White Collar Girl (13 page)

As I set the roses on the table I watched him reach into the refrigerator for a bottle of milk. He unscrewed the cap, smelled it, scrunched up his face and, without saying a word, poured it down the drain. The milk was spoiled, but the moment, it was sweet. I can't tell you what that did to me. Such a simple act. Some women might have been offended by it. But not me. Instead, an overwhelming feeling of being cared for bubbled up inside me.

“I love you,” I said, going to his side, kissing him deeply on the mouth as I reached for his belt buckle.

“Whoa.” He placed his hands on mine.

“It's all right,” I told him. “I want to. I'm ready.” I kissed him again, deeper, tugged on his belt, harder. I wanted to show him how much I cared. “Really, it's okay. I'm not a virgin.”

He looked shocked. And disappointed. How could I explain
that that's what happens when your mother sends you to college with a fistful of rubbers and tells you to
go
experience life
. “It's not like I was loose or anything,” I said. “There was only one man. He was my—”

“Jesus, Jordan.” He dragged his hands through his hair, stopping when they reached the top of his head, and blew out a deep breath. “Did he love you? Did he want to marry you?”

“Don't you want to know if
I
loved
him
?”

He released his hands and let them drop to his sides. “I don't know.”

“Well, I did. I did love him. I wasn't
in
love with him and he wasn't
in
love with me. But in his own way, he loved me. So yes, in answer to your question, there was love there.”

Jack shifted away from me and shook his head. “I can't—I don't want to hear any more about this.”

I went silent and thought about the other man. He was older than me, nearly old enough to be my father. He was my journalism professor. It had started out innocently enough, with me staying behind after class to discuss his lecture or ask about something. That progressed to coffee, which progressed to drinks, which led to his apartment. I had no illusions about a mad love affair or a future we might have together. I knew exactly what I was getting myself into and that it would be over when I graduated.

He said I was very mature for my age, but that's what happens when you're forced to grow up on the spot. When your parents are so distraught that you have to deal with the police, when you end up making the funeral arrangements, choosing the casket and selecting the cemetery plot that wasn't supposed to be needed for another fifty or sixty years.

Jack leaned forward and brought his hands to his forehead. His cheeks were red and flushed. “I wish you hadn't told me.”

“Would you rather I'd lied? Or lied by omission?” I reached over and stroked his face.

He stopped my hand with his. “I wanted you, you know.”

“And what—now you don't?” I leaned back, exasperated.
Just tell him. Tell him you've never felt this way before. Tell him that the other man was nothing compared to him.
Tell him that he's everything to you.
The words were right there inside my head, but I couldn't get them out. I made my living off of words, and now they failed me. All I could do was lean in and kiss him, pulling his body close to mine. “It's okay. It's okay.” I kept saying that, pressing the words into his lips over and over again until he couldn't fight it anymore.

He was shy and anxious as we burrowed through each other's clothes, and before he would shed his boxers, he reached over and turned off the light. I knew he wasn't a virgin, but I could also tell that of the two of us, I was the more experienced one. To me this was something beautiful and natural, but even in the dark I could see the anguished look on Jack's face. It was as if he were doing something wrong and had to hurry and get it over with before he was caught.

“Open your eyes,” I said. “Look at me.”

He was breathing hard and fast. I could feel his heart pounding against my chest. His eyes were still closed.

“Relax,” I said. “Slow down. We have all night.” I cupped his face and kissed him slowly, softly, and guided him the rest of the way. I took the lead. “It's okay. This is all okay.”

We moved awkwardly at first, him going one way and me the other, until we found a shared rhythm. Then we were together. Then it was good. I wrapped myself around him and held on. He opened his eyes and looked at me in wonder before he squeezed them shut and let himself go.

An hour later, as we lay naked on the bed,
The Star-Spangled Banner
began playing in the other room as the TV prepared for its nightly sign-off. While drifting to sleep, I thought about the evening and what had led up to our lovemaking. It was the milk that did it. In the weeks and months and years ahead, I would forever link a quart of milk gone bad with my falling in love with Jack Casey.

•   •   •

I
t was hot. I was sweating badly. The condensation slid down my glass just as surely as the sweat trickled down the side of my face and the back of my neck. It was the end of August, the dog days of summer, and there wasn't a window in sight. The choking plumes of cigarette smoke didn't help.

Jack was with me that night, along with the gang from the
Tribune
. We were gathered at a couple of round tables near the front of the stage, the red tablecloths brushing across our thighs. It was a Monday night and most people were home watching
The George Burns and Gracie Allen Show
or
Caesar's Hour.
Not much of a crowd came out to hear an unknown performer.

