The Girl from Charnelle (3 page)

Mr. Cransburgh said, in a low voice, over the microphone, “Aw, shut up, Jimmy.”

Everybody turned toward the bar and laughed at Jimmy, who picked up a handful of peanuts and hurled them toward the stage. The peanuts flew like buckshot.

“What an embarrassment,” Mr. Cransburgh said, shaking his head, and everybody laughed again. “Keep him upright, will ya, Zeeke?”

Laura's father stuck out his right arm as if to prop Jimmy up. More laughter, and Laura felt a surge of pride.

“Okay, now that we've taken care of that little problem,” Mr. Cransburgh said, “I want to thank you all for coming tonight.”

The crowd cheered, whooped, whistled.

“And I'd like to especially thank the Pick Wickers for keeping us on our feet. Let's give them a big hand now, folks.”

Everybody clapped louder and whistled while the band took their bows. Then someone from the audience shouted, “One minute, Bob!”

Mr. Cransburgh turned back to the band, and they nodded and picked up their instruments. “Okay, everybody. Have your drinks in hand. Make sure you boys are standing next to somebody pretty. Get ready to kiss the fifties good-bye.”

At thirty seconds, everybody started counting backward, loud rhythmic shouts. Someone handed a bottle of unopened champagne to Bob Cransburgh. The crowd chanted five, four, three, two, one…and a beat afterward, the cork popped near the microphone—a high-pitched, whistling
thwat
—and shot toward the ceiling. Four boys on both sides of the stage threw multicolored crepe paper streamers across the dance floor. Confetti glittered in the light. Bottles and champagne glasses clinked. The band began to play “Auld Lang Syne.” The crowd clapped again and then quieted, and a surprisingly harmonious chorus of voices sang along. When the song ended, there was another eruption of joyous whistles.

Mr. Cransburgh poked his head back in front of the microphone and said, “By God, let's see some kissing!”

And suddenly men and women, husbands and wives, boys and girls, were lip to lip. In the corner, teenagers made out modestly or in clutching gropes. Old couples closed their eyes and leaned into each other for gentle pecks. An old man who worked in the hardware store, Mr. Dale, danced by and kissed Laura on the mouth. “Happy New Year,” he said, and grinned. Two women, old friends of her mother's, kissed her on the cheek. Gene ran over, grabbed her, and swung her around quickly, then ran off, chased by two younger, pigtailed girls.

And then Dean was by her side. “There you are,” he said. “I thought you'd disappeared.” She felt a strange fluttering in her chest at the mention of that word, “disappeared,” which she associated with her mother. He bent over and quickly kissed her on the lips, a thankfully dry kiss, not bad, but she could smell cigarette smoke and lasagna on his breath. Barbecue sauce, too.

“Happy New Year!” he shouted and leaned in to kiss her again, but she was already gone, calling over her shoulder in a singsong voice, “Happy New Year.” She started across the Armory, but the band began “Rock Around the Clock,” only the fourth rock and roll song of the night, and the dance floor immediately swelled with jitterbuggers. She had to sidestep several couples to get to the bar. Her father saw her coming and nodded as he raised his beer bottle. At that moment, the dark-haired woman in the purple dress grabbed his neck and pulled his face to hers and kissed him passionately. Laura felt embarrassed.

She turned toward her friends clustered in the corner. Another boy she went to school with, Mike Hargrave, grabbed her, kissed her sloppily, and said, “Come on.” He pulled her to the dance floor and flung her around like
they did on
American Bandstand
. After five minutes, she was hot and sweaty and laughing. The band plunged into another hard-driving blues song, and they danced again, this time better and faster, with whirls and ropy arm loops and lots of swinging.

She was out of breath afterward and really hot. She licked her lips and brushed away the sweat from her hairline. “Thanks,” she said, and when the band began yet another fast song, she begged off. “I gotta get something to drink.”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, turning away to find another girl. Laura felt strangely shunned. She walked to the punch bowl and ladled a cup, drank it quickly. The dance floor seemed to groan and give from the weight of the dancers. She saw Dean and decided to go outside before he tried to kiss her again.

