Evan Hunter - Streets of Gold

I told her maybe she was right (actually I did nothing at all about the way I dressed until Rebecca made it a real issue years later), and since Susan had provided the perfect opportunity for further conversation, having mentioned jazz, I told her about all the exciting discoveries I’d been making, all of which I’m sure thrilled her to the marrow. I had figured out all by myself, for example, that a great many of the songs I was listening to and trying to learn had the identical sequence of chords in the first two bars and that the progression, in the key of C at least, was C six, A minor, D minor, and G seven. Susan would probably recognize these as the underlying chords of “We Want Cantor” — if she tried it she’d see what I meant. Susan tried “We Want Cantor” in her husky, breathless voice, and admitted she’d never realized such an amazing thing about that particular tune. Well, it’s not only that tune, I said. Songs like “I Got Rhythm” and “These Foolish Things” (Oh, I love that song, Susan said), yes, I said, and “Ain’t Misbehavin’ ” and dozens of other songs I’d been learning, all started with those same chords in the first two bars.

That’s really interesting, Susan said, would you like to see how I’ve arranged my things?

She led me into her bedroom, and told me that because all her bobbysocks were white, she had them all in this drawer here, but when it came to stockings, they were difficult to tell apart because there were her best ones, for example, which she wore to the socials on Friday, and her everyday ones for less special occasions like when somebody was coming to the house to visit, and also they came in so many different’ shades (though she tried to buy neutral shades that went with any color), and she usually identified the pairs by tying them together after she’d rinsed them out and let them dry, and immediately putting them into drawers marked with Braille labels — here, Iggie, these are my good stockings, feel them, they’re much better than the ones in the other drawer.

When it came to garter belts, she had only two of them, a white one and a black one, and she identified the white one with a tiny button sewn here near the catch, can you feel it, Iggie? The brassieres were another problem, because if she wore a dark brassiere under a white blouse, it showed through the fabric, and if she wore a white brassiere with a black dress, say, and one of the straps showed, it looked positively horrible. She’d never had any trouble with her clothes when her brother was home because he’d helped her choose colors and styles and was kind enough and honest enough to tell her when something looked dowdy or shabby. Well, as a matter of fact, he’d begun helping her dress when she was eight years old and her father left the family and her mother had to take a job and left for work early each morning. Here’s one of my drawers for panties, she said. These are my favorite ones, they’re a pale blue with lace around the leg holes, can you feel the lace, Iggie? They’re rayon, I don’t usually wear rayon panties for every day, I’ve got a drawer full of cotton panties, those are here, Iggie. Like, for example, when I’m just wearing an old skirt and a blouse, like today, I’ll just wear a half-slip and cotton panties under it, that’s what I’m wearing today. My brother used to kid me a lot about wearing cotton panties, he said only snotnosed little kids wore cotton panties, if I was as grownup as I thought I was, I’d be wearing rayon, he always used to kid me that way. Well, I’m sure you’re not interested in my underthings.

We sat on the edge of her bed, and I told Susan I’d known her for, gosh, how many years was it now?

Six, Susan said.

Yeah, six years, I said, wow , that’s a long time to know somebody. And whereas I had some idea of what she looked like because, you know, we’d talked a lot and all, and naturally I knew a lot of things about her... I’d never in all that time explored her face with my hands, which was possibly the only way I’d ever really get to know what she really looked like, ever get to form a mental image to augment the other impressions I’d...

You can touch my face if you like, she said, and very softly added, Iggie.

I touched her face. Gently, lingeringly, with both hands, I touched the wide brow below the delicate hairline, and then gingerly explored the arched eyebrows, and then lifted the dark glasses onto her forehead, away from her sightless eyes, and touched the lids and the lashes, and while the glasses were still raised I touched the bridge of her nose and felt along it to the delicately curved tip, a fine film of perspiration on it, and then moved my hands outward toward her cheekbones, I have freckles, she said, and I answered You never mentioned that, and she murmured Yes. And then I gently lowered the glasses over her eyes again, and ran my hands lightly over her cheeks and the line of her jaw and her chin, and explored her mouth, touched the bow of her upper lip where it curved away from her teeth, and the fleshy lower lip, and then the moist inner membrane as she parted her lips and I said You’re beautiful, Susan.

Sitting on her bed, my hands in my lap again, we began talking about the nuns at school, the ones we particularly loved or despised, and about kids we’d known for God knew how long, and how we would miss them after we graduated next June, though I said it wasn’t necessary to lose track of people you really liked or admired, it would be a shame, for example, if she and I lost contact after we’d known each other such a long time. Susan quickly said Oh, no , we mustn’t let that happen, and I agreed No , we certainly mustn’t, not now that we were really getting to know each other even better. Susan said there were some kids, though, she wouldn’t mind seeing the last of. Kids like Donald Hagstrom, who was always using being blind as an excuse to go feeling around, did I know what she meant? No, I said, and Susan said You know, he puts his hands out in front of him and goes feeling around, you know, hoping he’ll, you know, bump up against someone, you know, like in the coat closet or someplace, just feeling around , do you understand what I mean, Iggie?

Oh, I said.

He’s done that to me a few times, Susan said. I slapped his face for him one time. I know he can tell I’m there, and it’s not only me, it’s lots of the other girls, too, he knows we’re there, he just makes believe he’s groping around, it’s really humiliating and embarrassing. Girls don’t like to be grabbed that way, Iggie. I mean, if they’re going to be touched at all, especially there were it’s so personal and private, they want to be touched gently. The way you touched my face. That way.

This way? I asked, and I reached out and touched the soft skin of her neck, and she said Yes, that way, but of course he touches lower. Donald, I mean. When he touches. And not as gentle as that. A little lower, though.

Here? I said.

Yes, she said, but you’d better stop, Iggie, because we’re all alone here and my mother won’t be home till very late tonight, so I don’t think you should be doing that, do you?

I guess not, I said.

Though it feels very nice, she said, you have nice hands.

Thank you, I said.

You’re welcome, she said, but please stop, okay? My brother has very gentle hands, too, did I tell you he used to dress me when I was very small? Well, actually, he used to help me dress right until the time he left for the Army. He’d sit right here on the edge of the bed, right where we’re sitting, and I’d be putting on a pair of stockings and fumbling with the damn garters, Iggie, I really don’t think you should be doing that, do you? and he’d say he hoped I wasn’t planning on wearing those stockings with the red dress or the green one or whatever it was, he was really very helpful, I miss him a lot.