it turned, the tires squealed nervously. In the doorway of a restaurant,
a tall boy stood holding hands with a small, brown-eyed girl whose hair
was flaxen. “God,” he said, “all summer I had you on my mind, Annie. No
bull, I thought about you all summer.”
When Susan Mitchell reached the lobby of the hotel, the low leather
couches and chairs were filled with girls, and several rows of luggage
were lined up near the desk. She asked for her key, wary of the
arrogant, crooked-nosed clerk who always yelled, as he did now. “Speak
up, girlie,” he said. “I ain’t deaf and I can’t read lips.”
“Susan Mitchell,” the girl said louder. “Four-o-one.”
He handed her the metal key with the wooden tab attached and she hurried
off to the waiting elevator.
“Good God,” the uniformed pimple-faced boy said when she stepped into
the small box. “You girls! Up and down all the damn day long! I never
seen the likes of this bunch. The sororities are welcome to you!”
* * * * *
“The next name, girls,” Mother Nesselbush said, “is Susan Mitchell.”
At her feet, sitting on the wide tan rug, the members of Tri Epsilon
polished their nails, knitted, rubbed cold cream into their skin, and
rolled their hair up on rags and iron curlers and bobby pins. Mother
Nesselbush thumbed through the papers on the card table in front of her.
She was a fat woman with a nervous twitch in her jowls and short, squat
legs. Twenty years ago she had been a slim coed with long golden hair, a
gay young face, and a heart-shaped Tri Epsilon pin attached to her
budding bosom. Five years ago, when J. Edman Nesselbush fell dead, she
returned to the Cranston campus and took over the duties of the
housemother at Epsilon Epsilon Epsilon. Now she was a wide dowager with
wiry gray hair and a worn, wrinkled face. In place of the pin now, there
was a gravy stain from the noon meal slopped onto her broad,
lace-covered chest.
“Now,” Mother Nessy began, “a little about this girl.”
The information on Susan Mitchell had been obtained by Edith Wellard
Boynton, ’22. Mrs. Boynton relished the task. She was a superior sleuth,
and she would often come from an assignment with copious notes on such
intimate details as the estimated income of the candidate’s father; the
color of the guest towels in the candidate’s bathroom and the condition
of said bathroom; the morals of the candidate, the candidate’s mother,
father, brother, and sister; and ever important, the social prestige of
the candidate’s family in the community. Then she would type up her
notes and send them special delivery.
Susan Mitchell’s report read:
An absolute _must_ for Tri Epsilon. The Mitchell girl is 17. Her
father is a widower and a millionaire. There are no other
children. The Mitchell girl owns a brilliant red convertible,
Buick, latest model. Edward Mitchell belongs to Rotary, Seedmore
Country Club, Seedmore Business Club, and Seedmore P.T.A. Susan
has been educated in the best private schools. She is not
beautiful, but she is wholesome and a fine athlete. Every room in
the Mitchell home has wall-to-wall carpeting. There are four
bathrooms. No mortgages. Edward Mitchell’s reputation is above
reproach. They are definitely nouveaux riches, but their social
prestige in Seedmore is tiptop. Susan has a fabulous wardrobe.
Kansas City Alum Association puts a stamp of approval on this
girl, and a definite “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
When Mother Nesselbush finished reading what Mrs. Boynton had written,
there was a sudden minute of silence. Then Leda Taylor spoke up.
“What if she’s a muscle-bound amazon? Do we have to pledge the girl just
because her father is worth a mint?”
Leda Taylor did not have a father. Not a father she knew. Jan, her
mother, had raised Leda singlehanded, with the help of her job as a
dress designer and a good stiff Martini. It had not been easy for Jan.
As Leda grew older, Jan’s age became more obvious to men and she always
had to say, “I had my baby when _I_ was a baby, really—I was just a baby
when little Leda was born.” Little Leda grew fast and fully and richly.
She had long black hair that shone like new coal, round green eyes, a
stubborn tilt to her chin, proud pear-shaped breasts that pointed
through her size 36 sweater, and long, graceful legs. Jan had taught her
never to say “Mother.” Leda said “Jan.” She said, “Oh, God, Jan is
getting higher than a kite!” when they were all out on parties like
that—Leda and the men who clambered after Jan and Jan with her glass
raised and her voice growing shrill. Leda said, “Jan, for the love of
God, let me pick my own men. I don’t want your castoffs,” when she was
home in the summer and Jan was always entertaining. Then in the fall,
Leda said, “Take it easy, Jan. Stay sober,” and the train moved away,
toward Cranston and college and the house.
Mother Nesselbush sighed and answered Leda. “This is a pretty strong
note, dear. You know our alums never make their requests quite so
adamant.”
Kitten Clark tapped her nails angrily on the top of the glass coffee
table. She was the official social chairman for the sorority, the girl
who was responsible for seeing that Tri Eps dated fraternity men. Her
motto was pasted up over the mirror in the soft jade-green room where
she and Marybell Van Casey lived: “If he’s got a pin—he’s in!”
Underneath these words, a penciled addition to the rule read blithely:
“Like Flynn!”
