Chapter 10
THE NEXT DAY I WALKED across the campus to the Administration Building to drop one of my courses. My father had talked me into adding an elective dealing with business law to my schedule. He had probably gone on the assumption that the more work I had to do the less trouble I was likely to get into. It made a total of nineteen hours that I was carrying, and I had decided to heck with it. My heart was not in the program he had laid out for me and I could see no point in knocking myself out. I had made up my mind to settle for the bare minimum-fifteen hours a week.
I stopped at the campus post office and checked my box in the hope that I might have a letter from Nell. My box was empty. I was not surprised. Nell was not one for writing-and what could she safely put into a letter?
The registrar's secretary explained that Mr. Reed would be out of the office until that afternoon.
"I'm Mrs. Clinton," she told me briskly. "Perhaps I can help you."
I saw something sexy about her this morning. She seemed in her late twenties, possibly thirty. She wore a simple navy blue suit with no frills or foolishness about it. Her only jewelry was a wedding band on her ring finger. She had raven hair and huge brown eyes. She was tall and slender and had a fashion model's grace. I remembered vaguely having heard Sandy make some remarks about her. She was the wife of one of the professors-a chemistry prof, I thought. Sandy, I seemed to remember, knew them socially.
"Yes," I replied to her question, "I guess you could take care of it for me, Mrs. Clinton. I want to drop one of my courses."
"I see. What is your name?"
"Mark Harris."
She slipped on a pair of no-nonsense hornrims, kneeled at a filing cabinet to sort through files in a lower drawer. From where I was standing I found myself enjoying the view immensely. Her blue skirt drew tightly over her smooth hips. The hem hiked several inches above her knees, revealing a strip of creamy white flesh above her stocking tops. Her legs looked good to me.
She discovered the file she wanted, pulled it out and half-turned back to me as she arose. She caught me sampling the view of her legs and blushed angrily.
Hell, I thought. If she wore skirts to show off her legs she could expect a guy to look at them. She took the file over to her desk. "Sit down," she said impersonally. I helped myself to a chair next to her desk. "Here is your class schedule," she said, taking out a form.
I was more interested in looking at her form. Something about her was getting to me-perhaps her cool and detached manner. It gave me an odd sense of being taken care of--of having only to wait for her to make the next move. Oddly, I thought of Nell, who had always carried the initiative in our relationship. Was this woman's take-charge air a lid kept tightly clamped on a smoldering charge of sex? Was this what I sensed?
My eyes slid over the wide red slash of her mouth and the lovely white curve of her throat. She had high cheekbones, accented by faintly shadowed hollows. Her simple suit, I suddenly discovered, was also full of subtle accents-all hers.
She said, "Let me see now. You have nineteen hours altogether. What did you want to drop?"
I told her I had lost interest in business law.
She nodded and made a notation on my class schedule.
"I think we have a mutual friend," I said.
Her brown eyes nicked up from the paper toward me.
"Oh?"
"Yes, Sandy Cleary. Do you know him?" She relaxed slightly.
"Oh, Sandy. Yes, we-my husband and I-know Sandy quite well. He and his girl come often to our house."
"Sandy's quite a guy."
"Yes. My husband thinks he's brilliant."
"I haven't made up my mind if he's brilliant or if he has everybody snowed."
She smiled. She had a lovely smile, surprisingly.
A silence ensued. I tried to think of something else to say. I was in no hurry to leave.
She said, "You must come over with Sandy some time."
Was the invitation real or was she simply making conversation? I looked my question into her big brown eyes. They faltered and a slight flush stained her cheeks.
"Oh, I mean it, all right," she said. "You come over with Sandy and Flip. And I'll change your schedule as you requested. Is there anything else?"
"I'll check Sandy's social calendar, Mrs. Clinton."
I left.
I ran into Sandy that afternoon at a malt shop near the campus. He was sitting at a table, drinking coffee, his nose in Ibsen. I got some coffee at the counter and joined him.
I said, "I went over to the Administration Building 100 this morning to drop a course. I met the registrar's secretary."
Sandy looked up at me.
"You mean Sandra Clinton? She's quite a gal."
"What's the story on her?"
Sandy gave me a closer look.
"Watch it boy. She's a married chick."
"That I know. Where do you fit her scene?"
"Well, she's married to Howard Clinton, my chemistry professor. For some reason he digs me and we're a little buddy. He's quite a bit older than Sandra. I'd say she's pushing thirty and he must be in his fifties." Sandy suddenly laughed. "Listen, get off the sanctimonious kick. I'm your buddy. What you'd really like to know is does Mrs. Maddox-or doesn't she? Right?"
"Well, your knowing her kind of set me wondering."
"Don't apologize-not that I heard you apologizing. Insult me freely. But I can't help you. My business is with her husband. I kind of have my doubts that old Howard can keep her satisfied. I've heard rumors that she's been involved with students in the past. But she's always played it cool around me, the faithful model wife." Then he added, "If you want to meet her socially, I'll let you know the next time they invite Flip and me. You can tag along."
"That's what she suggested," I told Sandy and left him.