All day long Randy had been singing
“Turtle Wax builds a hard shell finish . . .”
and now there he was standing before the microphone, crooning
Vaya con Dios
followed by
Rags to Riches.
Closing my eyes, I could have sworn I was listening to Desi Arnaz one minute, Tony Bennett the next. I never thought I'd use the word
charismatic
to describe Randy. Handsome, yes, but charismatic, no—and yet that's what came to mind when I saw him on that stage, gripping the microphone, running his fingers up and down the stand and making eyes at all the women.

Earlier in the week, when he'd invited us all to the Gin Club's Amateur Night on Rush Street, we razzed him pretty good. “What are you gonna do—serenade us with ‘Brylcreem, a little dab'll do ya'?” Walter had run his fingers through Randy's hair, knocking the pencil lodged behind his ear to the ground. We all laughed then, but now we were watching Randy with our mouths hanging open. We had no idea.

“
Ehhhx
-cellent,” said Peter, applauding full force.

“And to think I thought his only talent was drawing,” said Henry.

“He's what you call a triple threat,” said Benny, beaming as if he were in some way responsible for Randy's masterful performance.

“Aw, shut it.” Walter reached for his fedora and swatted Benny on the head. “You don't know what you're talking about. A triple threat can sing, dance and act.” He counted them off his fingers, one, two, three. “Gene Kelly—now, he's a triple threat.”

I pressed my leg against Jack's beneath the table. That was my signal for him to bookmark this for a later discussion. After telling him stories about the people I worked with, I was glad to point to hard evidence, as if to say,
See? I told you.
He tangled his fingers in my hair and I leaned in closer, letting our shoulders touch. It gave my insides a flutter.

We all stuck around until the end of Randy's set. It was hot as an oven inside the club and we spilled onto the sidewalk, hoping for a break from the heat, but to no avail. Walter, Henry and the other fellows walked with their neckties loosened, shirtsleeves rolled up and suit coats draped over their shoulders. We passed by people standing in the doorways of buildings, trying to cool themselves, electric fans propped up on the windowsills. A blue Studebaker, honking like mad, cruised by slowly with six or so men
leaning out the windows, whistling and calling, “Hey, sweetie.” M expectantly looked over, smiling, but the men's heads were turned the other way, looking at the buxom redhead across the street. I saw the smile slip from M's face. Those boys were far too young for her, but she was bruised just the same.

As she raised her hand to hail a cab, Mr. Ellsworth called to her. “M”—he gestured with a nod—“I'll give you a lift home.” He glanced at Benny, who was asking Jack and me to join him for a nightcap. “C'mon, Ben,” said Mr. Ellsworth. “You too. I'll drop you on the way.”

The others dispersed after that. It was ten thirty and we all had to get up for work the next morning. Jack walked me back to my place. He had hold of my hand, the moisture collecting between our palms, our fingers laced together, sweating. We walked like that in silence for half a block.

We stopped at a light and he turned to me. “I'm telling you that redheaded guy has a thing for you.”

“Who? Benny?” My voice sounded surprised, though I supposed he was right. Benny was always stealing glances my way, inviting me to lunch, out for drinks. “Don't tell me you're worried about him.”

Jack laughed. “Hardly.” But he turned quiet again.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, yeah.” He nodded. “Just thinking about the O'Hare expansion piece. . . .” He'd been working on a feature about the airport and his editor had already made him rewrite it twice. As we neared my apartment he came right out and asked if I would read his story and give him my opinion.

“Of course.” I loved it when he asked for my help.

While I keyed in, he reached into his back pocket for his story, folded into quarters.

The neighbor's baby stroller was in its usual spot, but the canned goods were gone, replaced with a hammer and a pipe wrench. I still hadn't met this mysterious neighbor of mine.

Once inside my apartment, Jack and I sat side by side on the couch. Resting the paper on my knees, I read, sensing his anxious eyes on me.

“Well?” He cocked his head to the side. “What do you think?”

I raised my index finger while I finished the last paragraph. It was a fine, solid piece of writing. I looked over and smiled. “It's good. Very good.”

“You think so? Really?”

“Absolutely. My only suggestion would be to flip your second and third sentences. It gets the commissioner's name in faster and it's stronger.”

He reached for the paper and scanned it, letting a deep line furrow along his brow. “But what about the whole ‘expected delays'?”

“That can come right after.”

He thought for a moment. “I don't see how that's any stronger than what I have now.”

“Okay. Then keep it the way you have it.”

“Don't get mad.”

“I'm not getting mad. You asked me what I thought and I told you. You don't agree, so that's fine.” I meant it as a simple statement, no hidden meanings at all, but still he questioned me.

