me,” and she nodded, but stared, all crossed up. It went on I suppose a half hour, I feeling very self-conscious, but then Mr. Lacey proclaimed: “Got to be going now-come on, Mel, time we both shoved off. We’ll leave these other two here.”
So, in a minute they were gone, and I jumped up to become a waitress again, but there were only two other tables occupied this late, and Liz had already seen to them. I stood by Tom’s chair and looked down at him. He eyed me with an odd expression, and I guess I enjoyed his reaction. He said: “I wouldn’t know how to thank you. You did a great thing for Jim-and for me, you helped me more than I can say.”
“Well,” I said, “there’s a couple of ways, if you really want to thank me.”
“Just say what they are, Joanie.”
“To begin with you could apologize, at long last.”
“For what?”
I didn’t answer him, just stood my ground and waited for him to work it through. I thought perhaps he’d blush when he finally got there, but I suppose some men aren’t made for blushes, and what came out in the end was a smile, and not a trace of shame behind it. “You mean that first night, here at the Garden? For what I did?”
“Now he’s thinking.”
“I do apologize, Joan, if you want me to, for being drunk and giving in to temptation, but I won’t apologize for the temptation itself, since I’m just as tempted now, maybe more so.”
It was not the apology I’d been waiting for, but it set my blood racing as that apology never would have.
I said: “Maybe I am as well, now-but that’s after I’ve gotten to know you. And more to the point, there’s a difference between temptation and action, and you know well enough to keep on the right side of that line.”
“I apologize, then, for straying over the line.”
“Thank you.”
“Or for doing it too soon, if that’s what you mean. So, what’s the other way…?”
“The other way …?”
“To thank you.”
“Oh. Well, all this talk about taking me out, day after day. Now that I know you’re so strapped I wouldn’t expect anywhere fancy, but you could still-”
“You mean you’ll go?”
“I don’t know why not. We could celebrate too.”
“You’re amazing, Joan. I was starting to think you weren’t-” He stopped and waved away whatever he was going to say. “Never mind what I was starting to think, I was obviously wrong. I’d love to take you out. I’d just love it.”
He said we could go to a place called The Wigwam, which I’d never heard of, but that didn’t mean anything, as what chance had I ever had to learn about the area’s nightspots? I explained about the car, how I’d drive there myself, with him following along, so he’d have to give me the address, then meet me beside my car, so he could take me in. He wrote the address down on my scratch pad and when closing time came followed me out, put me in the car, and stood back to see me off. The car startled him too, because actually it was quite nice, a small sedan, but nicely shined up and smart. I drove off, following his directions, and at an address on New Hampshire Avenue spotted The Wigwam in due time. Then he was pulling in beside me and walking me to the door. I didn’t appear to be in my Rose Garden costume, as over it was my coat, my nice little light spring coat, which came down to my knees and made it look as though I was dressed in usual clothes.
The Wigwam looked normal enough on the outside, just a double door with a sign over it, which Tom pushed open as though he’d been there before. But inside, it seemed different from any club I’d been in, though of course I hadn’t been in too many. Instead of the bright, somewhat noisy atmosphere you would expect, it was twilight dark, a large room with a tall leather wigwam at one end and booths all around, with heavy curtains drawn close, shutting them off. And the girls were oddly dressed, if you could call them dressed at all. The hostess, a girl Tom called Rhoda, had on a buckskin coat with fringed bottom, which of course was decent enough, but the waitresses, who Rhoda spoke of as “Pocahontases,” were practically naked-they were topless, and except for a skimpy swimsuit bottom in the French bikini style, bottomless too. Each of them also wore a feather, caught in a lock on top, and lopped down over one ear in a coquettish way. By looking at them, I knew those girls were for sale, and I guess I didn’t mind much, as I knew that such things went on and, from talking with Liz, that women I might like and respect could do them; and yet I began to feel nervous, and sick at the stomach somehow- or if not exactly sick, a bit queasy, as they say. I felt I had my foot in something. But I didn’t want to show it-I wanted to come off as a woman of the world, not a waitress. So I maintained an unruffled demeanor, smiled though my narrowed lips, and tightened my grip on Tom’s arm.
Rhoda called us a Pocahontas, then took us to a booth, pulling the curtain open and sliding the table out, so we could slip in behind. But the table didn’t have seats on three sides, as crosswise booth tables have, but rather just one seat on the far side, and a very long seat at that. It must have been six feet long, with an upholstered pad on it, and a pillow at one end. I slipped in, and Rhoda asked: “Can I take your coat?”
I hesitated for a moment before giving it to her, and she nodded appraisingly when she saw my uniform beneath it. I found myself feeling grateful for the darkness of the room. She put my coat on a hanger that was there, on the rail the curtain ran on. Then she asked what we wanted to drink, and Tom said seltzer, somewhat to my relief, and I said ginger ale. Rhoda didn’t seem much surprised, and as she left us, said: “Amy will be by to serve you in a minute.”
Then she left, and we sat there, very self-conscious, not saying much. Somewhere, a recorded orchestra played
“… You could be busy, you say?” asked Tom. “Doing what, like?”
“Well the customer, he can get lonely.”
“And you keep him company?”
“Something along that line.”
I didn’t much care for her, and couldn’t resist the temptation to ask her: “Still wearing that bikini bottom? Or do you take it off?”
“It all depends.”
Then, looking me straight in the eye: “Like, for a guy with a girlfriend that don’t put out and he wants some help of me, I take it off-it unhooks easy as pie. See?” She unhooked it, to give Tom a glimpse of fuzz, and then, continuing to me: “So, if you want me to help you out, put your light on, just press the button once, and I’ll do what I can. Something else you want to know?”
“No-beat it.”
That was Tom, and she said: “On my way,” and left.
“Well,” I said, “that was making it plain.”
“Drumming up trade, I’d say.”
“Though, I have to admit she’s pretty.”
“I didn’t notice.”
He was quite solemn as he said it, and I guess I made a face. He didn’t say anything, but suddenly blew out the candle. Once more, we could hear the waltz going. Pretty soon, in the half dark, he said: “… Well? Where were we?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “Were we anywhere?”
“Yeah, we were somewhere. I recall your making me apologize for it. Maybe we can begin where we left off.” And with that, first putting his arm around me, he slid his other hand right where he’d put it that night, and I locked my legs, in exactly the selfsame way. But he kept sliding his hand higher, up, up, up, stroking with his index finger as he went-until his hand was inside my hot pants, and then working its way across. And then, almost before I