Sandra Clinton kept stealing into my thoughts at odd moments during the next week. She was, as Sandy had said, an unusual woman. The next encounter I had with her was at a Friday night gathering at her home. Flip and Sandy had been invited. I went along.
Howard Clinton owned a comfortable two-story cottage on Faculty Row. The house was old but had been remodeled and renovated. It now had a modern heating system and air conditioning. The rich, old woodwork gleamed. The furniture was rock maple. The action took place in a large, comfortable study that was lined with bookshelves. Howard Clinton owned an impressive set of stereo components and had a pretty extensive library of classical records. Sandy had told me he was a nut for serious music.
The other people included intellectuals and culture buffs. Some were members of the faculty. Others were students. The Clintons apparently liked people of all ages, discriminating more on the basis of I.Q. than on race, color, creed, sex or age. In the group were intense young psychology and sociology majors, an exchange student from India, an attractive young Negro couple, several college department heads.
Sandy and Flip mixed but I felt out of place. The last thing I considered myself was an egghead. I reminded myself that I was here because Sandra Clinton was the hostess.
She had been polite and coolly hospitable to me when I arrived, as she was to the other guests. She remembered me pleasantly from that day in the registrar's office. I kept an eye peeled for an opportunity to catch her alone. It came when she disappeared into the kitchen to prepare a new batch of refreshments. I wandered after her, holding an empty glass.
I found her at the drainboard, busying herself with goodies. She heard me and turned.
Her glance touched the empty glass in my hand.
"Need a refill?"
I nodded. My eyes trailed down her figure. She wore a simple dark sheath that molded the smart, elegant lines of her body. My stare became compulsive-she was a woman one had to look at. I realized her cheeks had become flushed. When she took my glass from me I noticed a slight trembling in her fingers. Was she afraid of me-or of something or someone else?
"Nice party," I said because I had to say something.
I watched her pour my drink.
"Thank you," she replied, in a low voice.
I like your house." She handed me the drink.
"Thank you again, Mark." She hesitated then said, "Please call me Sandra. We're never formal at home."
Her huge eyes fastened on my face. They seemed somehow to seclude us from our surroundings. I could almost feel the heat of her body. What did she have for me? Whatever it was, it moved me to the same kind of direct simplicity I knew with Nell. Did she remind me of Nell?
Her mounting attraction to me gave me a surge of boldness. I said, "You're very beautiful."
Something happened to her face. It took on an inner radiance as if, for the moment at least, she believed me.
She smiled.
"You must be flunking of someone else, Mark-"
I let out my breath slowly. She was right, of course-I had actually been thinking of Nell. The inward glow on Sandra's face and her smile had definitely been reminiscent of Nell's teasing look.
"You look good to me," I said simply.
"Whom do I remind you of?"
"Why should you remind me of anyone else?"
I was suddenly and curiously on the defensive-but I felt I was defending her, not myself.
Against what?
Against Nell's image? For some reason I wanted Sandra to appeal to me-be beautiful to me-as herself. Was I fleeing Nell's memory?
But she said, "Every woman a man thinks beautiful reminds him of some other woman he once thought beautiful. Now I have to get back to my other guests."
I don't know what desperate impulse made me seize the initiative-perhaps the fact that I had never done so with Nell.
"Listen," I said, "I have to see you alone. You've been on my mind ever since I first saw you. I came here only to get to know you better. I don't know why I want to-but is there some way I could see you alone some time?"
Her face had whitened. From anger? A fork tumbled out of her hand and clattered on the drain board.
She whispered furiously, "Get out of here. What right do you have to say something like that to me?"
"What did I say?" I asked.
"Get out," she whispered.
I heard the words but I wouldn't buy them. She was not fighting me-she was fighting herself. Her fury had risen too quickly to be directed at me. I took a deep breath. I moved up to her, put my hand on her shoulder. Her body was rigid as a board. It trembled without relaxing. Then she sagged against the sink.
"I-I wish you'd leave me alone. It isn't right. You shouldn't be saying these things to me, Mark. We're going to get into all kinds of trouble."
"When can I see you?" I persisted, unable to retreat now. "And I don't know why we should get into trouble."
She gave in.
"All right-Saturday night, then. Howard has to attend a lecture. I'll tell him I have a headache and want to stay home. You'll have to pick me up in a car. I'll be waiting down at the end of the street Be there at eight-thirty."
I could hardly believe I had actually made a date with Sandra Clinton. I went around pinching myself after I left the party. The whole thing was wild, crazy-but it had happened.
What would happen next? Where the rumors about her that Sandy had mentioned true?
On Saturday night I was at the appointed place on time. I only partly believed that she would be there. I saw no one the first time I drove past the corner. I was disappointed, but not altogether surprised. I drove past again-with less hope-but this time a figure broke out of enveloping shadows.
I pulled up at the curb. The car door opened. I heard 104 a swish of nylon and a rusde of clothing. Perfume filled my car.
In a low voice Sandra Clinton said, "Hurry and drive away from this neighborhood. I mustn't be seen with