Jean and Johnny (7 page)

“The one with the son in New York who never writes?” Jean took a cup and saucer out of the cupboard.

“Yes,” answered Mr. Jarrett. “She came out on the porch in this rain to ask if I was positive I didn't have a letter from New York for her. She was so sure she would get one today. She said she had a hunch.”

“She says that every day,” said Sue, coming out of the bathroom.

“I know.” There was regret in Mr. Jarrett's voice, and his daughters knew he would have liked to bring the lady a letter from her son every day. “She was so disappointed that when I got back to the post office I looked around and sure enough, there was a letter for her from New York. Airmail. I got to thinking about this poor woman living all alone and spending the whole weekend wishing she had that letter. So when I left the office I drove out to her house and gave it to her. I wish you could have seen her face when she saw that return address.”

Jean and Sue smiled affectionately at their father. “We might have known,” said Sue. “Last week it was the lady who was watching for the colored slides of her trip to Europe, because she was having company that evening and wanted to show them.”

“And the week before it was the girl watching for the letter from the sailor in Okinawa,” added Jean, pouring a steaming cup of coffee for her father.

“It was a small thing to do, and it made her happy. I only wish it had been a thicker letter.” Mr. Jarrett accepted the coffee with a grateful smile for Jean. “Are you ready for that young man of yours?”

“Yes,” answered Jean. “Now if the weather will just clear up before tonight.”

But by the time Mrs. Jarrett came home from work it was obvious that the storm would not only continue but would probably grow worse. Squalls of wind dashed rain against the living-room and dining-room windows. Rain gurgled out of the gutters on the roof, and drops fell down the chimney and plopped into the cold ashes in the fireplace. The branches of the trees that lined the street bowed and lashed and tossed.

“I hope the roof doesn't leak.” Mrs. Jarrett sounded worried. Their roof, as they all knew, was old, and although Mr. Jarrett had patched it last summer, it needed reshingling.

Jean began to be uneasy. Perhaps Johnny would not be able to come after all. She listened for cars on the street, and it seemed a very long time before one passed. A branch torn from a tree blew against the house. At the back of her mind was the worry that she was not attractive enough or interesting enough for a boy to come through a storm to see. Don't be silly, she told herself sternly. “Neither rain, nor snow, nor heat, nor gloom of night…” Now she was being even sillier. Johnny was not a mailman.

Jean tried to shut out the fear that the telephone might ring and it would be Johnny breaking the date. She wondered if Elaine and Maxine had had fun marketing for their supper and how many Greek olives they had had money for when everything else had been purchased. She wondered if Elaine missed her and if Maxine liked avocados as much as she did.

When supper was over and the dishes washed, Jean took one last reassuring peek into the refrigerator at the two desserts she had saved for herself and Johnny. So far he had not telephoned to break the date, so maybe everything was going to be all right after all. She went to her room to change her dress.

Sue was already sitting at the table with a pile of books and notes in front of her. “Term paper,” she said.

“May I extend my sympathy?” asked Jean, who admired her sister for starting her term paper in the middle of the semester. She changed into her best blouse and a bright cotton skirt. She brushed her hair and carefully arranged her bangs. The rain was still beating against the windows. “Isn't this a terrible night?” she said, wanting and yet not wanting to discuss with Sue the possibility that
Johnny might be kept home by the weather.

“Mm-hm,” murmured Sue, her head bent over her notebook. A blast of wind seemed to shake the house.

Jean tiptoed out of the room. In the living room she found her father kneeling on the hearth, starting a fire in the fireplace.

“I thought this might be a good time to get rid of some of the cartons and a couple of orange crates that were cluttering up the garage,” Mr. Jarrett said. “They won't last long, but I thought a little fire might brighten things up.”

“Good idea, Daddy.” Jean could not help being touched. This was her father's way of showing that he, too, was pleased that a boy was coming to see one of his daughters. The papers and cartons caught fire, making the room seem more pleasant and the storm less threatening. While Mr. Jarrett broke up the orange crates, Jean sat down on a chair near the front door, got up, and moved to the couch. She did not want Johnny to look through the glass door and see her sitting there as if she couldn't wait to open the door. She looked around the room at the fire, the African violet blooming cheerily on the mantel, the Chinese checker set waiting on the coffee table, and was satisfied.
Their house might be small, but it was homelike—tonight one could even call it cozy—and no one would notice the crack in the plaster or the worn places in the carpet. Her father, who was outdoors so much, was better-looking than most men his age and no one would ever guess, looking at her mother, that she had stood on her feet all day selling remnants.