“Nessy,” Kitten said, “so far on our list we have four goon girls.
Legacies. We _have_ to take legacies, but we don’t have to take Susan
Mitchell! What did the K.C. alums ever do for us?”
Viola Nesselbush straightened herself, tugged harshly at her corset, and
leaned forward intimately. She whispered in a rasping tone, one finger
held forward significantly. “Now listen, girls. Remember that new set of
silverware you all want for the house? The one with the Tri Epsilon
crest on it? Well, girls, if we pledge this little girl, I think the
K.C. alums will see to it that you get that silverware. In fact, girls,”
she added coyly, “I’ll personally guarantee it.”
A spontaneous round of applause rose from the gathering, and the faces
of the Tri Eps grinned approval.
“She may be halfway attractive,” Marybell Van Casey offered. “After all,
just because she’s a sweat-socks is no sign she’s utterly repulsive.”
Casey’s voice was tinged with defiance. She was a major in physical
education, and all of her classes, with the exception of English and
vertebrate zo, took place in the arid surroundings of the gymnasium. Her
build was heavy and muscular, but her face was pleasant and attractive
and she was pinned to a Delta Pi who played baseball.
The president of Tri Epsilon sorority rose gracefully and stood beside
the piano facing the group. She wore a crisp pair of white shorts, a
black halter, and a black velvet ribbon in her hair. Her name was Marsha
Holmes, and there was a mild, poised quality about her that commanded
respect and admiration from her sorority sisters. Whenever Marsha spoke,
her gray eyes watched the individual faces of her audience carefully,
and her low husky voice made her words sound wistful and honest. Marsha
had learned much about people from her father, the Reverend Thomas
Holmes, and the serenity she wore so easily had been practiced long
years at church functions.
“I think everyone agrees,” she said calmly, “that Susan Mitchell is
excellent Tri Epsilon material. The purpose of a sorority is to help a
girl grow, and if Susan needs our help, it will be our privilege to give
it to her. Let’s all make a special effort to show Susan that Tri
Epsilon is a friendly house—the kind of house that she would be proud to
live in.”
For a moment there was a holy stillness. Leda blew a cloud of smoke up
into the air in tiny rings. She said, “Amen!” She said, “Amen and hail
the new Christ child!”
* * * * *
The following morning, a few minutes before the taxis arrived with the
rushees, Mother Nesselbush gave the final instructions.
“Remember, girls, the phonograph is your signal to dance with one of the
rushees. Don’t, for heaven’s sake, girls, don’t leave a girl without a
partner. You’ll be able to tell a whole lot about a rushee by dancing
with her. Notice how she dances, and in speaking to her, try your best
to determine whether she would make a satisfactory Tri Ep. We know most
of the facts on these girls, but it’s up to you to verify them. And one
more thing. In regard to the Mitchell girl—be patient. She may not look
like a Tri Ep, but girls, I’m to the point where I’ll insist that she be
one. Now—go to it, and good luck!”
Susan Mitchell arrived in the first taxi along with four other rushees.
Beside them she looked like a great hound dog that had been forced to
romp with a select group of dachshunds, Pekinese, and toy poodles. Her
manner was sprightly and buoyant, and she lacked the poised reserve of
the others who walked with her up the long path to the marble steps,
where Kitten Clark waited to greet them. She was smiling when her hand
caught Kitten’s, and her voice was too impetuous and ingenuous. “Hi,”
she said. “Hot, isn’t it?”
Kitten glanced hastily at the name tag. She should have known. The
dimples came in her cheeks, and her hand guided Susan lovingly toward
Mother Nesselbush. “This is Susan Mitchell,” Kitten said. “Mother Nessy
will introduce you to the girls.”
Mother Nesselbush’s fat fingers reached for Susan’s arm, and as she led
her through the porch door to the living room she exclaimed, “What a
lovely name! Susan! Or Sue? Which one do you like best?”
“Most folks call me Mitch,” the girl answered, and Mother Nessy said,
“That’s a dar-ling name! Mitch!”
Marsha Holmes interpreted Nessy’s wink correctly. She rushed forward
immediately and checked the name tag. Then she sat beside Susan Mitchell
on the divan and she talked in that mellow, soft voice. She brought the
girl cool mint punch and round jelly cookies, and she punctuated every
sentence with “Mitch.” Through the house she guided the girl, showing
her the neat, pastel-colored rooms, the grand tile bathroom with the
glass shower and tub stalls, the spotless white kitchen, the cellar with
the washing machines and dryers and irons, and the closed-off section
known as The Den, where Tri Eps brought their dates for ping-pong and
Cokes. Soon Kitten Clark finished greeting the rushees and joined the
entourage, and Marybell Van Casey followed along, and Jane Bell, the
pert, efficient rush chairman, and they were all smiling and saying, “Do
you like it, Mitch?”, “Wait till you see this, Mitch,” and “You are
going to come back, Mitch?”
