drove for a few blocks until they reached a palatial two-story brick house. Oak trees towered self-consciously over the entrance and cast shadows on the Greek letters ΣΔ, outlined in sparkling white lights.
As they piled out of the car and went up the walk, there was a sweet aroma of roses and honeysuckle.
“Smells marvelous,” Mitch said.
“It’s Henry, our houseboy. He has a passion for flowers. Keeps the yard in damn fine shape, Henry does.” Dirk’s tone sounded forced and pontifical, and Mitch glanced sideways at him to see if there were any trace of a smile, but he was dead serious.
At the doorway, a small old woman waited to greet them. In the harsh light of the chandelier inside the entrance, her white face looked heavily powdered like the top of a sponge cake, and her silver-colored hair had a strong purple tint.
“This is Mother Carter,” Dirk said. “How’s the party going, Mom?”
Mitch and Robin shook her hand and passed on with the boys through spacious rooms with parquet floors to a winding stairway that led downward.
“You’ll like the Tack Room,” Clive assured them. “Cost Sig Delt three thousand.”
Robin groaned significantly, and it was hard to tell whether she was expressing awe or disgust.
The Tack Room was lined on either side with large red leather booths, and around the walls on oak shelves there were pictures and trophies that were difficult to distinguish in the dim lighting. At the head of the room there was a large circular bar. Behind this a pledge worked, opening bottles of Coke and soda. Liquor was forbidden at fraternity parties, and so the flasks were hidden at the tables where a score of couples huddled together. Everyone was singing when Mitch and Robin entered with their dates.
“Roll me over, Yankee soldier.
Roll me over, lay me down, and do it again.
“This is number three and my hand is on her knee,
Roll me over, lay me down and do it again.
Roll me o-ver in the clo-ver,
Roll me over, lay me down, and do it again.”
“I’ll get the setups,” Clive yelled back at them as they settled in a corner, and he pushed his way through the crowd. Robin sighed and said, “Last night I drank chug-a-lug. Not tonight!”
Dirk joined the singing enthusiastically, and Mitch stared around the room, wondering if Leda and Jake were there. And Bud Roberts. Across from her, a girl with long raven hair pulled away from the lean boy who was whispering in her ear. “Kee-ryst!” she exclaimed, and the rest of her words were gobbled and gone amid the singing and the pounding clink of bottles and feet tapping time with the music.
An hour dragged, monotonous and unrelieved, with the same songs and the sour taste of the whisky that Mitch barely touched. Clive and Dirk sang every song, stopping only to swig their drinks and refill them, and point out the various “brothers” who were big shots—football players, and the editor of the campus humor magazine, and a graduate student who was a Phi Beta Kappa, and, inevitably, Bud Roberts. Clive pointed at him, and Mitch looked and saw him, leaning against the wall, grinning crookedly. He began to weave his way toward them, slowly, at an amble, his hands stuffed into his baggy pants pockets, his green checkered sports shirt open at the neck.
Mitch said, “I think I’ll go to the powder room.” She had noticed the red arrow and the dark letters on the wall announcing, “Women go this way!” Dirk nodded as she rose to leave, and Robin said, “Wait a second, friend, I’ll string along.”
“One at a time,” Bud Roberts said, standing squarely in front of the two girls. “It’s a house rule. One at a time.” And then, “How are you tonight, Miss Mitchell?”
“Fine.”
“Good! Now, if you’ll allow me, I’ll lead you to our ladies’ room.” He grinned at Robin. “You’ll have to wait.”
Mitch’s cheeks grew hot as his hand held her elbow and pushed her along. The singing was loud and painful in her ears.
“How do you feel tonight?” he said. “Feel better?”
“Yes.”
“You know, you’re sort of a challenge to me.”
“Why don’t you forget it?” Mitch said. “Why don’t you just be a gentleman?”
“Spoken by a true lady, at the door of the ladies’ room.”
Mitch pulled the door open and slammed it shut, thankful to be rid of him, to have the touch of his hand off her arm. Inside, the room was feminine and attractive, with small dressing tables, flowered couches and chairs, and a downy blue rag rug with green trim. Her examination of the handsome room was arrested suddenly as she stood before the mirror and reached for her comb. There, to the left of her, a huge cardboard figure dangled brazenly. It was that of a man, naked except for a flapping fig leaf across which was written, “Lift and look.”
Automatically, her hand reached for the fig leaf, and drew back. Her curiosity was mixed with shame and guilt. She ignored it and began combing her hair, fixing her lipstick, and powdering her nose. It remained to obsess her in a peculiar way. Again she glanced at it, and then, remembering that Bud had said, “One at a time,” she realized that no one would see her examine the figure, and once more her hand touched the loose leaf. Slowly and fearfully she raised it. Suddenly and swiftly a fierce bell deafened her ears, ringing out a vibrant wail throughout the Sigma Delta fraternity house. Gales of laughter and shouts started in the room outside, and Mitch drew back and stood shocked, her hands shaking with scalding embarrassment.
The voices and calls persisted and Mitch sat down for long, frenzied minutes. She could hear them coming closer until they stood at the door, singing.
“Never lift a fig leaf, lady, let the poor guy be!
That is,
That is,
If it’s idle cu-ri-os-i-ty!
“Never lift a fig leaf, lady, just to steal a glance,
Unless,
Unless
You fol-low with ro-mance!
“Now! Ain’t you coming out?
Ain’t you coming out?
Ain’t you ev-er, ev-er comin’ out?”
She knew that she could not. They were waiting for her and she could not get up and walk to the door and pass them. Not now. It was a joke, she realized that, but it was his joke. And everyone would be shaking with laughter, knowing what she had done. Anger mounted in her, and her hands wrung with a seething anxiety. Over and over they sang the song and shouted and she sat there. Very gradually the voices died away and then it was finished and they had left the door. Short, round tears loitered in the corners of her eyes and escaped down her face as she blotted them with her handkerchief and straightened herself. She listened at the door, and the noise was not there, but back at the booths where they all were. Opening it a few inches, she saw that Bud had waited. There was a look of smug defiance on his face.
“C’mon,” he said. “No one will bother you now.”
She slammed the door shut harshly and held onto it from the inside. He was the last one she could look at—his face leering that way, the slimy, suggestive tone, and the hand that reached for her.
“By God, you’ll come out! You’ll come out!” he shouted, and heaving himself at the door before she could twist the lock and secure it, he held her arms back and kicked the door shut behind him.
“Damn you,” he said, the sick, sweet odor of liquor flowing from his mouth. “Damn you and your damn innocence! You wanted to look, didn’t you? By God, look, then!”
Mitch wrested herself free, and grabbing the china vase