April North (7 page)

But she knew intuitively that this would not work with Craig. That particular sort of feminine deception would not impress him in the least. She left her room, walked downstairs, and took a seat in the living room.

Her mother appeared, the inevitable dishtowel in one hand. “A shame you’ll miss dinner again,” she said. “Two nights in a row. And you know how you love fried chicken.”

“Craig’s taking me to dinner.”

“I know, April. Boys don’t usually take you to dinner, do they?”

“Craig’s older,” she said. “Besides, his parents aren’t living. If he didn’t take me out, he’d have to eat alone.”

“You could ask him to have supper with us, April. There’s plenty of the chicken—”

She had to struggle to keep back laughter at the picture of Craig at a family dinner. She imagined all of them sitting around the table stuffing their mouths with fried chicken, wiping greasy hands on cotton napkins and talking about business at the drugstore, the latest item of importance before the Ladies’ Aid, and Link’s prowess at football. That would be just the way to start off an evening with Craig, she thought. That would send him screaming out of the house, leap into his Mercedes and point it for New York.

“Not tonight,” she said gently.

“Not if you’ve made plans, I suppose. Some other night, April. Invite the poor boy over.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Not having any family—”

Something started to burn on the stove, and Mrs. North vanished hurriedly. April sighed. There was a cigarette in her purse and she wanted it desperately. But she could imagine her mother all upset at the idea of her smoking in front of a man. She sighed again, and the doorbell rang.

She answered the door herself. He smiled, then looked her over. His eyes started with her face and moved downward to her shoes, lingering with interest at certain areas. Then he gazed into her eyes again.

“Lovely,” he said.

She took a breath. He was dressed exquisitely in a brass-buttoned summerweight blazer and a pair of tailored Italian slacks. His hair was combed back and his moustache was neatly trimmed. His eyes, bright as beads, gleamed at her.

“Would you like to come in?”

“And meet the folks?” The sarcasm in his voice was almost gentle. “Of course, April. I’d love to.”

They were in the car, racing along 68, and the wind was tossing her hair all over hell and gone. She let the wind flick ashes from her cigarette. Craig had impressed hell out of her parents, she thought. In just a few moments he had won them over forever. Her father now thought Craig was mature and level-headed, a young man astutely aware of the dangers of creeping socialism and the need to keep the government out of business. Her mother was just as certain that Craig regarded church and family and sacred awe, that he helped old ladies across streets and befriended stray cats.

Even Link had been impressed. In his eyes, Craig was strong and solid, a top athlete and a devil with the women. Which, she thought, was true enough.

“Where are we going, Craig?”

“Springfield.”

“Springfield?”

“For dinner,” he said. “Springfield is an ugly little town with very little to recommend it. It has to its name one good hotel, three fourth-rate whorehouses and one fine restaurant. One exceptionally fine restaurant, unbelievable for Ohio.”

“What’s the name of it?”

“Kardaman’s,” he said. “You’ll like it.”

She liked it. Kardaman’s was located on a side street just a few doors off the main stem of the city. It was housed in a white frame dwelling set back a good distance from the street. A neatly painted signboard announced the restaurant’s name and nothing more. A white-coated Negro greeted Craig by name and ushered them to a table. It was the only table in one small room off the main dining room. Through the window April could see the outskirts of Springfield. The Negro, whom Craig had addressed as Paul, lighted two candles with a wooden match, shook out the match, and hurried away.

“This is lovely,” she said.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“What’s good here?”

“Drinks, first of all.” A waiter came over and Craig ordered scotch on the rocks for both of them. When the drinks arrived they touched glasses and sipped the liquor. She was developing a taste for scotch, she thought. Soon she would know how to tell one brand from the next.

“Your parents are nice people,” he said.

“I suppose so.”

“They are, April. They’re small-town to the core and there’s a great deal that they do not and never will understand.”

“Like me.”