At a quarter to eight Jean walked across the room and straightened a book, just to get a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the mantel. Johnny was right. She was a cute girl. Eight o'clock came. Jean grew tense. Eight fifteen. Above the sound of the wind and the rain and the gurgling gutters Jean heard a car approach, and pass on down the street. Had Johnny forgotten? Of course not. It was needless to worry when he was only fifteen minutes late. “This is the worst storm we have had this year,” Jean observed, laying the ground for excuses in case Johnny really did not come.

Eight thirty. Jean's mouth was dry and her hands were cold. She longed to say brightly, as if it did not matter, Well, it looks as if Johnny isn't coming. She could not. Not yet. Give him another five minutes. Or ten.

Raindrops hissed into the fire. “Didn't you say this fellow was coming at eight?” asked Mr. Jarrett.

“Yes,” said Jean miserably, knowing that her father did not really mean to be tactless. “At least I think that was what he said. I might have misunderstood.” The pieces of orange crate burned through, broke apart, fell into coals. When ten more drops hissed into the fire Johnny would come. No, better make it twenty. One…two…

Mrs. Jarrett looked up from the pad of paper on her knee. “Do you think it would sound all right to say a cold cream leaves your face with a gossamer glow?” she asked.

“Yes, Mother.” Jean was not thinking about her mother's question. Johnny had not asked for her address. Perhaps he was in a telephone booth someplace, calling all the Jarretts in the book. How many Jarretts were there, she wondered, and did she dare go look? Her mother's words finally penetrated. “I mean, no,” she amended hastily. “Gossamer doesn't glow. At least I don't think it does. I think it would be all right to say
gossamer soft
but I don't think you can say
gossamer glow
.”

“I guess you are right,” said Mrs. Jarrett. “But I do think alliterative phrases stand a better chance of winning.” Then, as if the subject had been on
her mind all the time, she said, “Don't worry, dear. In a storm like this Johnny could easily be delayed. Perhaps his car won't start.”

“Maybe,” was all Jean was able to say. Any excuse was better than none. The three sat in silence, listening to the wind and the rain, the sound of burning wood crumbling into coals. Every time Jean heard tires on the street her heart felt like something trying to beat its way out of a cage.

By ten minutes to nine the fire was reduced to hot ashes. That fire had been her father's contribution to her evening, Jean thought sadly. Whatever would she say when Elaine telephoned in the morning? And Elaine would telephone. The very first thing. Jean pictured herself answering the telephone, chattering brightly, Elaine, it was all the most
ghastly
mistake. Ghastly in a
hilarious
sort of way, if you know what I mean. There we sat by those dying embers, listening for a car to stop, and all the time I had the wrong day. Except that she did not have the wrong day and even if she did, she would not talk to Elaine that way. That was the way Elaine talked when she was trying to turn an incident into an event.

Mr. Jarrett yawned.

“I—I guess he isn't coming.” With tremendous effort Jean contrived a wry half smile. “Maybe he was just—joking or something.” Maybe that was it. Why should a boy who wore shirts that had to be dry-cleaned want to come to see a girl like her?

Mr. Jarrett was busy poking the dead fire. Mrs. Jarrett bit her lip and looked at Jean, her eyes dark with sympathy—sympathy that Jean appreciated and at the same time resented. Part of her wanted to bury her face in her mother's lap the way she had when she was a little girl, and another part of her wanted to hold her head high and say proudly, I'm fifteen—I can manage my own affairs.

The telephone rang. None of the Jarretts seemed able to move. It rang a second time and a third.

“Answer it, dear,” said Mrs. Jarrett on the fourth ring.

Numbly Jean walked into the kitchen and picked up the receiver.

“Hello, Jean?” It was Johnny all right.