“You're not jealous, are you?” he asked, folding the paper and tucking it back inside his pocket.

Jealous?
I turned and looked at him. Honestly, until he'd said that, it hadn't occurred to me to be jealous. I knew my place in the pecking order. I'd spent half my day fact-checking a five-hundred-word piece on ten ways to tie a scarf. I wasn't happy about that, but I wasn't done yet. I wasn't rolling over. I was still
chasing down stories wherever I could. And sometimes, when the guys were too busy, Mr. Ellsworth or Mr. Copeland would give me a shot at something meatier. Just earlier that day Mr. Pearson sent me down to City Hall to see what I could find out about some building code violations. I had even cornered Earl Bush, Daley's press secretary, in one of the corridors.

“Can you tell me what the mayor's thoughts are on all the criticism the city's getting for not enforcing the building codes?”

“No, I can't tell you.” He had kept walking.

I jogged up beside him. “But don't you think people have a right to know?”

He had stopped and adjusted his eyeglasses, shooting me an unnerving look. “What you reporters need to get straight is that you and me—we're not on the same team. We're not buddies. I don't owe you a damn thing. And if the mayor don't want to talk about building codes or anything else, then don't come running to me thinking I'm gonna tell you something.” He brushed past me, shaking his head as he disappeared down the hallway.

“Listen,” Jack said, interrupting my thoughts. “I'd understand if you
were
jealous.” He leaned over and kissed my neck, letting his hand slip down the front of my blouse.

I knew what was coming next. He was predictable in this department, and for someone who had initially resisted sex with me he was now the aggressor. He stood up and led me to the bedroom. There was only one tiny window in the corner, and it felt ten degrees hotter in there than the living room. He unbuttoned his shirt and hung it by its collar on the doorknob while I worked myself out of my skirt, unrolled my stockings and slipped under the covers. The top sheet was sticking to my damp skin even before he climbed in next to me. It was stifling, and all I could think was how I couldn't wait to sit in a cool tub as soon as we were done.

•   •   •

T
hursday nights became bowling night. We formed a league that fall and took on rival newspapers and ad agencies in town. Once a week we'd go to the King Pin Lanes on Grand Avenue dressed in our blue
Chicago Tribune
bowling shirts. For a quarter we got a lane and for a dime we got shoes. There was a cocktail lounge in the corner with neon lights flickering, luring us in with flashing J&B signs and promises of ice-cold Schlitz. The jukebox never sat idle, and you'd see couples occasionally jitterbugging right there in an empty lane. The King Pin had recently switched from manual pinsetters to an automated system with mechanical claws that came down, grabbed the pins and set them back up for the next bowler. It was fascinating and a little eerie to watch.

The
Tribune
had two teams going. M and I were the only girls who bowled along with Walter, Henry, Peter, Randy, Higgs and Benny. Gabby sat back and nursed her one Manhattan of the evening and rooted us on. M probably should have sat out as well. She confessed that she was only there to meet men and was more concerned about not messing up her manicure than her score. In between rounds, she'd thrust out her hip, pull out a nail file and fix up any snags.

We were bowling against the
Sun-Times
that night. There was a new guy with them, a skinny chain-smoker who introduced himself as Mick, but I'd later heard the fellows calling him Mike and then just Royko. He wrote for the
O'Hare News
but was hoping to get a job with the City News Bureau. In the meantime, he was bowling for the other team.

I couldn't help noticing that my coworkers each had their own bowling styles. Walter never once removed his pipe, and you could see the way his jaw clenched down on the stem after he released the ball. Peter was a terrible bowler but had great form. He'd stand expertly holding his ball just below eye level, sizing up the lane, and when he was certain the moment was right, he'd make his approach, throwing the ball with a great flourish, his arm extended high above his head, his back foot raised a good two feet off the ground. It was the pose of a strike, despite knocking off only a pin or two. Henry had a solid command of the game and threw a respectable number of strikes and spares. Randy hummed his way down the lane, and afterward—whether he threw strike or a gutter—he'd burst into song, singing,
“It's Howdy Doody Time. . . .”
The first time he did it we all looked at Benny.

“What?” Benny looked at us, oblivious. He was the spitting image of that puppet.

Jack was showing off that night, getting cocky after his first throw nailed a strike. He did a little dance and gloated as he reached for his beer. The evening stretched on. It was a close game, and when Jack had a split on his next turn, he clasped his head in anguish and let out a string of
shits
and
goddammits
. I thought he was clowning at first. I'd never seen him take the game so seriously before, but suddenly the tension ratcheted up and each time the
Tribune
team landed another strike or a spare, Jack groaned or hissed. After a seven-ten split in the third game, Jack spun around. “Jesus Christ, did you see that? There's too
much wax on our lane. The ball's not hooking right.” He ended up clipping the tenpin, but still it was his turn that lost it for the
Sun-Times
with a final score of 1,863 to 1,865.

