I laughed—to cover my embarrassment. Kimball had a red roadster and she took me to a Chinese restaurant near Columbia University that I'd never heard of, and I made it a point to supposedly know all the good eating spots in the city; it was part of my big-New-Yorker front. It was a small place, but they had real Chinese food, I didn't even know what I was eating half the time, and of course Kimball could use chopsticks. Then we drove downtown and she parked her car near Ninth Avenue and we stopped for a few drinks.
The show was pretty stupid and we walked out after the second act and I took Kimball to a Village bar and we had more drinks and danced, and naturally Kimball was an expert dancer.
She was good company, and when she asked if I wanted to go to her place and kill a bottle, I was all for it. She had floor-through of a private house in Brooklyn Heights, full of modern furniture that was all angles. We had more drinks and I was pretty high, told her about playing football to get out of the mill. She told me about working ever since high school: salesgirl, switchboard operator, secretary, then finally meeting Barrett. She had a fancy ivory-white radio-phonograph and we danced, barely moving, and bulled each other about art and Spain and Hitler and where would it all end.
And I knew I could sleep with Kimball that night, if I wanted to. You know how it is, without any petting or double-meaning cracks, you suddenly feel this happy wave of warmth go through you and you know she feels the same way, and that's it.
I wanted to sleep with her—I always had.
I was wondering how to go about it, what to say, when she took the play out of my hands. We had stopped dancing and were sitting on the rubber and wrought iron couch, when she put her arms around my neck and kissed me hard on the lips. It was a fine kiss, all expertly done. I was so astonished I didn't react. Pushing me away, she laughed, asked, “What's wrong, Marshal?” Her voice was too businesslike.
“Nothing.”
“Yes there is.”
“I was just eh... surprised.”
“What's there to be surprised about? You're young, strong and lean, with silly corn-blonde hair. I don't think I'm too hard on the eyes.... So?” She kissed me again, her lips hard and demanding, her tongue forcing its way into my mouth.
I'm not a sap or a prude, yet I was shocked. I stared at her like a dumb schoolboy and all the time I wanted her, really wanted her.
Marion Kimball smiled at me, asked gently, “This is too sudden, too fast for you? I believe in going fast, living for the present—the future is too far away, too uncertain... maybe a dream.”
“Isn't the man supposed to hand the gal this live-for-the-present line?”
“Maybe. And maybe this is reverse English,” she said, and she laughed—loudly. Her laughter did it.
She became once more the most efficient Miss Kimball laughing at a clumsy young man, her laughter almost a sneer. I had a lot of pride stuck in me somewhere—I still have—and I couldn't have her treating me like a kid.
I said coldly, “Sorry, Kimball, I can't do it like this. Can't go at it this way. Guess it is too quick.” I stood up and poured myself a drink and wondered if I was talking out of my mind because Kimball looked all desire.
She didn't get mad, give me the heave-ho, and I liked her for that. She merely shrugged, said, “Okay, forget it. Mix me a shot, too.”
We sat and talked and even danced, as if nothing had happened—and nothing had. I had another drink and my whisky began to talk. I said, “Kimball, you mind if I call you by your first name?”
“Don't be silly.”
“I'm not silly, just high. Marion, maybe I'm talking out of turn, but there's something I've been puzzling about for a long time. None of my business, but you are attractive, smart, desirable and yet...”
“I'm unmarried?” she cut in.
“Yeah. I'm curious.”
She smiled at me. “Marshal, you're such a youngster, but...”
“Damn it, I'm not a kid, stop treating me like I was the village idiot.”
She shook her head. “You're a boy, or you wouldn't have turned a woman down. You see, it takes something for a woman to ask... and it is a hurt to be turned down, but I know why you did it... your pride.”
“Nonsense,” I lied.
“Not nonsense, I know you want me, I've seen it on your face, every day. Hear me, talking like the office siren.”
We both laughed and I bent down and kissed her, our lips hugging.
“Thanks.”