“Oh, hi, Johnny,” Jean said in a strangled voice.

“Look, Jean. I'm sure sorry, but I am not going to be able to make it tonight after all.” Johnny sounded genuinely contrite.

“That's all right, Johnny.” It wasn't all right, but what could a girl say?

“No, it isn't all right,” insisted Johnny. “I feel terrible about it. Some people from out of town arrived and Dad says I have to stick around. You know how it is. Old family friends and all.”

“Sure, Johnny.” Jean felt somewhat better. Johnny really did sound sorry, and anybody's family could have out-of-town friends arrive. Even on a night like this. Of course they could.

“I'll make it up to you sometime,” said Johnny, almost tenderly. “Honest.”

“Oh, that's all right,” said Jean, beginning to feel that it was all right.

Johnny lowered his voice, as if he did not want anyone to overhear what he was saying. “Jean? Did I ever tell you what a cute little nose you have?”

Jean smiled into the telephone in spite of herself. “No, I don't think so.” Unconsciously she lowered her voice too, and enjoyed a delightful sense of conspiracy.

“Remind me on Monday and I'll tell you,” said Johnny softly.

Jean laughed. “I'll do that.” At least she would get to see him day after tomorrow.

“Look, Jean,” said Johnny, his voice still low, “I've got to go now. I'm sure sorry and I'll see you Monday.”

“See you Monday,” agreed Jean. “And I'm sorry you couldn't make it.”

Reluctantly Jean went into the living room to repeat Johnny's conversation, omitting the part about her cute little nose, to her mother and father.

“What a shame,” said Mrs. Jarrett mildly.

“It seems to me he could have phoned a little sooner,” said Mr. Jarrett.

Jean had tried to ignore this thought.

“We don't know,” said Mrs. Jarrett. “Perhaps he couldn't.”

“It seems to me if a boy really liked a girl—” began Mr. Jarrett.

“Now, Jim,” interrupted Mrs. Jarrett.

“It's all right, Daddy,” said Jean earnestly. “Really it is. He said he would make it up to me and he would see me Monday. And he sounded truly sorry.”

Mr. Jarrett, who still did not look convinced, changed his manner abruptly. “I'll bet I can still beat my daughter at Chinese checkers,” he said jovially.

“No, thank you, Daddy. Not tonight. I—I don't feel like playing.” Jean could not play checkers with her father, not after she had planned to play
with Johnny. Poor Daddy, his attempt to make her feel better was so sweet and so clumsy, but she did wish he would not try to be understanding. She didn't
need
to feel better, because everything was perfectly all right. There was no reason to make an issue out of Johnny's not being able to come. It wasn't as though he hadn't wanted to come.

Jean stood uncertainly in the doorway, not knowing how to use the remnant of the evening. While she stood there listening to the storm she discovered that she was tired, very tired. “I guess I might as well go to bed,” she said.

“Good night, dear,” said Mrs. Jarrett gently.

Now Jean had to face Sue, who looked up from her books when Jean opened the door of their room. “Too bad, Jean,” said Sue quietly.

“Oh, it's perfectly all right,” said Jean, trying to sound vivacious in spite of her weariness. What was wrong with her family that they could not see there was nothing to be sorry about? Why did they have to go around being so sympathetic? They were treating her as if she were an invalid or something. The way they were behaving, they would probably start tiptoeing and speaking in hushed voices—and bringing her dishes of blancmange.

Well, they could just stop being so understand
ing, Jean thought crossly as she turned back her bedspread. Lots of girls would be glad to have Johnny look forward to seeing them on Monday. To have Johnny make a date was something, even if he did have to break it. Jean walked over to the mirror and studied her nose. Johnny was right. It was a cute little nose. She wondered why she had never thought so before. And her family could just stop being so horribly understanding.

Although Jean had made up her mind that this was one Monday when she would not wait for Johnny after school, not for more than two seconds, anyway, she was overjoyed to find that Johnny was as good as his word. He arrived at the door of the sewing room almost as soon as the bell had rung, and after looking inside this feminine precinct, he actually entered, causing all the girls who were putting away their sewing boxes or finishing seams on the sewing machines to look up. Boys did not often venture into the clothing class.