Mitch felt confident and proud. She sat at the bridge table with the Tri
Eps flocking to her, and her eyes saw the wretched lanky girl in the
corner near the window, alone, fumbling frantically with her purse,
feigning an interest in its contents, ignored by the smooth busy figures
in white. Another girl in a creamy yellow suit enjoyed the same
attention Mitch received, the white formals reaching to light her
cigarettes, bending to smile benignly, kneeling adoringly at her feet as
she sat there in the stuffed chair and let the cool breeze from the
porch ruffle her hair lightly. There was a fat girl in a red suit
standing awkwardly with Mother Nesselbush in the doorway of the room,
not speaking, looking fearfully at the assembly. A small, pug-nosed
rushee with a flip feathered hat whispered fervently to two Tri Eps.
Mitch saw them all, hearing the voices talking to her on all sides,
answering and listening and watching until her eye rested on a girl
standing near the piano. The girl was beautiful. Her white gown began
just above her breasts and came in tight at her waist and full down to
her ankles, where it ended and allowed spike-heeled silver shoes to
glisten clean and clear. She was picking up records from a stack there
on the top of the piano, reading the labels, and dividing them into two
piles. When she felt Mitch’s fixed look, she answered it and Mitch
grinned, looking back quickly at Kitten, who was explaining how the Tri
Epsilon house had been redecorated over the summer. For several minutes
Mitch knew that the girl was staring at her now, and a warm flush rose
to her face. There was something about the girl. She had never seen her
before, but there was something familiar in that fast second when they
had looked at one another.
In a moment the phonograph was turned on, and throughout the room girls
paired off and moved to the center of the floor. Kitten grabbed Mitch’s
hand. “Do you like to dance?” she asked, pulling her forward. Mitch
nodded, and as they danced, Kitten held her off so that she could talk
and watch Mitch’s face.
“How do you like Tri Epsilon?” she asked.
“Fine,” Mitch told her, and naïvely, “but of course, I haven’t been to
the other houses yet.”
Kitten said, “You will come back, won’t you, Mitch? We all hope you’ll
save your most important dates for us. Try to save two and eight.”
“I didn’t know there was a difference.”
“Yes.” Kitten smiled and pressed Mitch’s hand. “There certainly is. Will
you try?”
Mitch said she would. At the hotel she had heard the rushees talk
ecstatically about the Tri Eps. They were rated tops nationally, and the
Cranston chapter was the leading sorority on the college campus. A hot
stir of pleasure enveloped Mitch. She had not known the fear her father
had known for her when she had thought of rush week, but there was
always the subconscious worry that she might be too uncut and plain for
sorority sophisticates. During the summer the college catalogues and
booklets had come through the mail, and she had flicked through the
pages, seeing the pictures of debonair, glamorous young people her own
age. But not like her. Mitch knew that then—and again when Kitten talked
to her and Marsha walked with her, and Marybell Van Casey sat beside her
and smoked long cigarettes and talked about tennis and swimming and
things Mitch understood. Still different, all of them. Mitch was aware
of that fact, but she no longer pondered the differences. They liked her
anyway. They wanted her to join Epsilon Epsilon Epsilon.
Jane Bell danced with Mitch. Casey. Kitten again. Marsha. The lilting
lyrics of “Temptation” filled the room. Suddenly Mitch felt a wave of
uncanny turbulence, relieved then when she turned and saw the girl
standing next to her. The beautiful girl who had stood at the piano.
Marsha laughed and said, “Mitch, I don’t think you’ve met Leda Taylor.”
Susan Mitchell was taller than Leda Taylor. Leda held her and led her
along the waxed floor. Mitch was conscious of her own breathing, coming
in gasps and causing her chest to heave uncomfortably against Leda’s.
She smelled the faint pungent perfume that Leda wore, and her hand on
Leda’s bare shoulder was hot and rough. The words to the song sounded
loud in her ears, and they embarrassed her, dancing to them close to
this girl.
“So you’re Susan Mitchell,” the girl said, and Mitch could not hear her
own answer. She did not talk for those minutes when they were together
before the music ended, and Leda Taylor did not talk again. When it was
over, a note sounded on the piano, and Marsha Holmes hummed the note.
“Form the loving circle,” Marsha said. “Join hands.”
Leda grasped Mitch’s hand tightly. As the Tri Eps hummed the melody,
there was a slow swaying motion in the circle of girls, and when the
words came, Mitch could feel Leda’s eyes on her.
“Love you, I love you,
Come be a Tri Ep girl.
Love you, I love you,
Come be an Ep-si-lon pearl.”
Mitch looked down at Leda and then away toward the French doors and the
drapes and the sun outside.
“Take my hand and hold it, dear,
Let me make my message clear.
Love you, I love you,
Come be a Tri Ep girl.”
“I suppose,” Leda said when the song was finished, “that you’ll come
back.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you then,” Leda said. She said, “I’ll see you then,” and
glided away while Mother Nessy ran forward to hug Mitch. “The taxis are
waiting, dear,” she told Mitch, “and we have to hurry you all away.
Remember, Susan, Tri Epsilon is counting on you. We hope you’re counting
on Tri Epsilon.”
Past Kitten Clark and Marsha, Marybell and Jane, their “Come backs”
echoing in her ears, Mitch felt the sun on her arms, heard the nervous
honking of the cabs’ horns, and remembered only the green color of
Leda’s eyes, and the four words, “I’ll see you then.”