“Oh Kimball—Marion—don't say that. You're right, I do want... Hey, you haven't told me why you never married,” I said, clumsily changing the subject.
“As I said, you're a kid. But I'm not—I'm thirty-eight years old—cross my heart. When I was younger I was just a bit too busy, too full of modern-day curse, the get-ahead drive, to bother much with boys. Now, I could marry somebody like Barrett, but I can't stand these 'executives.' Seen too many of them in the raw—and they are raw. Take them out of their office fish-bowl and they turn out to be stupid, disgusting, and so awfully dull.”
“There are other men besides jerks like the boss.”
She nodded. “If I hunted, or maybe shopped is a better word, I might find a man my own age, but husband hunting is a full-time job. I don't have the time. Nor am I quite sure it's worth it. In our social set-up, women must marry for economic reasons—I have that beat: I have my job and even a chunk of money I made in one of Barrett's real estate deals. And I like young men! God, do I love you youngsters! That frighten you?”
“Not exactly.”
“I'm mad about this generation of disappointed young men—who still remember the depression days, and are now worried about the shadow of war, worrying if Hitler will get out of bounds. I like the potential explosion you youngsters represent, the fire that's smoldering inside you! I don't know, maybe it's the mother instinct, maybe that plain old sex urge. But whatever it is, I like boys with fight and ideas in them, still unblunted. I know you'll never amount to anything, but I like your drive, the windmill you're wrestling. Usually after three or four months I junk a youngster, get a newer model.”
“Am I one of your young men?”
Kimball nodded. “At times you're so bitter, so mad at the world, I could kiss you. But in six months from now you'll be beaten down, like all the other slobs, and that will spoil you for me and I'll boot you out. Now, are you afraid?”
“Yeah, a little,” I said, getting my hat. “And I'd better take a powder—before I stop being afraid.”
From then on, the office became the last act of one of those old hearts and flowers melodramas: Barrett going after Miss Kraus in his usual bullish manner, and Kimball waiting for me, cool and sure of herself, certain I would come.
I wasn't worried about myself, but little Mary J. Kraus was something else. I knew she had lots of pride too, but dumb pride that might force her to do anything rather than return home, admit the big city had thrown her for a loss. Mary was a bit simple and if the boss slipped her a line of big talk, she might believe him, and be a fool... for if she did sleep with him, she'd go to pieces when he gave her the brush-off.
The last-act curtain came down one Saturday afternoon, as we were all knocking off at noon. Barrett stuck his noggin out of his office, said, “Oh, Miss Kraus, would you mind staying a few minutes? Have two letters that must get in the mail today. By the way, did Kimball tell you that you're getting a three-dollar raise, starting next week?”
Barrett beamed at her and Mary Jane was overjoyed, her childish face one big smile. She quickly took off her hat—a straw pot only a Miss Kraus would wear—grabbed her steno book. Over her shoulder she called to me, “Have to skip that soda with you, Marsh.”
The redheaded receptionist stepped into the elevator, snickering. I hung around.
Kimball came out of her office and winked at me, asked, “You ring for the elevator?”
“No. How come Barrett gave Mary a raise?”
Pressing the elevator button, Kimball said, “Didn't old Barrett sound like a tenth-rate movie? Today is der tag for Miss Corn-Fed.”
“I don't follow you.”
“Don't be dumb. He's been playing Kraus, slow and easy. Think he was afraid she might be under age. Wonder if he'll offer her a trip to Atlantic City or a short voyage? Kraus hasn't enough appeal for a voyage, she'll last about a week-end. And probably hasn't brains enough to blackmail him with the Mann Act. Lousy three-bill raise—cheap enough lay.”
“You... think he'll proposition her now?”
“Know so. I'm the gal who's been with him for over eight years...”
“Then, while we're talking...?” I cut in.
“Aha, the psychological moment—news of the raise, then the works.”
The elevator came and Kimball stepped in. I didn't move. The operator asked, “Coming?”
