William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

“You know, Ridley,” she said wistfully, “I didn’t know a single boy in my high school graduating class.”

“Neither did I. I mean, I didn’t know any of the girls in my graduation class.”

“That’s different. You didn’t have any. You were off in the seminary.”

“It’s not entirely different. I could tell you about some seminarians who knew lots of girls. Matter of fact, one in particular, about a year ago, got in quite a bit of trouble over a girl.”

“Really? How?”

“I shouldn’t talk about that. I don’t want to talk about that. It will make me angry all over again. And I don’t want to get angry tonight . . . this is great stuff, y’know?” Ridley took another sip. It wasn’t burning as much now as that first taste. Maybe it was like cigarettes. Maybe you did get used to it after a while.

Jane poured a little more Scotch over his diminishing ice cubes. She added more to her own glass. She had to walk to and from the table to accomplish this. She was not unsteady. “So, you didn’t know any girls in your class?”

“Not a one.”

“I’ll bet you’ve known your share since then.”

“Not really.”

“Oh, come on.”

Ridley swirled the liquor in and around the ice. He’d seen them do that in movies too. “Would you believe this is the first date I’ve ever had in my life?”

“No.”

“It’s true. It’s my first date. And where did I take her? Nowhere. Her house!” Affected by the Scotch, he looked as if he were about to cry.

“You took her just where she wanted to go.” A hint of a slur was entering Jane’s speech. “She didn’t want to go out with all the gang. She wanted to spend a quiet New Year’s Eve at home. And you gave her a marvelous concert. I’m the luckiest girl in the world this New Year’s Eve . . . wait; let me get some more ice so your drink doesn’t bother you.”

She walked into the kitchen without once staggering. But she had to concentrate on each step, something she’d never had to do before.

Before returning his glass and letting the liquid already in it dissolve some of the fresh ice, she poured in another splash of Scotch. She “freshened” her own drink likewise.

“What about you?” Ridley looked across and found no one there. Jane had seated herself on the floor in front of the couch. He slid down to the floor. The least he could do was be on the same level as his hostess. “What about you?” he repeated. “I’ll bet you’ve had your share of boyfriends since you started college.” He sounded as if he resented the idea of her dating anyone else.

Jane sipped her drink and shook her head. “Been too busy. Working, going to school, doing the required reading, all that. Almost no social life at all. No time.”

“No dates?”

“I couldn’t say that. I’ve been out on a few dates, mostly doubles. But not with a boy alone. I mean not with a man, a college senior. Never like this, in a house alone.”

His thought processes were getting a bit muddled. There was something about being in a house alone, together. It sounded as if something should follow. If they were in the house alone, together, something should be happening. But what?

A sharp crack sounded outside. It seemed to come from some distance. It was followed by a series of similar noises.

“What was that?” Ridley was almost shocked into sobriety. It was only momentary. The Scotch resumed control.

“Gunshot, I guess. Look, Ridley,” Jane showed him her watch. “It’s midnight. It’s a new year. Happy New Year, Ridley.”

He extended his hand and was startled when she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. Unsure of how to react, he leaned away.

“Happy New Year, Ridley!” she repeated.

“Happy New Year, Jane.” His response was more bewildered than heartfelt.

“Don’t look at me that way, Ridley. People are supposed to kiss on New Year’s Eve. It’s the thing to do.”

Ridley wasn’t thinking too clearly. He did seem to recall a number of movies wherein there was plenty of kissing on New Year’s Eve. That much checked out. But in the movies there always seemed to be crowds of people around with a lot of flying confetti and noisemakers.

“Then,” he challenged her smartly, “where’s the confetti and the noisemakers?”

Her smile was a little crooked. The liquor had taken its toll on her mental processes as well. “You don’t have confetti or noisemakers at home, silly. That’s just for big parties in restaurants and hotels. At home you just have a private party. It’s a special time for being close.”

He appeared skeptical. “You’re sure about the confetti and noisemakers?”

“Sure. But you could sit closer.”

He edged toward her a tentative few inches. She moved likewise until they were touching. She let her head fall back on his shoulder. That, he thought felt nice. He leaned back against the couch and let his right arm rest over her shoulder. She looked up and kissed him.

“It helps, you know, if you kiss back.”

“Oh.”

She kissed him again. This time he puckered to receive the kiss and felt something odd . . . as if her tongue was licking his lips. It did not feel unpleasant, but his mouth opened in surprise. Her tongue went further. What was she doing?

He drew back. “Are you sure you haven’t had a lot of boyfriends?”

“Just a few. And we never did anything but kiss.”

He would have argued the point further but he was by no means in condition for effective argument. “What do you call that? When you use your tongue?”

“French kissing.”

“So that’s what French kissing is about . . . it seems sort of silly.”

“Try it you may like it.” She tilted her head back.

This time, when they met, her mouth was open. Again he was surprised. This must be what she had intended by encouraging participation.

From that point on, liquor, passion, and nature provided an ineluctable drive. Kisses led to embraces. Buttons, zippers, belts, clasps gave way. Finally, nakedness itself became a stimulus.

At one stage, she protested, but her pleadings only goaded him on. It was a frenzied struggle in which, in the end, both consented with what voluntary was left them. Then it was over.

Ridley was exhausted, yet relaxed, and slightly more sober.

He looked at himself. He seemed to be all bloodied. He gave no thought to whose blood; he assumed it was his. He had been hideously deformed by his copulation! He came close to vomiting.

Numb, he gathered his clothing and began to dress.

“This isn’t what I planned.” Jane seemed to speak without thought. She was as shocked as he by what had happened.

“It was a sin. We have to confess it”

“We can do that.”

“I’ve got to go.”

“Stay just a while. Please. I don’t want to be alone now.”

“I’ve got to go. I shouldn’t have come.”

“Please.”

“I’m sorry.” He struggled into his overcoat and, after fumbling with the door, stepped out into the air. It all but completely cleared his head. With a few mumbled apologies, Ridley walked away.

As he walked, he prayed. He confessed his sin to God. He promised God he would confess to the priest.

When he arrived home, he found his parents had retired. He showered, scrubbing himself again and again. Above all else, he was confused. He had just committed a sin—in the Catholic lexicon, one of the most abominable sins. From what he’d heard and read, of all possible mortal sins, fornication was supposed to be the most nearly worth it. But he had found it abhorrent. He was confused.

After Ridley left, Jane put on a robe and put her clothing in the washer. She was alone at the very moment of her life when she most needed someone to be with her. She had just lost her virginity. Throughout her training in parochial schools, she had been taught that this gift was to be guarded, protected, and saved for the one with whom she would spend her entire life within the bonds of sacred matrimony. But in one drunken evening everything had been irrevocably taken from her.