* * * * *
That evening Marsha looked up from the stuffed peppers and the tossed
salad in front of her. “I noticed you were Susan Mitchell’s partner in
the loving circle this morning,” she said to Leda.
“Wasn’t my fault. I danced with her and it happened to be the last
dance.”
“Well, what did you think of her?”
Leda toyed with her crust of bread, spreading the butter thickly around
the edges and on the sides. “We need the silverware,” she answered.
“But the girl has possibilities, too. I mean, she certainly isn’t
backward or shy.”
“I don’t know anything about the girl. I had one dance with her.”
Kitten Clark sat opposite Marsha. She clinked her fork on her plate and
said, “Well, believe me, if she were anyone but Edward Mitchell’s
daughter, she’d get a nice, fat, round blackball from yours truly. She’s
hickey! I mean, absolutely hickey!”
“But she is Edward Mitchell’s daughter,” Marsha broke in, “and let’s all
of us remember that. The girl hasn’t pledged yet, you know. Other houses
will be after her too.”
Casey said, “She says she swims. We could use her on the intramural
swimming team.”
“You’ll find a way to _use_ her,” Leda said. “I’m not worried about
that.”
After she said it, she bit hard into the bread and the layers of butter.
Casey’s eyes flashed and she spurted out angry words. “What are you
talking about?” she demanded. “Since when have you cared a damn whether
a girl got an even break in this sorority? You throw a blackball around
at the drop of a hat, and all of a sudden you’re so damned
self-righteous. This is a new twist.”
Leda knew it. She pushed her plate away and stood up. “Must be the
heat,” she said. “I don’t care a hoot about Mitchell. She can go back to
Seedmore for all I care. Right now, lover boy is waiting.”
She ran to the side door, to the tall brown-haired boy with the pipe
jutting from his jaw, and the sweater that said Sigma Delta, and she
murmured, “Jakie,” and moved close to him.
“You finished fast,” he said. “Wanna walk?”
“Yes, Jake-O.”
“We can pick up some beer in Campus Town. Then wanna walk back out—to
the stadium?”
“You know I do.”
“You always do. That’s why you’re my baby. Because you always do.”
“Let’s hurry, Jake.”
* * * * *
The long red car waited at the corner for the light to be green, and
Mitch sat behind the wheel with Fredna Loughead in the front seat beside
her. She had met Fredna at the hotel. Fredna was trying to convince her
that Delta Rho was a better house than Tri Ep.
“They liked you too, Mitch,” she said, “and I know they’ll ask me. Why
don’t you join with me?”
“I don’t know. I can’t make up my mind. All of them were so wonderful to
me.”
“The Delta Rhos aren’t snobs, either.”
The light went green and Mitch saw them. They were standing at the curb
waiting. Leda Taylor looked up. There was a brief flicker of
recognition, a half-smile. Mitch grinned broadly this time and waved,
but Leda took the boy’s arm and turned to talk with him. The car moved
away and Mitch watched them as long as she could through her mirror.
“Some buggy,” Jake said. “Rushee?”
“A potential Tri Ep. Father’s a millionaire.”
“She gonna be your roommate?”
“_My_ roommate?”
“Well, you gals have to room with a pledge. I just thought you might
pick a pledge with a nice red convertible.”
Leda laughed. She said, “Maybe that’s an idea.”
* * * * *
Back in the hotel room, Mitch finished unpacking some of her clothes.
She hung them up and brushed them off, and when she was through, she
slipped into her blue-striped pajamas and sat on the bed hugging her
knees. She said, “Tri Epsilon,” aloud, and then, “Delta Rho.” She
reached over to the night table, where the leather-bound books rested.
On the cover of one, there was a picture of the huge house with the six
white columns and the marble steps leading up to the door. The words
underneath read simply: “Tri Epsilon is a friendly house.”
For a moment she stared at it dreamily, and then, turning the page, she
saw the clear full-length picture of Leda Taylor in the black dress
wearing the crested crown, smiling. Mitch’s fingers moved delicately
down the picture as though she were touching a live object, and they
stopped there at the words printed in bold blue letters. They said:
“Where every girl’s a queen.”
Chapter Two
“Put your stuff in the top drawers,” Leda told Mitch. “I don’t mind
bending down to get mine.”
Mitch was used to new roommates and new surroundings and the strange
formalities attached to this form of orientation. For six years she had
attended boarding schools, and each year it was smoother and less
uncomfortable. The first year she had hovered behind a closet door, too
shy to undress in front of the girl with whom she shared the room. She
had bolted the bathroom doors, and picked odd hours to do her grooming.
Even her underclothes had been a source of embarrassment, and she had
brought them to her room wet from their washing in the dorm sink, and
hung them surreptitiously along the radiator near her bed. In time she
had developed an unabashed nonchalance toward these matters and they no
longer concerned her. But now, in Leda’s presence, the casualness fell
away, and Mitch found the old inhibitions again. She found that it was
hard to talk to Leda, too, because she wanted to so badly. She wanted to
remember the glib, natural responses that came so readily with others,
but she could not.