Jean was so flustered she dropped her thimble. This would show her horribly sympathetic family, when she happened to mention it at the dinner
table! “This afternoon when Johnny came into the sewing room to find me,” she would begin.

“He's
darling
,” whispered Mitsuko, as Jean bent to pick up the thimble. “You're lucky.”

Undisturbed by the stir he was creating, Johnny made his way to Jean's table, where she was stuffing her tape measure and spools of thread into her sewing box with trembling hands.

“Hi,” said Johnny, looking down at Jean.

“Hi,” answered Jean, coloring because she felt as conspicuous as if she were on a stage. She stowed her sewing box in her drawer and shoved the drawer shut.

“I always wondered what went on in here,” remarked Johnny.

“And now you know,” said Jean lightly, and smiled up at him.

Johnny put his hand on her elbow (actually put his hand on her elbow!) and walked with her out of the sewing room while the other girls watched. “Did I ever tell you you have a cute little nose?” Johnny asked softly.

“I believe you may have mentioned it at some time or another.” Jean felt that her conversation was improving rapidly. Dear, charming Johnny. However, she was puzzled by an uneasy feeling
that she had lost or forgotten something. For a moment she could not think what it was and then it came to her. She had not forgotten anything at all. Homer was missing. “Where's your friend?” she asked.

“He got lost,” said Johnny briefly.

Jean did not pursue the subject, because she was not really interested in what had happened to Homer. She was so happy to have Johnny all to herself for a change and she was more interested in her nose than in Homer. Johnny not only walked out of the building with her but accompanied her to the bus stop, waited in the crowd for her bus to arrive, and then waved to her after she had climbed on the bus and paid her fare. Just wait until she told her sympathetic family! As Johnny said, when he waited for the bus with me…

Except for Thursday, when Johnny and several other boys made the tape recording of the
Hi-times
program to be broadcast Saturday morning, Johnny met Jean and accompanied her to the bus stop every day that week. He was always interesting to talk to. He told Jean more about his experiences skiing and about the time he became entangled in seaweed while skin diving off Point Lobos.

On Friday Jean waited expectantly for Johnny to say something about a date, but he did not. She realized there was no reason why she should not invite him to come to her house Saturday evening. Probably that was what she should do, since he might still be embarrassed because be had been forced to break the date with her. “Johnny,” she began as the bus pulled up to the curb, but she was caught in the crowd that surged toward the door of the bus.

“Were you going to say something?” Johnny called.

“No,” Jean called back, over her shoulder. “I mean—good-bye.” A girl could not very well yell an invitation to a boy from the steps of a bus. Disheartened, Jean paid her fare and was lucky enough to get a seat. Three other students not so fortunate promptly piled their books on her lap, and from beneath the books Jean reflected on her disappointment. She also reflected ruefully that she had spent more money on carfare that week than she had intended to, but when a boy walked her to her bus stop and waited for the bus with her, she could not very well tell him that she walked home whenever she could, to save carfare.

When Jean reached her house and was changing
from her school clothes, she looked gloomily at her books on the study table and wondered if she could be noble and get her homework out of the way now, or leave it until Sunday evening. This was a question she considered every Friday after school. Sue, who was always prompt and efficient, would do most of hers today, she knew, but she was not Sue. She liked to postpone her homework as long as possible, in spite of all the sensible arguments for doing it promptly.

While Jean was debating with herself (go on, get it out of the way so you can forget it; no, I don't feel like doing it now, because I would rather think about Johnny), Sue came home from school and walked into the bedroom with a large brown-paper bundle that she dropped on her bed.

“What's that?” asked Jean, pulling up the zipper on her skirt. She would have preferred a button and buttonhole on the waistband instead of hooks and eyes, but she had not come to buttonholes yet in her clothing class.

“The Jarrett sisters seek their fortunes! We don't need any long-lost uncle.” Sue seemed unusually gay as she pulled the string off the bundle and laid back the paper, revealing a quantity of fabric in two colors, red and turquoise blue.

Jean leaned over and fingered the material, which she found to be a heavy rayon crepe, scarcely appropriate for dresses and certainly not suitable for drapes or bedspreads. “What in the world are you going to do with all that material in those colors?” asked Jean. “There must be enough to slipcover an elephant.”