Jack was still questioning the conditions of the lane while the other players were shaking hands, slapping one another on their backs. Everyone was packing up their bowling bags and changing their shoes before heading to the lounge for a nightcap when Jack grabbed his coat and said he was leaving.

“What do you mean, you're leaving?” I stood up. “You're not even going to say good-bye to me?”

“I'll call you tomorrow,” he muttered, and turned away.

“Oh, c'mon, man,” Royko called to him. “Stay and have a drink.”

But Jack wasn't interested. I watched him disappear through the glass doors. I was embarrassed by his behavior and found myself making excuses: He was tired . . . on a deadline . . . hadn't been feeling well.
 . . .
No one really cared that he was a sore loser. They just took their seats in the lounge and ordered their drinks.

Two hours later everyone was saying their good-byes, but I didn't feel like going home. I was still upset about Jack, and after the others left the King Pin, I called my buddy Scott and asked if he'd meet me for a drink at Twin Anchors.

Twenty minutes later I saw him walk into the bar, and I was taken aback. Scott had lost a good deal of weight since I'd last seen him, and his trousers were baggy, his belt fastened on the tightest notch. His handsome features were hidden beneath the shadow of a haggard complexion and he had dark circles under his sunken eyes. He looked tired, and I detected a slight tremor in his hand as he shook a cigarette from the pack of Chesterfields on the bar.

“Hey,” I said, reaching for his arm. “Are you doing okay?”

“Is it that obvious?” He grinned and struck a match. “Been a
rough couple of months,” he said, lighting his cigarette. “Connie and I split up.”

“Why didn't you call and tell me?”

“I didn't want to bother you with my love life.”

“Well, I'm really sorry.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” He drew down hard on his cigarette and nodded. “Me, too. But that's not the problem. Not the real problem anyway.”

“What is it? What's wrong?”

He picked at a fleck of tobacco on his tongue. “I quit my job.”

“What? When did you quit?”

“Few weeks ago.”

“Why didn't you say something earlier?” Scott and I talked all the time and he never mentioned it. “What are you going to do now?”

“I got another job.” He paused and examined his cigarette before taking a drag. “I'm a defense lawyer.”

“You're a
what?
How can you of all people go from being a prosecutor—an assistant state's attorney—to being a defense lawyer?”

“Once I made the decision, it was easier than you'd think.”

“What kind of clients are you representing?”

“Oh”—he forced a laugh—“your usual brand of thugs and criminals. Let's see, I've taken on a prostitute, a drunk driver, a guy who allegedly assaulted his boss. And please don't look at me like that, Jordan. I feel guilty enough as it is.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

He shrugged and hung his head. “I figured if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.”

“Really?” That was all I could say. It didn't sound like Scott Trevor at all.

“At least I've won my last three cases.” He smirked. “That's more than I could say for being a prosecutor.”

I pulled out a cigarette and leaned forward while he lit it for me. His eyes shone through the flame, and I found myself transfixed, unable to look away. There was something there, something between us—at least on my part—and I needed to extinguish it. Fast. I leaned forward and blew out the match. We finished our drinks, paid the tab and went outside.

“So have you lost all respect for me?” he asked, his hand in the air, signaling a taxicab for me.

“Not
all
. Well, not quite.” I winked and rose up on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek before I slid into the backseat of the cab.

When I got home that night I was still thinking about Scott when I found Jack waiting for me. He was sitting outside my door, across from the baby carriage, his back flush with the wall, his knees up close to his chest.

“I was beginning to think you weren't coming home,” he said, his joints cracking as he eased up off the floor.

“You put on quite a show tonight,” I said, fishing my house key out of my bag. “I hope you're proud of yourself. Since when are you such a sore loser?”

“Can we let this one go? I didn't come here to fight with you.”

I didn't respond.

“I just came by to say I was sorry. I'm apologizing. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“So you forgive me?”

“Yes. I forgive you.” He didn't pick up on my tone or else chose not to.

He followed me inside and pulled me close for a kiss. I was still angry with him and didn't feel like having sex, but I knew that's what he wanted. That was what he'd come for, more than to apologize to me.

So we made love that night and it was surprisingly satisfying, given that I was unhappy with him, that I hadn't been in the mood. Afterward we lay in bed. All was dark except for the light coming in from the streetlamp outside my window and the hot ash at the end of my cigarette.