“Tonight the pledges are supposed to go on blind dates,” Leda said. “You
know that?”
“Yes.”
“Want to get out of it?”
“How?”
“By going out with a friend of Jake’s. He’s a fraternity brother. We’d
double-date. It’s O.K. with Kitten so long as you’re with a fraternity
man.”
Mitch said, “I’d like that, I guess.”
She knew what it would be like if Leda were along. She knew that she
would forget how to act and what to say and that she would laugh too
loud and too often. But she did not want to go on a date alone with a
stranger, either.
“Like men, Mitch?”
“Sure, they’re all right.”
“I mean, really like them?”
Mitch’s lips were tired from the painful grins she had been stretching
them into all day. Leda laughed. “Never mind,” she said. “You’ll learn.
I used to think you just had to lie there and that was it. Then I
learned better.”
Mitch pulled nervously at the string of pearls around her neck. Her face
flushed scarlet. Leda noticed. “You’ll have to get used to me, Mitch. I
believe in being frank.”
“I don’t mind,” Mitch answered. “I guess I’m kind of dumb.”
“We’re all dumb at first. But don’t get fooled by some of them that play
dumb. My God, to listen to this bunch, you’d think they were all
virgins. But take it from me, most of them have had it. You ever fool
around?”
“I—I don’t know too many fellows.”
“Ever been kissed—hard?”
“A few times, I guess.” The pearls snapped then and rolled onto the
floor. Mitch jumped down to chase them and Leda stopped one with her
foot. “Couple of them under the desk,” she said. “God! Never been kissed
more than a few times. I started when I was six. Then I used to play
doctor out in back of my house. God!”
Mitch did not answer. Her hands felt huge as she groped for the tiny,
round pearls, and bending down there before Leda, she felt like an
immense malformed giant. She was remembering how many other times she
had heard references to sex, behind locked bedroom doors in boarding
school, interspersed with thick laughter and raised eyebrows, and hands
held at the mouth in gestures of awe and excitement. But now....
“You’ll grow up in college,” her father had said. “You’ll be a real lady
when you come home.” She wondered vaguely what her mother had been like,
and if she were a real lady, and how she would have told her about men
and women and the things they did together. She thought of Billy
Erickson—the day in the bushes when he had showed it to her. The snake,
she had called it to herself. The snake that men have.
“You’ll have fun tonight,” Leda said. “You’ll like Bud Roberts. That’s
Jake’s friend.”
Mitch put the pearls in a box and sat awkwardly on the bed beside Leda.
“I hope he likes me. You see, I’m not too used to men. In the other
schools, I didn’t see many. You know—rules and all.”
“Forget it! Look, we’re going to buy some beer and get out on the Creek
Road and just take life easy. You’ll like Bud. He’s no movie star, but
he gets around plenty. He’s Sig Delt president. Say, what about your
car? We _could_ walk, but—”
“Sure,” Mitch said. “Might as well take it. Only I don’t like to drive
at night very well. Not in a strange city.”
“Can Jake drive? He’s a peach on the roads. Careful as anything.”
Mitch hesitated. Then she agreed.
Leda pulled her sweater up over her head and loosened her bra. “Scratch
my back, will you, kid?” she said. “God, I’m tired.” She flopped on the
bed, face down.
Timidly Mitch’s hands reached over and rubbed her shoulders, and with
her eyes fixed half shyly on Leda’s body, she recalled doing this
before—a hundred times—but never so fearfully as now with Leda.
“Ummm. That’s nice. Your hands are wonderful.”
For long minutes Leda let them run up and down her back. Susan Mitchell
was an enigma. There was strength and force and power in her, queerly
harnessed and checked, Leda thought. If it should be released, she would
be stronger. Masterful. There had been a hint of this in her look that
first day. It was the kind of look that an old acquaintance gives
another, in a crowd where no one is aware that the two have known each
other a long time. Leda balked at her own thoughts. This tall child was
naïve and uncomplicated, she scoffed inwardly, and there was no reason
to be wary. Suddenly, on an impulse, Leda rolled over and lay with her
breasts pushed up toward Mitch’s hands. The girl jerked her hands away
quickly and stood up.
“F-f-feel better?” She forced the words out.
Leda stretched luxuriously. “Mitch, honey,” she said, “look in the left
closet and see if my yellow blouse is there. The one with the buttons
down the back.”
Mitch turned toward the door to the closet and opened it, grateful for
this sanctum. She stood there moving the hangers down the rack. _I used
to think you just had to lie there and that was it._
“See it, honey?”
“No,” Mitch answered, not looking at the color of the clothes. “I don’t
see anything at all.”
* * * * *
Bud Roberts was a straight, narrow boy with a long nose and a square
jaw. A cigarette hung loosely from his mouth, and as they rode along in
the back of Mitch’s car, he held his hands firmly, cracking his knuckles
in regular, even movements. Mitch sat beside him, smoothing her skirt
and glancing up at him now and then, searching frantically for something
to say. The radio blared forth from the front seat, where Leda leaned
blissfully on Jake’s shoulder.