“That material,” said Sue, “represents our fortunes.” She sat down on the bed and held a length of red material against her cheek, as if she enjoyed the feel of it. “We are going to make stoles for the a cappella choir to wear over their dark blue robes.”

“Us?” said Jean. “But we aren't in the choir.”

“We don't have to be.” Sue went on to explain. “You see, the choir needs new stoles, and anybody in Advanced Clothing who wants to can make them. Not many of the girls in the class were interested, but I thought it would be a wonderful chance to earn some money—they will pay us a dollar and a quarter apiece—and so I brought home a pile of the material and a pattern. They aren't hard to make. They are red, with a turquoise edging two inches wide on the inside edge. The hardest part will be getting the edging straight, but I know you can do it if you baste.”

“Why, Sue, that's almost too good to be true!” Jean rapidly calculated that four stoles equaled five dollars. “How many do they need?”

“Over a hundred. Tall, medium, and short,” answered Sue. “My teacher said when I finished this material I can take home some more.”

“And Daddy can't possibly object,” Jean pointed out. “Come on, what are we waiting for? Let's go to work!”

Her homework held at bay for a while and her disappointment over Johnny temporarily out of her mind, Jean enjoyed spreading the bright material on the table, pinning on the brown wrapping-paper pattern, and cutting with long slashes of the scissors. She picked up an unsewn stole and buried her nose in it. “Mmm,” she breathed. “I just love the smell of new material.”

“So do I,” said Sue from the closet, where she was getting out the portable sewing machine. “I wish someone would bottle it for perfume, so I could dab it behind my ears.”

Jean pinned the shoulder seams of a stole. “What would you name the perfume?” she mused. “Silken Scent?”

“No, I don't think so,” said Sue, as if the matter was of great importance. “I think I would name it
after a fabric. Crepe de Chine would make a good name. Or Peau de Soie.”

Jean giggled. “We sound like Mother working on a contest.”

Sue lifted the sewing machine from its case and set it on the table. “Who knows? Maybe Mother will run across a perfume-naming contest and we can offer her our prize-winning suggestions. She has thought up names for almost everything else. Why not perfume?”

The evening passed quickly for both girls, and by bedtime Jean had the satisfaction of having earned three dollars and seventy-five cents with her two hands. Sue, who was not afraid to make the old sewing machine roar down the length of a seam, had completed four stoles and cut out two more.

On Saturday morning, after they had finished their household chores, Jean and Sue continued sewing on the stoles. They cut, pinned, basted, and stitched until their room was a tangle of color.

“Do you think we could say the money we earn is stolen money?” asked Sue.

“That is practically the worst pun I have ever heard,” said Jean, and laughed. Four stoles equaled five dollars or a new slip, a pretty blouse,
material for a cotton dress. Eight stoles equaled a ten-dollar bill, something Jean almost never had in her possession. There were so many things a girl could do with ten dollars. With luck, and a sale, she could buy a ready-made cotton dress, a dress that was not cut out by a pattern that had to be altered for a girl who was shorter than average. Jean was rapt in the limitless possibilities of a ten-dollar bill when the doorbell rang. “I'll get it,” she said, because Sue was using the sewing machine.

When Jean opened the front door, she found Johnny standing on the porch. “Why, Johnny!” She could not keep her surprise from showing.

Johnny grinned engagingly. “I was just cruising around and I wondered if you would like to go down to the drive-in for a Coke.”

“Now?” Jean still could not quite believe that Johnny was really standing on her doorstep.

“Sure,” said Johnny. “Why not?”

“Why not?” agreed Jean, delighted. “Just a minute. I'll get my sweater.” She was quite sure her father would not object to her going to the drive-in in the daytime.

In the bedroom, Jean whispered, “It's Johnny! He wants me to go to the drive-in for a Coke!” Oh, the joy of saying Johnny wanted her to do something!

“At quarter of ten in the morning?” Sue did not sound entirely approving.

“Sure. Why not?” Jean snatched her sweater and jerked a comb through her bangs.

“Have fun,” said Sue.

