Chapter 3
The next day was Saturday, and Candy had no classes; she didn't get up until about ten. When she went downstairs, Mr. Christian had already left for the office, as he usually did on Saturday mornings, to 'take care of a few things that have been piling up.'
Candy always enjoyed having breakfast alone, for then she could drink her coffee undisturbed by her father's frown and his occasional quips about 'cocoa being best for a growing girl.' This morning she had two cups, from time to time looking anxiously out the breakfast-nook window, into the sunny backyard-for this was the day that Emmanuel came to mow. And Candy had made her decision.
After her coffee and toast (she told herself she was much too excited to have more) she went back upstairs to her bath, and then put on one of her prettiest summer dresses, and a touch of her favorite perfume, 'Tabu'. Then she went downstairs and out the back door.
She found Emmanuel, kneeling at one of the flowerbeds at the side of the house, turning the earth with a trowel. How thin and wan he looked in his poor clothes. 'Oh,' thought Candy, 'he does need me so very much!'
"Hi!" she said brightly.
Emmanuel looked up, somewhat surprised to see her.
"Ha," he said. He did not speak English too well.
"That doesn't look like much fun," said Candy, referring to his work.
"Whot?"
He frowned up at her; from the beginning of their conversations he had thought she was the dumbest girl he had ever met.
"Wouldn't you like to come inside for a drink of something cool?" asked Candy, showing her white teeth and wet pink tongue in a silvery laugh.
"I don thunk Mister Christy wud leek," said the gardener at last when he had understood her proposal.
"Oh darn Daddy, anyway," said Candy. "Surely I can entertain friends in my own home occasionally without his making a fuss!" But, of course, she knew he was right; so it was finally agreed, through a series of repetitions and gestures, that the gardener would go ahead of her into the garage and she would join him there with the drinks.
When she reached the garage she found him kneeling again, this time sharpening the blades of the lawn-mower.
"How devoted you are!" said Candy, beaming, "I should think you could find something
better to do on a lovely day like this!"
"Whot?"
She handed him the drink, bringing herself very close as she did, so that he could not fail to feel her warmth, and to catch the fragrance of her 'Tabu'.
"It's a drop of sherry," she said at the same time indicating a box for them to sit on, "I think you'll like it."
"Whot?"
When they were seated, the gardener understood for perhaps the first time, when he had a tentative sip of the wine, what was being offered him.
"This good!" he said with a broad smile at the glass.
"Yes," said Candy, "I find it has body and edge. Not like tea, a messy affair at best. Don't you agree?"
"Whot?"
"Now then," she said, hurrying on, for beneath her composure, the girl was quite excited, "tell me about yourself-your values, your plans and aspirations; tell me all sorts of things about yourself."
"Whot?"
"Oh, Emmanuel," said Candy with a soft sigh and a look that had become mournful, "it's so very difficult for you here, isn't it?"
She put her hand on his arm, closing her eyes, and leaning forward as though to comfort him in her understanding-and with some satisfaction she felt her breast touch against the back of his arm. She was all prepared to be kissed violently, but when it did not come, she opened her eyes to see the gardener staring at her oddly, suspiciously.
For a moment she was flushed with confusion, but she covered this by saying:
"Emmanuel, look at me. Listen to me now," she said gravely, taking his hands in her own, "I know you don't think Daddy-Mr. Christian-likes you. But I want you to know that we aren't all like that, I mean that all human beings aren't like that! Do you understand? Nothing is so beautiful as the human face." Her tone had become quite severe, indeed, almost intimidating, and the gardener watched her with eyes grown large in wonder.
"You know, don't you," the girl went on, softer now, "that I'm not like that-that I'm very fond of you," and she leaned forward again, closed-eyed, to his face and finally to his mouth, kissing him deeply and upsetting their glasses of sherry. And Candy was prepared to tell him not to bother about that, a material object of no import, but it was not necessary, for with a few whimpering sounds of surprise, the gardener had held her kiss and was reaching into her dress now for her breast while his other hand had plunged between her legs.
"Oh, my darling," Candy was saying. "You do need me so, you do need me so!"
But it was happening much faster than the girl had planned, and she became frightened again, as he tore at her pants, trying to get them off.
"Oh darling, please, not here, not now, we mustn't," and she quickly broke away from him and ran to the door of the garage, where he followed her and renewed his attack, so that the girl rushed out into the open and the skirmish persisted halfway across the backyard.
Finally she calmed him near the rhododendrons.
"Tonight," she promised in a whisper. "Come to me at midnight," and she indicated her bedroom, which was directly above them. "Oh I know how you need me, my darling," she said, pressing her pelvis against his leg, "and I want it to be perfect for us. Come to my bedroom at midnight," she said again, stealing away, one hand outstretched to him, as she went in the backdoor-and a good thing, too, for Daddy Christian's big Plymouth was just pulling in the drive at that very moment.
That evening at dinner, Mr. Christian was unfolding his napkin as he asked, frowning seriously:
"Have a good day?"
"So-so," said Candy, toying with the cottage cheese and peach salad before her and avoiding her father's eyes.
"Hmmm," he said, "nothing wrong, is there?"
"Oh, no," said the girl lazily, "no, no."
"Hmm," said Mr. Christian. He cleared his throat. "Well, Aunt Ida wants us to come over for Sunday dinner tomorrow."
Candy continued eating.
"I don't know whether we should go or not," said her father in a controlled voice, "I mean, there's not much point in going if you're going to sulk all the time."
She glared at him furiously, while he cleared his throat, seeming more at ease now that he had roused her anger.
"Well," he went on, "I mean, if you're in one of your moods, we don't want to inflict it on Aunt Ida and the others, do we? There's not much point in that, is there?"
"As far as I'm concerned," said Candy sharply, "there's not much point in anything around here!"
And she left the table in a huff.
Mr. Christian gave his exasperation-sigh and went on with his peach salad, unable to keep his fork from shaking a little, but managing, with effort, not to drive it suddenly into his chest.