“Like you.” He smiled. “Like anything outside their own specific frames of reference. Your father worries about pinkos in Washington and whether he’ll sell enough condoms to pay the rent. Your mother worries about church affairs and reputations and hopes you’ll marry a nice sweet boy who comes from a good dull family. And your brother wants to be a football hero so all the girls will lift their skirts for him. They’re square as hell, but they’re still nice people.”

He sighed, smiling still. “I’m long-winded tonight. Mind if I order for both of us? I think I know what you’ll like.”

He did. He ordered something called beef Stroganoff, which she had never had before and it was delicious. He ordered a good bottle of red wine along with the meal. Afterward he ordered brandied coffee, which somehow settled everything in her stomach and in her mind as well.

She sat sipping her coffee and relaxing in complete luxury.

“This is wonderful,” she said.

“The coffee?”

“The everything.”

“You’re happy, April?”

“Very happy.”

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I want to make you even happier, April.”

The Mercedes shifted down to second and the gears acted as a brake. The car slowed. Craig hit the brake and the sleek sports car glided to a perfect stop.

“We’re home, April.”

Her head was lighter than air. I feel pretty, she thought. I feel pretty and witty and bright. She stepped out of the car, looked once more at Craig’s home. At dusk the house rose even more dramatically from the landscape. He took her arm and she leaned a little against him. They walked together to the door.

Without a word she followed him inside, standing patiently beside him while he closed and bolted the door. He turned, and all at once she was in his arms, her breasts drawn tight against his chest, her eyes closed, her heart beating against her ribs like an animal shaking its cage. His arms went around her. With one hand he stroked her silky hair; with the other he rubbed the small of her back until she tingled.

He kissed her. At first—but only for a moment—her lips and his merely brushed. Then her mouth opened and his tongue darted inside, a living flame that seared the roof of her mouth and seemed to set her own tongue on fire. She moaned softly, pressing still closer, and her lips and teeth closed around his tongue, imprisoned it, sucked on it and refused to let it escape.

The kiss lasted a long time.

When he released her she nearly fell to the floor. She was limp as the dishrag her mother always carried, limp and lifeless. And at the same time she was a woman on fire, a woman with the beginnings of a desperate craving burning in her.

“Craig—”

“Don’t talk,” he said.

He took her arm and led her across a room, down a hall, through a doorway. She looked around. They were in a bedroom and no room that she had ever seen was so completely bed-oriented. There was one bed the size of three beds, one huge brass bed that dominated a room which was large in its own right. He flicked a switch—evidently the whole house was wired for sound—and music came over the hidden speakers.

Not jazz—not this time. Not music like anything she had heard before. This was weird music, weird and wild and wonderful music.

Bedroom music.

He touched another switch. The overhead light went out, and a soft pale green glow from the walls illuminated the room. He turned once more to her, reached for her, and she went to him. And again he burned her mouth with a kiss.

The green dress buttoned in front. The silk top part had buttons, that is, and the top one was between the tops of her breasts. He opened the button and the blouse burst apart a bit. She felt the cool air on her breasts and drew in her breath sharply, excited by the sensation—excited, too, by his eyes on her breasts.

He opened each button in turn. The blouse fell all the way open and her breasts were exposed. He looked at them, admiration shining in his eyes, and his fingers reached out carelessly to brush the cherry tip of each soft white mound. Instantly her nipples reacted, stiffening and jutting forward. She was so excited she could barely breathe.

He cupped her breasts in his hands now. His thumbs and fingers manipulated the globes of flesh and she shivered all over.

Then he pushed her dress all the way down.

“Naked,” he whispered. “Naked for me, April.”

She could not speak.

“Naked and beautiful, April.”

He kneeled before her and his hands went all over her body. Then he stood up, shrugged off his jacket, whipped off his tie, tore off his shirt. He had hair on his chest, she saw. And she threw her arms around him so that she could feel his hairy chest against her soft, tender breasts.

He released her again. She stood before him, trembling, and watched him remove the rest of his clothing. When he was nude she studied him, looked from his face to his feet. Her eyes locked again with his. Then, slowly, he moved closer. His arms encircled her body, lifted. He carried her to the bed and set her down gently upon a pale blue bedsheet.

