decided this morning.
Around three o’clock she had yawned and closed her eyes for a moment.
She must have fallen asleep.
At some point he had gone into the bedroom and taken the blue-and-red-striped quilt off the bed and tucked it around her, for she was snug beneath it.
But Steve could not be responsible for the way she was lying, with her head on his thigh and her arm around his waist. She must have done that herself, in her sleep. It was a bit embarrassing; her face was very close to his crotch. She wondered what he thought of her. Her behavior had been very off the wall. Undressing in front of him, then falling asleep on him; she was behaving as you would with a longtime lover.
She had been ill treated by Patrolman McHenty, robbed by her father, accused by the
Her face throbbed gently where she had been punched yesterday, but the injuries were not merely physical. The attack had bruised her psyche too. When she recalled the fight in the car, her anger returned and she wanted to get the man by the throat. Even when she was not remembering, she felt a low background hum of unhappiness, as if her life were somehow of less value because of the attack.
It was surprising she could trust any man; astonishing that she could fall asleep on a couch with one who looked exactly like her attackers. But now she could be even more sure of Steve. Neither of the others could have spent the night like this, alone with a girl, without forcing himself on her.
She frowned. Steve had done something in the night, she recalled vaguely; something nice. Yes: she had a dreamy memory of big hands rhythmically caressing her hair, it seemed for a long time, while she dozed, as comfortable as a stroked cat.
She smiled and stirred, and he spoke immediately. “Are you awake?”
She yawned and stretched. “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you. Are you okay?”
“The blood supply to my left leg was cut off at about five A.M., but once I got used to that I was fine.”
She sat upright so that she could see him better. His clothes were creased, his hair was mussed, and he had a growth of fair stubble, but he looked good enough to eat. “Did you sleep?”
He shook his head. “I was enjoying myself too much, watching you.”
“Don’t say I snore.”
“You don’t snore. You dribble a little, that’s all.” He dabbed at a damp spot on his pants.
“Oh, gross!” She stood up. The bright blue clock on the wall caught her eye: it was eight-thirty. “We don’t have much time,” she said in alarm. “The hearing starts at ten.”
“You shower while I make coffee,” Steve said generously.
She stared at him. He was unreal. “Did you come from Santa Claus?”
He laughed. “According to your theory, I come from a testtube.” Then his face went solemn again. “What the hell, who knows.”
Her mood darkened along with his. She went into the bedroom, dropped her clothes on the floor, and got into the shower. As she washed her hair, she brooded over how hard she had struggled over the last ten years: the contest for scholarships; the intensive tennis training combined with long hours of study; the peevish nit-picking of her doctoral supervisor. She had worked like a robot to get where she was today, all because she wanted to be a scientist and help the human race understand itself better. And now Berrington Jones was about to throw it all away.
The shower made her feel better. As she was toweling her hair, the phone rang. She picked up the bedside extension. “Yeah.”
“Jeannie, it’s Patty.”
“Hi, sis, what’s happening?”
“Daddy showed up.”
Jeannie sat on the bed. “How is he?”
“Broke, but healthy.”
“He came to me first,” Jeannie said. “He arrived on Monday. Tuesday he got a little ticked off because I didn’t cook him dinner. Wednesday he took off, with my computer and my TV and my stereo. He must have already spent or gambled whatever he got for them.”
Patty gasped. “Oh, Jeannie, that’s awful!”
“Ain’t it just. So lock up your valuables.”
“To steal from his own family! Oh, God, if Zip finds out he’ll throw him out.”
“Patty, I have even worse problems, I may be fired from my job today.”
“Jeannie, why?”
“I don’t have time to explain now, but I’ll call you later.”
“Okay.”
“Have you talked to Mom?”
“Every day.”
“Oh, good, that makes me feel better. I talked to her once, then the next time I called she was at lunch.”
“The people who answer the phone are really unhelpful. We have to get Mom out of there soon.”
“Good luck!”
Jeannie hung up. She noticed there was a steaming mug of coffee on the bedside table. She shook her head in amazement. It was only a cup of coffee, but what astonished her was the way Steve knew what she needed. It seemed to come naturally to him to be supportive. And he didn’t want anything in return. In her experience, on the rare occasions when a man put a woman’s needs ahead of his own, he expected her to act like a geisha for a month in gratitude.
Steve was different.
She had done everything alone, all her adult life. Her father had never been around to support her. Mom had always been strong, but in the end her strength had become almost as much a problem as Daddy’s weakness. Mom had plans for Jeannie, and she was not willing to give them up. She wanted Jeannie to be a hairdresser. She had even got Jeannie a job, two weeks before her sixteenth birthday, washing hair and sweeping the floor at the Salon Alexis in Adams-Morgan. Jeannie’s desire to be a scientist was utterly incomprehensible to her. “You could be a qualified stylist before the other girls have graduated college!” Mom had said. She never understood why Jeannie threw a tantrum and refused even to take a look at the salon.
She was not alone today. She had Steve to support her. It did not matter to her that he was not qualified—a hotshot Washington lawyer was not necessarily the best choice to impress five professors. The important thing was that he would be there.
She put on her bathrobe and called to him. “You want the shower?”
“Sure.” He came into the bedroom. “I wish I had a clean shirt.”
“I don’t have a man’s shirt—wait a minute, I do.” She had remembered the white-Ralph Lauren button-down Lisa had borrowed after the fire. It belonged to someone in the math department. Jeannie had sent it to the laundry and now it was in the closet, wrapped in cellophane. She gave it to Steve.
“My size, seventeen thirty-six,” he said. “Perfect.”
“Don’t ask me where it came from, it’s a long story,” she said. “I think I have a tie here somewhere, too.” She opened a drawer and took out a blue silk spotted tie she sometimes wore with a white blouse, for a snappy mannish look. “Here.”
“Thanks.” He went into the tiny bathroom.
She felt a twinge of disappointment. She had been looking forward to seeing him take off his shirt. Men, she thought; the creeps expose themselves without being asked; the hunks are as shy as nuns.
“Can I borrow your razor?” he called.