 

Snow fell now, a layer of fluff on the cars, trucks, windowsills, street, and sidewalks. A green radio light glowed inside a truck across the parking lot, two heads locked together, the windows foggy. She seemed to be the only one outside. The snow and cold felt good. She walked across the lot and watched the thin, translucent lines coming down. They reminded her of Christmas tinsel. She closed her eyes, felt larger flakes splash against her cheeks, the heat from her body melting them. She thought about Gloria, who now lived in West Germany. They received letters and postcards from her every once in a while. Laura wondered if the sky looked the same there, could imagine her sister outside with her young daughter, Julie, another child on the way, staring up at the sky where her husband, the pilot, might be flying past.

Laura rubbed the back of her hand against her face, then straightened her bra, an old one that chafed under her arm and beneath her breasts. Behind the Armory, she heard a commotion and turned around. Two kids raced off, leaving behind a tipped trash can spilling cups and bottles and plates. She righted the can and, with a napkin, picked up the trash that had spilled and replaced the lid. She cupped a handful of snow, ran it over her fingers to clean them, and shook her hands until they were only damp. The snow came down in much fatter flakes now, softer, like small leaves, and she watched the swirl of white in the air. It still felt miraculously warm, though her breath misted in front of her. She listened to the thumping of the drum
and the muffled lyrics from inside the hall. The whole building vibrated and buzzed with voices and stomping and laughter and music.

The screen door slapped open, and boots clomped on the wooden stairs. A tall man emerged from around the corner of the building. Mr. Letig. She stepped back into the shadow of the building and spied on him as he walked, a slight dancing stagger, to the edge of the parking lot. He put his hands down, wriggled his torso, and she could hear, after a few moments, the splash of urine on the gravel. She turned her eyes away at the sound, moved farther back into the shadows of the building, and leaned against the brick wall in the corner. The sound seemed to go on for a long time. His boots crunched over the crushed, snow-covered gravel. He crossed back to the Armory, walking slowly, moving right toward her, humming to himself. She was just going to let him pass, but without really thinking she said, “Hi, Mr. Letig.”

He spun around toward her voice but couldn't locate her in the darkness. “Hello,” he said, still searching. “Who's that?”

“Me,” she said.

He bobbed his head until he found her. “Me who?”

“Laura.”

He took a couple of steps toward her. “Laura Tate?”

“Yes, sir.”

He laughed. “You don't need to ‘Yes, sir' me. I'm not your father.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, out of habit, and they both chuckled. She stepped hesitantly from the shadow.

“You're a proper one, aren't you?”

She didn't know how to answer that. She shrugged.

He laughed again. “Happy New Year,” he said and leaned in suddenly and kissed her on the mouth. The light stubble on his chin scratched her cheek. His mustache surprised her, tickled.

“Happy New Year,” she said quietly, looking down, embarrassed.

“You're quite the dancer,” he said.

“Not really.”

“I've been watching you. You like it, I can tell.”

“Yeah,” she said. “It's fun, I guess.”

Inside, the band began “The Cotton-Eyed Joe.” The crowd chanted, clapping in rhythm and stomping their feet. The building shook. Shouts of “Bullshit!” were followed by shouts of laughter. Mr. Letig glanced toward
the building. His face caught the light spilling out of the kitchen. His eyes and blond mustache seemed to glitter. Her stomach fluttered.

“I better be getting back in there,” she said.

He turned to her, his face now in the dark. She lost his eyes. “I told you I'd be looking for you. I wanted to ask you something,” he whispered.

Everything slowed down. She felt paralyzed. She caught a quick, bright vision of his face passing through a shaft of light that separated them. His mustache brushed her cheek. His breath was sweet, and she expected him to move away after a moment, but he didn't. His lips were against hers, and then she felt the shadow of his entire body against her own. His big hands were suddenly on either side of her face. She smelled his flannel shirt and a combination of beer, smoke, champagne, and peppermint. He felt warm. His tongue darted against her lips. She pulled away, surprised, but he eased her face back to his, and she opened her own mouth slightly and felt his tongue lightly tapping against her teeth and then touching her own tongue. This was the same as kissing boys, which she did and often liked, but it was also different, heavier, more deliberate and relaxed. She felt strangely disconnected. It seemed as if she were watching what was happening in a movie. She knew that she should stop right now, push him away, run inside. A voice whispered,
Wrong
. But the voice sounded weak, muffled, and mocking, like it didn't really mean it. Her body was somebody else's body, and she watched from above, curious and calm. He kissed her lips again and then her cheek, and then his breath on her neck was hot and oddly soothing.