Out of the blue, Jack asked me what parish I belonged to.

“What?” I leaned up on one elbow, my cigarette ash moving through the darkness like a tracer.

“Your parish? My mother was asking.”

I laughed and situated the ashtray on the bed between us. “I don't belong to a parish.”

“You don't? Are you serious? What about your parents?”

“They don't belong to one either.”

“But you're Irish-Catholic. You have to belong to a parish.”

“Not if your mother's Jewish and your father doesn't believe.”

He sat up in bed and hugged his arms about his knees. “So what does that make you? Are you Jewish?”

I thought for a minute. “I'm not anything.”

“But you have to be something. Everybody's
something
. Either you're Catholic or you're Jewish.”

“Technically, I guess a child is the same religion as the mother, but I'm not a practicing Jew. Neither is she.”

“And your father is what?”

“Atheist.”

“Jesus!” He released his knees and clasped the sides of his head. “Do you even believe in God?”

“I do when things are going my way.”

“God's not conditional,” he said. He reached over to the nightstand and turned on the lamp. “I can't believe you never mentioned this to me before. I thought you were—you know, not super-religious maybe, but at least Irish-Catholic. You knew I was falling for you. How could you not say anything?”

I propped my pillow up against the headboard and gave him a blank stare. “I never really thought about it. I guess the whole thing's not that important to me. I didn't think it would matter.”

“Of course it matters. I come from a strict Irish-Catholic family.”

“So what would you like me to do about this?”

Without skipping a beat he said, “Convert.”

“Convert? To Catholicism?” I laughed and ground out my cigarette.

“Yes. I mean if we were to get married, I'd need to know that—”

“Married? You want to marry me?”

This seemed to have surprised him as much as it did me. He yanked playfully on a fistful of my hair and laughed. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I do want to marry you.”

“So is this a proposal?”

“Sort of. I mean we'll get a ring and everything. And we'd need to meet my family, but yeah. Would your parents let you marry me? I mean, would they be okay if you converted?”

I thought for a moment. “Probably.” I figured they wouldn't object. After all, my mother had walked away from her religion when she married my father, much to her own father's dismay. And while my parents may have been alcoholics, they weren't hypocrites.

“Well, okay then. So, ah, yeah.” He smiled. “This is a proposal.”

“How romantic.” I laughed.

He laughed, too. “I do love you—you know that, don't you?”

“Yeah. I do know that.” And I did. We weren't perfect. We had our differences, our quibbles, but we were in love. I rolled onto my side until our faces met in the middle and then our lips.

And that was how Jack and I decided we were getting married. I had no idea what converting entailed. I didn't yet know that I'd have to enter the catechumenate and attend Mass every Sunday. I didn't know I'd have to be baptized and confirmed and
would have to jump through a host of other holy hoops. I didn't know that it could take up to a year before the church would even deem me worthy of marrying one of their own.

But before I could think about passing the church's test, I would have to pass the Caseys' scrutiny.

•   •   •

T
he lipstick was too much. Too bold. I looked in the mirror and wiped it off with toilet paper, leaving my mouth a peculiar shade of red. I considered changing my sweater again, too. I was meeting Jack's parents that day and had been second-guessing everything, rehearsing lines inside my head. They didn't know about our plans to marry. Jack thought it was important for them to meet me first and I agreed.

When he came to pick me up, one of the first things he said was, “Now, remember, don't say too much about your mom and dad—especially your mom—if they ask.”

“About what? Her poetry or her religion?”

“Both.”

He had already warned me that his parents—especially his mother—were very conservative and that, given my last name, they were expecting a nice Irish-Catholic girl, not a girl whose mother was a salacious Jewish poet and whose father was an Irish atheist.

“I'm going to break it to them gently, when the time is right,” he said.

“Wow. I didn't realize I was such bad news.”

“What? Bad news? No, I didn't mean it like that.” He reached across the seat to squeeze my hand. “My parents are going to love you. It's just that they're old-fashioned. That's all I meant.”

I wasn't convinced and what he'd said sat a little funny with me, but I let it go. I didn't want to get into it right before I was meeting his family.

It was an overcast day when we drove up to the Caseys' home. The giant oaks that flanked their tree-lined street in Bridgeport had already begun to change colors, and the air smelled of hickory, signaling that winter was around the bend. The Caseys' home was nothing like my parents' and certainly nothing like the other, more modest bungalows in Bridgeport, including Mayor Daley's, which was just around the corner on Lowe Street. No, the Caseys' house was enormous—five bedrooms with dormer windows along the top floor and two redbrick chimneys.