“No. I... eh... forgot my pipe,” I said, rushing back to the office. I thought I heard Kimball's laughter as the elevator doors closed, and frankly I did feel like a jerky hero.
The office held that afterwork stillness and I sat at my desk for what seemed hours—listening to the faint mumble of voices in Barrett's office, my imagination working overtime. The longer I sat there, the more ridiculous I felt What was it my business if Mary J. Kraus ended up in a hotel room with the boss? Might be the best thing in the world for her, make her snap out of...
She came running out of his office, crying, her hair flying—exactly as I knew she would. Barrett came after her, stopped short when he saw me. I stepped in and clipped him on the chin and he went down.
I ran out into the hallway after Miss Kraus, but she was gone. I cursed and rang furiously for the elevator, but the service was lousy after working hours. When I finally reached the street, Kraus wasn't in sight. I looked around, slightly bewildered, I somehow expected her to be waiting for me.
A horn was blowing and there was Kimball in her roadster, motioning to me. As I came over, she put her fist to her lips, said, “Ta-ta-tata, all hail the conquering hero!”
“Cut the clowning, where did she go?”
“Took a cab, in all her virtuous wrath. And hop in before I get a damn ticket.” I got in and we drove uptown and through the park and then downtown and Kimball asked, “Want me to drive over to her room?”
“No. Hell with it.”
“Marsh, does that hayseed mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing. Merely a nice kid I didn't want to see hurt.”
“Honest?”
“Cross my heart!” I snapped.
“Of course you slapped Barrett on the chin?”
“I did... all the trimmings.”
“And now what, little man?” Kimball asked, parking the car. We were in front of her house. It was like her to time things exactly right.
“I'll get along,” I said, suddenly sick with the realization my job was gone. I had no money beyond the pay check in my pocket.
“Will you? Kraus will go back to the sticks, where she belongs. But you—can you go back to that mill town you told me about? And Barrett will blackball you out of every ad agency.”
“I'll do free lance art work.”
“Slop. You won't make a dime and you know it. Come on in and have a drink.”
I knew what was coming, but I went in. We had a drink and sat on the couch and I waited. Kimball came right out with it. She said, “About you—I still like young chaps, particularly interested in a certain young jerk who was brash enough to poke the boss on the chin. That's quite an accomplishment and...”
“How long before you'd turn me in for a new model, Marion? Would I last a week, a month?”
“I might even be willing to send you_ to art school for six months, even a year. You need more schooling.”
“A kept man,” I said, turning red.
Kimball's warm hand stroked my face. “Don't let a word scare you. You also keep things that are precious and...”
I don't know why I did it. You see I either had to walk out or show her I was a man. I didn't want out, so I reached over and tore her dress from the shoulder to her hip, pulled her to me. She still had this cat grin on her face, so I pulled her to me as roughly as I could.
And that was it.
It was after midnight when I left Kimball's. I'd slept with my share of girls, but Kimball was the first real woman I'd ever known, and she was amazing. Even between the sheets, she was so wonderfully efficient.
I didn't want to leave, but she put me out, saying, “I'll be knocked out for the week if I don't get some rest on Sunday, look like hell. I'll never get any rest with you around, so darling, go to your room and pack your things and be here Monday night. Okay?”
I stopped at a coffee-pot and had something to eat, tried to figure out what I was getting into. Finally decided I didn't know... but it was something I wanted. Somehow, that seemed to clear my mind, made me feel pretty good.
I walked across Brooklyn Bridge, taking in the beauty of the Manhattan skyline against the moonlight, then took a cab up to my room. As I unlocked the downstairs door, I heard the joker who ran the house—a glorified janitor although he called himself an “agent”—climb out of his bed. He had a large combination office and bedroom on the first floor.
As I went up the stairs, he stuck his head out, whispered, “Mr. Jameson.”
“See you tomorrow with the rent,” I called over my shoulder, and kept on walking upstairs.