He joined her there.

His hands were everywhere, touching, caressing, exciting. Her breasts tingled with the ecstasy of his touch. His mouth kissed hers, and then his lips left hers to plant a trail of hungry kisses down her throat to her breasts.

When he kissed her breasts something snapped inside her. She turned in to a hurricane, a cyclone, a whirlwind. Her hips churned spasmodically and her pulse soared. An aching need grew in her groin and spread throughout her entire body until she was aware of nothing but her need for him, of nothing but a tremendous aching void that needed to be filled.

His lips.

His hands.

Everywhere. Normal sensations withered away. The sensual music still played but she did not hear it. She saw nothing, smelled nothing, tasted nothing. She could only feel, and the intensity of her feeling was unbelievable. He touched her and she vibrated like a taut wire. He stroked her and she arched her back like a bow, ready for him, needing him too much to wait any longer.

“Now,” he said.

And it began.

His mouth was glued to her mouth, his chest pressed against her breasts. Her winding legs pinned him to her, and their bodies moved together in a rhythm that was as old as humanity. She hugged him close, her arms around him, her nails digging involuntarily into his back.

Time stopped. Space spread out flatter than the desert and wider than the world. Everything was perfect now, absolutely perfect, and everything was getting better, steadily better, incredibly better, impossibly more perfect. She felt all the forces of her body crouching together, readying themselves for the spring, and she felt the world racing by her, and she felt her body and his body and nothing more.

Then passion broke for both of them at once. They reached the top of the mountain just as someone moved the mountain away, and they fell together belly-to-belly to the very bottom of the universe.

He had lighted a cigarette. He drew on it, inhaled smoke, and passed the cigarette to her. She took a drag. No cigarette had ever tasted so good. She gave it back to him and leaned back on her pillow. Her eyes closed and she took a slow breath.

She said, “I’m a woman now.”

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t before, Craig. I was just a girl.”

“You were ready to become a woman.”

“I know. The other boys—they weren’t anything. They never happened. Nothing before was ever anything like this. I didn’t know anything could be like this.”

He did not answer immediately. She opened her eyes and saw that he was smiling. He gave the cigarette to her once again and she took a drag. Her entire body was limp, every muscle entirely relaxed. She had never been so thoroughly exhausted in her life. Not tired—she had no desire to sleep. Simply exhausted, drained and used up and, strangely, fulfilled.

She reached over and touched him. “Such a wonderful thing,” she said. “Little things mean a lot, I guess.”

“Little?”

“Well—”

“If you keep doing that, you might note an increase in size, girl.”

“Woman,” she said, correcting him. “Was I good, Craig?”

“You were good.”

She sighed, stretched, yawned. “I want to be good,” she told him. “I want to be the best in the world.”

“It’s a noble ambition.”

“Am I the best, Craig? The best you ever had?”

“No.”

The answer surprised her. She raised herself up on one elbow and stared at him. “You could have said so,” she said. “Even if you didn’t mean it.”

“I don’t lie.”

“Well, what was wrong with me?”

“Nothing was wrong with you, April.”

“Then—”

“Relax,” he told her. “My God, what sort of vanity could lead you to suspect that you could be the best woman I’ve ever had? You’re practically devoid of experience. You’ve got a great deal of natural talent, but there’s more to lovemaking than enthusiasm and a passionate nature. It’s an art, April. Do you know who was the best woman I ever had?”

“Who?”

“A forty-five-year-old prostitute in Marseilles. She had most of her teeth missing and her stomach was lined with stretch marks because she’d given birth to three children in her lifetime. Some drunken sailor broke her nose once and the bones didn’t heal properly, so her nose was bent. Her face would have stopped most clocks. But she knew more about sex than all the rest of the female world put together. Do you think you could compete with her?”

“I’d like to try.”

He laughed. “Wonderful,” he said. “You’re delightful, April.”

“Was I any good at all?”

“Do you care?”