“I love to ride along like this,” Mitch managed to say. “It’s so cool
and everything,” she added.
They turned down a dirt road and drove fast around the sharp corners and
Mitch fell against Bud Roberts. “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling away.
He had not said anything beyond “Hi” since they started on their
evening. He had simply said, “Hi,” and then they had climbed into the
car and he had not said another word. Mitch tried to pretend that the
silence was natural and she hummed a bit from one of the songs the Tri
Eps had sung at dinner. The radio was noisy and she could not hear her
own humming, but it made her feel better. She thought of Leda and how
beautiful she was, and she felt a warm glow in her stomach when she
remembered the way Leda had turned on her back that afternoon, and how
lovely she had been. At her feet, in the car, the beer bottles rattled
and she remembered how she hated the taste of beer. A slow panic mounted
inside her as she imagined the hours ahead with the beer and the boy who
did not talk. The panic was edged with anger and resentment.
When the car stopped and Jake called, “All out!” she was sick inside
where a drummer beat fast against her breast, and dull loneliness gnawed
there.
Bud Roberts caught the blanket that Jake tossed at him.
“We’re going on up ahead,” he said, and Leda called out, “See you later,
Mitch.”
Mitch stood there while Bud spread the blanket a few feet from the car.
He was whistling now, but there was no tune—just whistling with no order
to the notes. Walking back to the car, he picked up the sack from the
back seat and set it down by the blanket. Then he took a bottle opener
from his shirt pocket and sat down.
“Like beer?” he said.
“Not too well. I’m not used to it.”
With a flip of his wrist, he sprung the cap and the white foam bubbled
out toward the top of the bottle. He held it up to Mitch and said,
“Here.” He opened another for himself and took a long swig.
Mitch sat down beside him and tasted the cold beer mincingly. It tasted
bitter and sour. She coughed and said, “I haven’t had any in a long
time.” Bud grunted and drank some more. He finished and reached for
another bottle. “Through?” he asked, and Mitch shook her head. She sat
quietly, wishing that Leda had not gone off with Jake, indignant that
they had left her alone with Bud.
The silence was nervous and anticipating. After a while he reached over
and pulled her down beside him there on the blanket. His mouth came on
hers and she could feel the roughness of his beard. At first she tried
to push him back and she struggled desperately. Then she let him kiss
her. _Ever been kissed—hard?_
“You’re a cold baby,” Bud Roberts muttered in her ear. “That’s all
right. I like them cold.”
“Leave me alone,” Mitch said. “Will you leave me alone?”
He sat up and reached for the full bottle of beer that was Mitch’s. He
handed it to her and watched her swallow. In the darkness he could not
see the tears that stung her eyes from the harsh taste of the beer. He
waited and she took another swallow. She did not want to kiss him.
“Cigarette?” he said, passing her the pack.
She took one from him and let him light it. It would pass time. The
smoke tickled her nose and she began to sneeze. Bud drank more beer and
whistled nonchalantly, watching her as he handed her another bottle. The
taste was like water now.
“Think you’re going to like smoking?” Bud said, grinning at her.
The end of her cigarette was wet and soggy and she stubbed it out on the
ground. She said, “I’ve smoked before.”
He laughed and pulled her down again, and for another long minute she
lay there impassively while his mouth pressed against hers, wet and
hard.
“Take your coat off,” he said.
“I will not!”
“Get it off. What’s the matter? Rule against taking your coat off? I’m
not going to undress you.”
His hands worked on the buttons, and in a moment he was helping her out
of it. The beer made her head swim and she did not care. He put her coat
beside his own, and then he opened more beer, passing her another. It
was smooth going down and she was grateful that he had not pushed her
back again.
“How old are you?” he said.
“Seventeen.”
“Jail bait, huh?” He laughed and reached over to touch her arm.
“What does that mean?”
“Means I’m not supposed to do this,” he said, his hand patting her below
the stomach.
She moved away. “Stop it, will you? Please!”
“That’s just what I was explaining.” He laughed again. “That I’d have to
stop. Don’t be so jumpy. You’re doing a regular dance over there. I’m
not going to hurt you.”
“Don’t touch me, then,” she told him.
“Don’t worry so much, baby.... Tell me, how do you like rooming with
Leda?”
She was glad that he was going to talk. She felt better and less
restless as he lay back, his arms behind his head, his legs crossed
lazily.
“I like her,” she said. “She’s been wonderful to me.”
“She tell you much about Jake and her?”
“What would she tell me? Just that she likes him.”
“Likes!” He hooted and then he said, “Yeah—yeah,” slow, and then, “Yeah,
maybe she does only like him. Funny girl. She always has eyes.”
“What?”
“She’s always looking around. You know.”
“Yes,” Mitch said, not knowing at all.
“Drink some more of that beer,” he said. “We’re wasting good iced beer.”
“You know, I like beer O.K. now,” Mitch said with a frail semblance of
excitement. “It’s not bad at all.”
“Good. Here—rest your head.”
He raised himself to a sitting position and spread his legs apart. He
patted his chest lightly and said, “Here, baby—rest your head here.
We’ll talk.”
Mitch moved over and put her head on his chest, a hand resting on either
knee.
