Beth squeezed her and said, “You don’t even know what gin smells like.”
“I do too!”
“Okay, I smell of gin. I guess you don’t want me around. I guess I’d better just go off and leave you alone.”
“No, Beth!” And she turned around and caught her arm as Beth started to rise.
Beth pushed her away. “Oh, but I smell of gin, remember? Laur, I don’t know how you put up with me. I swear I don’t know.”
And then Laura would have to beg her to stay and protest that she didn’t care what her breath smelled like. But she did.
Sixteen
In the middle of March Bud’s fraternity gave a costume dance, an annual affair for which the girls were required to make their own costumes. They were given one square yard of bright-colored cotton for that purpose and the one who returned the largest piece of unused cloth won first prize. Some used the whole cloth out of necessity, some out of modesty, and some used as little as they dared.
Emmy used as little as she dared. She achieved a sort of bikini effect much admired by the men and frowned upon by the conservative element in Alpha Beta, headed by Mary Lou. Before she went out Emmy modeled her creation in the upstairs hall.
“Emmy, I think that’s a little—bare,” said Mary Lou.
“Oh, heck, Mary Lou, there’ll be a dozen others just like it.”
“Well, I know, but it’s awfully revealing.”
The girls laughed at her and said, “Oh, they all wear ’em now, Mary Lou.”
“I think she looks great.”
“Emmy, if you don’t win first prize, nobody can.”
“Just don’t sneeze,” said Beth.
The buzzer sounded and Emmy said, “Oh, there’s Bud!” and scampered down the stairs.
Laura watched her go a little spitefully. The thought that Emmy had brought Charlie and Beth together again still rankled inside her. Her sense told her it would have happened anyway; her heart told her it was Emmy’s fault. She said to Beth, “Emmy has a pretty figure, doesn’t she?”
“Oh, Emmy has a beautiful figure.”
That was enough to make Laura hate it. She was even jealous of Emmy. Emmy and Beth were such good friends, Emmy was so pretty, Laura so plain. When Beth and Emmy laughed or talked to each other she found it irritating in the extreme. And yet she knew nothing could be less likely than erotic intimacies between them, and during the span of quiet rational daytime hours she calmed herself, combed out her snarled affections and sprayed them with logic so they might last smoothly through the evening.
After Emmy went out Mary Lou came in to talk to Beth.
“Hi, Mrs. Mitchell Grogan,” said Beth with a grin. “When are you going out?”
Laura looked up from the couch, and Mary Lou laughed and said, “Oh, Mitch is coming over around eight. Say, Beth—” She grew suddenly serious. “Did you talk to Emmy?”
Beth felt a guilty pang shoot through her. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“Well—no, not really. But I just don’t like it when she wears such a revealing costume to a big dance. I didn’t know it was going to be that bare or I would have told her myself.”
“None of us saw it before tonight, Mary Lou. In fact she finished it only this afternoon.”
“Well, I didn’t see it till just now or I’d’ve stopped her. But—what can you do?” She wrinkled her brow and sighed. “Bud came, and she was all ready to go out. Everybody stands around approving and it’s the night of the party. I can’t order her not to wear the thing. But I wish she’d use her head. I’ve been worried about her for months.”
It made Beth feel rather nervously defensive. “She’s been behaving herself,” she said. “She doesn’t act up in public.”
“Oh, Beth, I’ve seen her so full of beer at parties—”
“That’s just a big act, Mary Lou. Most of it.”
“Well, not all of it. I’ve seen her drink the beer.”
“She doesn’t drink too much—just likes a good time.”
“I’ll say she likes a good time. Remember that afternoon at Maxie’s when she was kissing Bud?”
“Oh, hell. Everybody kisses everybody at Maxie’s.”
“Yes, but not up on the bandstand. And not like Bud was kissing Emmy.”
“Oh, Mary Lou, don’t worry about her. You’d be surprised how sensible she can be.”
“I certainly would.”
Beth laughed and said, “Oh, come on. Don’t worry. I’ll answer for her.”
“Okay, if you’ll talk to her again. If you don’t, I will.”
“I will, Mary Lou.” Bud was a party boy, and Beth knew it. He liked to whoop it up and he expected Emmy to keep up with him. He expected, in fact, quite a lot of Emmy, and Emmy wouldn’t disappoint him. But she tried to make him play the game her way; he had to stay within certain bounds, and the bounds were simply discretion, meaning privacy. Unfortunately, the bounds became hazy and Bud began to step over them now and again.
Bud and Emmy hadn’t gone to the dance directly, it turned out. They went to a party where beer flowed, spirits rose, and time wandered by unmarked. At a quarter of midnight someone shouted, “My God! The dance!”
They scrambled out and into their cars and made it over to the house five minutes before the orchestra packed up to leave. They were welcomed with a cheer and the girls surrendered their leftover costume material to a committee of judges, which, after a thirty-second squabble, gallantly pronounced Emily the winner.
Amidst the uproar following, Bud picked Emmy up by the waist and lifted her over his head. Flashbulbs flowered around them. He let her down again and she was giggling helplessly, clinging to him for support.
“Hey, pick her up again!” someone shouted. “Nielsen! Hey, boy, ya hear me? Pick her up again!”
“No!” said Emily, clutching Bud.
“Hey, we want another picture. Once more. Come on, Emmy!”
“No!”
“Emmy, you’re chicken!”
“Hey, come on, Em,” Bud said. “It won’t hurt you.”
“No, I won’t do it. I don’t want them to take pictures.”
Bud dug his fingers into her ribs and she screamed
