Linda smiles and watches Dave blow and take another sip. It’s a larger sip. She thinks he’s showing off.
“It was a small and tasteful sign,” Dave repeats. “A very restrained response considering the night I’d just been through. You probably heard them, too?”
Linda shakes her head again.
“Well, I can’t explain that,” Dave says. “You must be a very sound sleeper. So Mrs. Kirk thinks my sign was aimed at her particular cats who are, apparently, too well-bred to yowl all night. She’s called the manager and she’s threatening to call the SPCA. The manager asked me to go and smooth it over with her, since she’s an old and valued tenant, in contrast to myself. And I did try. I’m not proud. She won’t even open the door to me. She thinks I’m only pretending to be sorry in order to gain access to her apartment and bludgeon her cats. She told me she just wished we lived in England where they know how to deal with people like me, whatever the hell that means.”
“So what do you want from me?”
Dave smiles ingenuously. “You’re very popular, Linda. Did you know that? I can’t find a single person who doesn’t like you. I bet even Mrs. Kirk likes you. Couldn’t you go up and tell her you and I were having this casual conversation about cats and I just happened to mention what models of catdom her cats are? Invite her to the party. Invite her cats.”
Linda doesn’t respond. She is too surprised by the assertion that she is popular. She is liked by other women; she always has been. In high school she had seen clearly that girls who were popular were almost always those not liked by other girls; this was, in fact, the most reliable indication of popularity, the dislike others of your own sex had for you. It was believed to be the price a woman paid for being beautiful, although Linda knew beautiful women who were not popular and Linda knew also of women who were not so beautiful, but insisted other women hated them in an attempt to fool men into thinking they were. Men were instantly sympathetic to this. Sometimes Linda had even seen this work. Surely being popular has nothing to do with Mrs. Kirk’s opinion.
“Please,” says Dave. “It’s a small favor.”
“No, it’s not,” Linda informs him. Mrs. Kirk is the ex-wife of a state senator. He has been married twice since and although he is now free as a bird again, his interest in sending her alimony checks on schedule has dwindled. Six months ago, shortly after the dissolution of his last marriage, he was picked up for drunk driving. A small newspaper article reported the event. Page 29. Mrs. Kirk cut it out and posted it in the elevator in case anyone had missed it. She added her own caption: Would you vote for this man? But Mrs. Kirk is a bit of a drinker herself. Any visit to the penthouse is an occasion for Bloody Marys and long discussions on the inadvisability of giving your heart and the best years of your life to swine. It is not the conversation Linda wishes to avoid, however. It is the drinks. Linda can hardly face tomato juice alone; add liquor and it becomes a nightmare. And there is no way to refuse a drink from Mrs. Kirk. Linda looks at Dave’s hands. “But I’ll do it anyway,” she says.
Fred slams a book closed. “Could you be a little quieter?” he calls from the kitchen. “I really have to concentrate.”
“Don’t respond,” Dave warns her. “Don’t say anything. He’s fishing for help. He’s dying to tell you what his assignment is.”
They sit quietly for a moment. The sun has moved down the wall to Linda’s face; on the opposite wall the painted sun illuminates the knight’s helmet in the Rembrandt and never moves. Dave shifts closer to Linda on the couch but still does not touch her.
Linda focuses on the painting. She feels very warm, but she tells herself it is the sun. “We’ll make a deal,” says Dave. He has lowered his voice, but his tone is nothing more than friendly. “You go talk to Mrs. Kirk for me and I’ll get Dudley’s fingerprints for you at the party. Then we’ll be even. Are your roommates coming?”
“Yes,” says Linda. But she is lying. They have no intention of attending and they all told her so last night.
She goes home and tries to persuade them again. “I don’t think I can lose fifteen pounds by Friday,” says Julie. “I can’t have fun at a party if I’m fat.”
“Sorry. Bill and I are going to a movie,” says Lauren. “If we can agree on something. Dutchman is on campus, but he wants to see the new Joey Heatherton epic in the city.”
“It’s about Vietnam,” says Julie. “Give the man a break. I’m sure his interests are political.”
“Listen to this,” says Gretchen. She is holding the Chronicle, folded open to the women’s section, in two white fists. The strain in her voice tells Linda she is about to read from Count Marco’s column.
“I don’t want to hear it,” says Linda. “Why read it? Why torture yourself?”
There is no stopping Gretchen. “He’s complaining about the unattractiveness of women you see in hospital emergency rooms,” she says. “‘Set aside a flattering outfit, loose, no buttons, of course, and a pair of fetching slippers. Think ahead a little.’ He’s concerned that, in the case of an emergency, we may become eyesores. God! I’m going to write the Chronicle another letter.”
“Any attention to a columnist, they consider good attention. The more letters he provokes, the more secure his job. He’s ridiculous. Just don’t read him.”
“It’s not trivial,” says Gretchen. “You think it is, but it’s not. They pay this flaming misogynist to write antifemale poison, and then they put it in the women’s section. Can’t they just move his column? Is it too much to ask? Put it in the goddamn sports section.” Her voice has risen steadily in volume and pitch until she hits its limits.
Linda reaches out and brushes Gretchen’s bangs back with one hand. They won’t stay; they fall back into Gretchen’s outraged eyes.
“It’s important,” Gretchen says.
“About this party—”
“I don’t want to go.” The newspaper crackles in Gretchen’s hands. “I told you that.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t like them. They look like fraternity escapees. Jock city. Fifties time warp. Have you ever tried to have a conversation with Fred Zukini? He thinks Bernadette Devlin is a French saint. He told me he saw the movie about her.”
“Dave and Kenneth are nice.”
“Shall I tell you about this party?” Gretchen asks. She takes a deep breath; she is talking more slowly and has regained control of her voice. “I know about this party. We’re talking party games. We’re talking people passing oranges around using only their chins and everyone maneuvering to be the lucky guy who gets his orange from the woman in the low-cut blouse with the Mae West body. We’re talking beer cans that people have crushed with their hands, collecting like flies on the windowsills.”
“They’ve ordered a keg,” says Linda.
“Excuse the pun, but I rest my case.”
Lauren is standing behind Linda. She clears her throat in a way that makes Linda turn to look at her. She is combing her hair higher and wider. “Julie says you’ve got a thing for Dave. But Gretchen says you don’t.” Her voice is quiet. “Who’s right?”
Linda tries to think what answer she wants to give. She takes too long.
“If we thought you liked him we would never have sent him up to Suzette’s. You’ve got to know that,” Lauren says.
“Even if he is all wrong for you,” adds Gretchen.
“It’s all right,” Linda tells them. “He was going to meet Suzette sooner or later.” But come to the party. You’re supposed to be my friends. She doesn’t say it out loud so nobody does it.