“I’m glad you’re so tall,” she confided. “I’m so tall myself.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re a long-legged gal, all right.”
“Why didn’t you talk coming up in the car? I was afraid you’d lost your
tongue.”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I just wanted to think.”
“About what?” Mitch began to feel comfortable and easy with him. “What
did you think about?”
His hands reached up and cupped her breasts quickly, and his knees held
her in. “About this,” he said, reaching one hand up to the blouse and
down to her slip and inside touching her flesh. He began to rub her
breasts as she wiggled to be free.
Mitch whimpered slowly and softly and she could feel him moving around
and forcing her back on the blanket and the tears came fast then. She
was dizzy and exhausted and she could not pull herself up. Fighting
desperately with him, she could not stop his hands from pulling her
skirt up. A thin wail escaped from her mouth and she began to heighten
it to a loud moaning sound.
“Shut up,” he snapped. “Shut up!”
Her moaning increased and some of the lost strength returned so that she
kicked him and sent him back away from her. He stood up and glared down.
“Mamma tell you not to?” he said angrily. “Mamma tell you sex is dirty?”
She began to cry hard, and sitting there sobbing, she did not listen to
his words. For a long time she stayed like that, listening to him take
the caps off the bottles, light cigarettes, and mumble dull words to
her. She could hear him say that he was sorry and she had better not cry
because Jake and Leda would be back, and then she could hear him curse
and swallow the beer and whistle the way he whistled.
There were voices in the distance, ringing laughter, and the sound of
them coming. She put her coat on and got up while Bud began folding the
blanket.
Leda came down the fields ahead of Jake, running happily while he
followed. “Mitch and Bud,” she shouted, “how goes the mad twosome?”
Mitch said, “Hi, Leda.”
Bud reverted to his old mood of sullen silence as he loaded the blankets
in the car and gathered the empty bottles together. Jake helped him and
Leda jumped in the front seat, yawning and saying sleepily, “Better
hurry. We’ll be out after hours.”
On the way home, after they had come off the dirt road and gone onto the
highway, Jake stopped the car. Leda stood beside Mitch while she
vomited.
“You’ll be O.K.,” she promised. “I used to get sick on beer myself.
You’ll get used to it, honey.”
* * * * *
The next morning, after breakfast, Mitch waited for Marsha Holmes, as
she had been told to do. The president’s suite consisted of three rooms.
There was the bedroom, the study room, and the meeting room, all of them
attractively furnished with low couches and triangular lamps and small
square tables. Mitch sat in the meeting room, thumbing through the
magazines on the table in front of her. She stopped at one titled “The
Epsilon.” Inside, the columns were devoted to news from chapters of Tri
Epsilon throughout the country. Mitch’s eye caught the printing, “Gamma
Pi Chapter, Cranston University.”
Gamma Pi Tri Eps are looking forward to a year bustling with
excitement. Last year, you remember, they received many honors.
For the second year in a row, glamorous Leda Taylor, a Tri
Epsilon junior, was voted campus queen. Good luck this year,
Leda, and may you cap all awards again for the name of Epsilon
Epsilon Epsilon.
“No one can deny it,” a voice said behind Mitch, “Leda is a beautiful
girl.”
Mitch turned and faced Marsha. “A very beautiful girl,” Marsha
continued. “Do you like rooming with her, Mitch?”
“Yes, I do. She’s been swell to me.”
“Did you have a good time last night? You went out with Bud Roberts,
didn’t you? And Leda and Jake?”
“Yes, I did. I’m sorry we were late. It was my fault.”
“Your fault, Mitch?”
“Yes, I got sick coming back. We had to stop.”
“I see.” Marsha thought for a moment, her hands folded demurely, and
then she sat down beside Mitch. “Look, Susan, I hate to be the bossy
president that starts right in advising pledges, but remember something
for me, will you?”
“Certainly, Marsha.”
“Leda has many ideas that some of us—that _I_ don’t agree with. If there
are any that you don’t agree with, will you come and talk to _me_ about
them?”
“Yes, I will. I didn’t like my date too well, but I shouldn’t have had
all that beer. I guess I’m old enough to take care of myself.”
“I won’t say any more, Mitch. I just want you to know that I’m here to
help the pledges. I don’t think Leda was wise to have you date Bud
Roberts during blind-date week. You see, Kitten, our social chairman,
tries very hard to arrange a suitable date for each pledge. Someone your
own age—usually a fraternity pledge who is as new to college as you
are.”
“Oh,” Mitch said. “I didn’t understand. Leda said it would be all right
so long as Bud was a fraternity man.”
“You will go along on a blind date tonight, won’t you, Mitch? One of
Kitten’s. All the other pledges are enjoying it tremendously.”
“Yes,” Mitch answered, “I will. I’m sorry about last night.”
Mitch wandered out of the suite down the stairs to the porch, where some
of the girls were playing bridge. She recognized a few of them as
pledges, because they wore the pink and blue ribbons too, but she did
not know them.
“... and so I told him,” a short girl with jewel-studded rims on her
large-framed glasses was saying, “that as far as I was concerned, he was
the blindest date I’d ever had.”