He pulled her forward gently as he kissed her neck. And then his fingers swept up the curve of her hips, across her ribs, and brushed lightly over her breasts. She'd thought about this sort of thing before, sometimes late at night, or when she had kissed this boy or that, or after seeing a movie, and it had always made her feel both excited and frightened, but what she felt now was only this fluttering inside her chest and now in her head, like that first sip of champagne. She could hear breathing. Her own breathing. He was kissing the top of her chest, just above the collar of her new dress. His fingers swept across her neck and through the back of her hair, and then he kissed her again more forcefully on the mouth, his tongue entangled with her own. He pulled her close and breathed harder now, too.

The rear door suddenly slammed. Letig pulled away sharply, swiped at his mouth. Laura shook in a spasm of fright. Bob Cransburgh peered into the shadows.

“What's going on here?”

There was a slight, incriminating pause. Then Mr. Letig said very calmly, “Hello, Bob.”

“Letig? Is that you?”

“Yep.”

“What are you doing out here?”

“Just cooling off.”

“Who's that with you?”

“Laura Tate.”

“Well, what's she doing out here?” he asked, moving from the steps closer to the corner where she and Mr. Letig stood. “With you,” he added.

“You're not on duty now, Bob.” They both laughed. “I'm just trying to talk Laura into watching the boys for me next weekend, so Anne and I can go skiing in Colorado.”

Laura didn't want to say a word, was afraid of what might spill out if she did. But she was impressed with how he sounded so calm, so convincing. Like he'd had practice.

“Where you going?” Mr. Cransburgh's voice seemed to shift noticeably, as if he'd suddenly rounded a corner and decided everything was all right.

“Outside Aspen. If we can.”

“I should go in,” Laura said, not looking at either of the men.

“Well, think about it,” Mr. Letig said to her. He touched her shoulder lightly. “And let me know if you can do it.”

She didn't speak for a second, unsure exactly what he was referring to. “Huh?”

“About next weekend.”

“Oh. Yes, sir,” she said. She glanced quickly at him, saw him smile. A blister of heat spread across her face. She looked down so they wouldn't see the blush and darted into the lit din of the Armory.

 

The band now played a mellow waltz. The floor was only half full, mainly married couples, young and old, cheek to cheek, smiling. Despite having been in the snow outside, she felt hot again. It was suffocating in here. She walked quickly to the bathroom. Two middle-aged ladies were applying lipstick. An older woman fussed with her hair. Laura darted into a stall, adjusted her dress, and wrapped tissue around her fingers and wiped her face. She
waited until she heard the other women leave, then came out and leaned into the mirror. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen. Anyone would know what she'd been doing. But hadn't everybody been kissing? Her dress collar was up in back, her blond hair tangled on one side. She patted it down, then sniffed her fingers. They smelled faintly of the trash she'd picked up earlier, so she washed them quickly. She splashed water on her face and neck, too, pulled on the towel roller, and dried herself. She looked again in the mirror, and her reflection startled her, made her think of both Gloria and her mother, as if they had suddenly inhabited the features of her face. She closed her eyes and could hear herself still breathing hard, her heart thumping fast.
What have I done? Nothing, nothing.
The door opened. Laura stepped back into a stall, shut the door, and put her head against the wall. She closed her eyes. Her legs were rubbery and weak, and her head swam as it had before with the champagne.
Get a hold of yourself.
She breathed deeply several times until she felt calmer. She waited until the woman who came in washed and left. Then, finally, she opened the door and reentered the Armory.

She spotted her father by the bar at the other end of the room. He stood talking to Manny, who nodded. Gene gathered his coat and gloves and the new deck of trick cards he'd received from Aunt Velma for Christmas. Laura joined them.