“I shall,” answered Jean, almost defiantly. It was too bad there were not two Johnnys, one for each of them, but that was the way things were. They couldn't all be lucky.

Jean and Johnny walked down the steps to the Volkswagen in the driveway. “I've always wanted to ride in one of these little cars,” Jean told Johnny, as he held the door open for her.

“This is Mom's car,” he said. “She keeps it for a pet.” Johnny folded his long legs into the small car and backed it down the driveway. “It doesn't really have a motor. It's powered by a gnome turning an eggbeater. It's much cheaper than gas.”

“And here I thought that noise coming from the back of the car instead of the front was the engine,” said Jean, “and all the time it was an eggbeater. What do you feed the gnome? A saucer of milk, or is that just for brownies?”

“This gnome likes Cokes and French fries,” answered Johnny.

Jean basked in being alone with Johnny, but
when he drove into the parking area of the drive-in and brought the car to a halt between two white lines, Jean felt as if she had run out of conversation. Too shy to look at Johnny, she read the signs posted on the front of the drive-in. Jumbo-burgers—¼ lb. beef on bun 37¢. French fries 14¢. Porkchopettes 79¢.

“Two Cokes,” Johnny yelled out the window to the carhop who was approaching. She smiled, nodded, and turned back. Johnny glanced at his watch. “We're just in time,” he remarked, and turned on the radio.

“Time for what?” asked Jean.

“Hi-times,”
he said. “Don't you listen?”

“Every Saturday,” answered Jean, embarrassed that the actual presence of Johnny had made her forget the program.

The theme song and then Johnny's voice came out of the loudspeaker. “Good morning. This is Johnny Chessler, your
Hi-times
announcer, broadcasting by tape recording from the control room of Northgate High School.” Johnny listened intently.

Jean listened too, relieved of the burden of conversation. Now she had a chance to think about what she wanted to say to Johnny when the program ended. She wanted to talk to him, to find out
more about him, and most of all to learn the answer to the question that had fascinated her since December. Why had he asked her to dance with him? This was her opportunity if she could only manipulate the conversation. It was too bad she couldn't have a scriptwriter, like the
Hi-times
program.

When the carhop set the tray on the car door beside Johnny, Jean accepted a Coke from Johnny and silently sipped it through the straw. There really was no reason why she couldn't come right out and ask Johnny about that evening at the clubhouse.

“Now that the cast of the variety show has been chosen and rehearsals will start next week,” said Johnny's voice, “committees have been appointed to start the ball rolling on another event on the social calendar of Northgate High School—the Girls' Association Dance, which will be held on the eleventh of April, in the gymnasium. Hawaiian Holiday is the theme, and this time the girls invite the boys. Smile for the ladies, boys, and maybe you will be lucky enough to get an invitation.” Johnny listened to every word.

And probably half the girls in school will ask Johnny to go to that dance, thought Jean unhappily.
There was no use even thinking about it herself—she knew she would never have the courage. She stirred the ice in her Coke with her straw and told herself, I'll just say casually, Johnny, do you remember that night at the clubhouse when you asked me to dance? And he will say, Yes, Jean, what about it? And I'll say, How did you happen to ask me to dance when I was so obviously not a part of the crowd? Or maybe she shouldn't ask. Maybe it would be better not to recall the episode at all.

Jean sipped her Coke slowly, trying to make it last, while she listened to Johnny's voice on the radio and stole glances at Johnny himself, absorbed in his own words. He had such a regular profile and was so attractive with his curls tumbling over his forehead that way. And it was pleasant to hear Johnny's voice coming out of the loudspeaker instead of Johnny, because she was spared the anxiety of conversation, of wondering if she had said the right thing, of weighing the meaning of Johnny's words. Yes, this was a pleasant moment, sitting in a car in the drive-in sipping a Coke as if she came to this popular spot every day. She could not help marveling that the words she was hearing had been spoken by Johnny on
Thursday, recorded on tape, preserved for two days, and were now being played from a radio station. Gradually she, too, became engrossed in the sound of Johnny's voice. As the words flowed by, Jean ceased to listen to their meaning and listened only to the stream of pleasant sound. Then his voice stopped to allow the playing of a record.