“Robin!” Marybell Van Casey looked horrified. “He was an Omega Phi.
They’re a big fraternity, sweetie, and Tri Ep can’t afford to run around
insulting their pledges. You be careful.”
“Well, I don’t care. I hate those big oafs that maul you around as
though you were a punching bag. I just won’t take it.”
There was a tense silence. Marybell looked across the table
significantly at Kitten Clark. Robin was due for a conference with the
social chairman.
* * * * *
Mitch sat next to Robin Maurer at the pledge meeting that afternoon.
Jane Bell was the pledge director. She had an extensive background in
directing and leading and counseling. In grammar school she had been the
monitor in the cloakroom, and later, a junior counselor at a summer camp
for girls. She was a Texan and an Army brat, and her speech was peppered
with such phrases as “team spirit,” “pulling together,” “giving it all
we’ve got,” and “sticking in there.” Whenever a date gave Jane trouble
toward the end of an evening, Jane always looked him squarely in the eye
and said, “Now, look—don’t get out of line, son!”
“I guess that’s all. How about you girls? Any questions?”
A girl in a plaid dress raised her hand. “Is it true,” she asked, “that
we can only date fraternity men?”
Jane cleared her throat and looked treacherously serious. “That question
always comes up among new pledges. Well, girls, all I can say is that
you have joined a sorority because you have found that you’re in with a
gang you can be mighty proud of. Most men join fraternities for the same
reason. They want to pick a bunch that they know have high standards and
high ideals. Now, to my way of thinking, it’s only logical to want to
date that kind of guy.”
“But,” the girl persisted, “may we date an independent if we find that
his standards are high and—” She stopped and wrung her hands and blurted
out finally, “My boy friend is an independent. He can’t af-afford a
fraternity.”
Jane said, “I’ll talk to you after the meeting. We’ll have a chat about
it, O.K.?”
“Wait a minute,” Robin said, getting up and resting her hand on the
large oak table before her. “I think this is pretty silly. You mean to
tell me we have to ask _you_ before we can date an independent?”
There was a stir among the gathering and Jane Bell rapped for order.
“You can go out with independents if you want—on weekdays. Week ends,
we’d prefer you to be with fraternity men.”
“What a laugh!” Robin exclaimed. “You’re serious!”
Anger swept through the Texan’s whole body and settled in her eyes,
black as night. “That’s a demerit for you, Robin Maurer,” she thundered,
“and it’ll be wise for you to learn how to talk to an active member of
Tri Epsilon.”
Robin turned and walked from the room after she said, “Hooray for the
team spirit we’ve all got! Three big cheers for our team spirit!”
It was difficult for Jane to continue. She uttered a few remarks about
hours on week ends, and special permission for out-of-town week ends.
Then she assigned the pledge lesson (learn the first three songs in the
songbook, and the names of the official alumnae officers) and dismissed
the group. She bounded off in the direction of the president’s suite.
* * * * *
“Here you are,” Leda said, pulling Mitch aside as she came from the
Pledge Room. “I’ve been looking for you. How about my fixing you up
tonight with a date? Not Bud Roberts, spare your soul, but someone
else.”
They walked toward the stairs while Mitch explained that Marsha had
advised her to take a blind date.
“Marsha!” Leda cried. “She’s from hunger, honey. No kidding. You can do
what you want as long as he’s a fraternity boy. Never mind Kitten’s
blind dates. Look, I’m sorry Roberts was such a mess. I never should
have left you, kid. Tonight it’ll be different.”
“I think I’d better do what Marsha asked. All the other pledges are. You
know—I don’t want to be an exception.”
Leda put her arm around Mitch. “I understand, honey,” she said. “I
shouldn’t have suggested it. Let’s go upstairs and catch thirty winks
before dinner.”
Robin Maurer was waiting outside Marsha’s door on the second floor when
Mitch and Leda passed by.
“I’m going in for my fifty lashes,” she said to Mitch. “Care to join
me?”
Mitch grinned. She liked Robin. She admired the way Robin spoke up and
said what she thought. What Mitch thought, too.
“That kid’s a little too cocky,” Leda commented. “She’d better tone down
if she wants to keep those ribbons.”
“What happens when you get a demerit?”
“Oh, you get some horrible duty like taking Nessy to a movie on a Sunday
afternoon. Sometimes to church too.” Leda sighed. “Nessy is a peach,
really, but who wants to cart her around?”
When they reached the room, Leda flopped down and kicked off her
loafers. “Say, honey,” she said, “is everything going O.K. with you? I
mean, I don’t want you to be a stranger around here too much longer.”
“I don’t feel like one,” Mitch said. “Sometimes I just don’t catch on
right away.”
“You don’t say much, that’s why I wondered. When you want to unload,
just open up, Mitch. That’s what I’m here for.”
Mitch kicked her shoes off and stretched out on the bed. “I used to talk
a lot in boarding school. College is different. The girls are more grown
up, and I’m not used to talking about dates and boys and stuff.”
“You’ll get used to it.... Your mother is dead, isn’t she, Mitch?”
“Yes. When I was real young.”