“Guess.”
“That’s the same thing as asking me how old I think you are. You know all the tricks, don’t you?”
“A few,” he said.
“Mmmm, I’ll bet,” Janet answered, and she gave a low sexy chuckle that startled him. “I think you’re twenty-eight. Right?”
“Wrong.”
“Twenty-six?”
“No.”
“If you say you’re younger than that, you’re a liar.”
“I’m much older than that,” Buddwing said.
“How much older?”
“I’m about thirty-five.”
“What do you mean ‘about’? When were you born?”
“This morning,” he said automatically.
“Ask a stupid question,” Janet said, and nodded her head. “Thirty-five, huh? Well, well. I’m with an Older Man.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Nineteen. Well, I’ll be nineteen next month.”
“When is that?”
“The twelfth.”
“Of what?”
“May.” She looked at him curiously. “Next month. May. This is April.”
“Yes, it feels like April.”
“It’s a beautiful day.”
“Yes.”
“I was fishing,” Janet said, “but you didn’t say it again.”
He took her hand and stopped walking, and she stopped beside him, and he looked into her face and said, “You are beautiful, Janet. You are the most beautiful girl in the world.”
She tilted her head to one side and gave a small embarrassed shrug, lifting one eyebrow at the same time — she seemed capable of the most extraordinary simultaneous body movements — and then said, in a very soft voice, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he answered.
“You’re holding my hand.”
“I know.”
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, an old thirty-five-year-old lecher?”
“No.”
“Mmm,” she said. She looked into his face and then shook her head and drew her hand back gently and said, “Listen, you’d better go easy.”
“Why?”
“Why? For Pete’s sake, I don’t even know your name!”
“Sam Buddwing,” he said.
“Or whether you’re married or not.”
“I’m not.”
“Or engaged or anything.”
“I’m not engaged.”
“Or... who you are. I mean...” She shrugged again. “Well, let’s just go easy, huh? I mean, let’s take it easy, okay? Because, listen, I’ll tell you the truth, you’re a pretty attractive guy, you know?” She took a deep breath. “I mean, considering everything.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re old enough to be my father, for Pete’s sake!”
“Okay,” he said.
“Yeah, okay, what does okay mean? I’m not in the habit of... well, I don’t dig this Electra bit, you know? Well, at least I didn’t used to. Or I suppose I used to, when I was a kid — you know all girls go through that — but I’ve resolved it, and listen, you’re attractive as hell, I don’t even know what I’m talking about!”
“That’s good.”
“Who’s Doris?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“No, huh? You followed me all the way from Eighty-ninth Street because you thought I was her, and now you don’t know who she is.”
“I thought you could tell me who she was.”
“Doris Kantor is the only Doris I know. She’s in my History of the English Language course.”
“Where?”
“Hunter College.” Janet paused. “I’m a sophomore.” She paused again. “Is Doris Kantor your Doris?”
“No. You’re my Doris.”
“If I’m going to be anything, I’d better be your Janet,” she said, and she turned to stare at him steadily.
“All right,” he said.
“All right what?”
“You know.”
“Say it.”
“You’re my Janet.”
“Mmm,” she said, and her eyes held his steadily, and again there was that same sexy understatement on her face, deep and somehow hungry. “We’d better go easy,” she said again. She looked at her watch. “And we’d better hurry. I don’t want to be late. Does yours charge you when you’re late? Or when you miss a session?”
“Oh, yes,” Buddwing said.
“Mine does, too. That seems awfully unprofessional to me. Will you wait for me? I’ll only be fifty minutes — well, you know that. Will you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Listen...” She shook her head. “No, never mind.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing. Only... listen, you better not hurt me.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to get hurt by you.” She paused. “I’m... I’m a very vulnerable person. If you’re a son of a bitch or anything, well, let’s just shake hands now, okay?”
“I’m not a son of a bitch,” he said.
“Because I’m... I’m not just a quick college-girl roll in the hay, if that’s what you think I am.”
“I don’t know what you are, Janet, or who you are. I only know that I love you.”
She stared at him silently.
“You shouldn’t have said that,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t mean it. And... I told you... I’m... I’m a very vulnerable person and I... I find you terribly attractive... and those are magic words. You... you have to be very careful with magic.”
“I’ll be very careful. I love you, Janet.”
“Ahh,” she said.
“I do.”
“Ahhh.” She closed her eyes and smiled, and then she opened her eyes suddenly and said, “Come. Please. I’ll be late.” She took his hand, and they walked swiftly across the park, and then onto Fifth Avenue, and across Madison, and over to Park. They stood holding hands on the corner of Park and 65th. “Wait for me,” she said. “Will you wait for me?”
“You know I will.”
“Listen, don’t love me yet,” she said. “Please wait.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid of things that come too fast.”
“Don’t be.”
She squeezed his hand and nibbled at her pouting lower lip, and then reached up suddenly and kissed him on the cheek.
“I really want to kiss you,” she said, “but that’ll do.”
“All right.”
“For now.”
“Yes.”
“You won’t go away?”
“No.”
“You’ll wait right here?”
“Yes.”
“I must be crazy,” she said, and she turned and ran under the awning and into the building.
7
He stood watching the lobby, the light streaming through a courtyard window, as she walked across it. She stopped at the elevator, unaware that he was watching her. She pushed the button, and then turned idly to look out at the street again. She saw him in startled pleasure, grinned, lifted her hand, wiggled the fingers on it, brought the hand to her lips, and threw a kiss. His heart soared. He watched as she got into the elevator, and then he did a small pirouette, and gave a short twisting jerk of his head and began walking down Park Avenue. He smiled at everyone he passed. He felt that the sky would open at any moment and shower golden coins on him, they would fall tinkling at his feet, he would wade through them and not bother to pick them up, they would clink and glitter as he walked airily through them, Jesus, she was beautiful.
Janet, Janet, Janet, her name sang in his head, plummeted to his heart like a stone dropped in a well of sweet water, echoed, echoed, Janet, Janet, Janet. Her eyes were green and deep and young and surprised and alert and questioning and new with discovery. Her hair was black and shining like a crow’s wing and a cold night and a polished seashore pebble. Janet, oh Janet — her face, delicately shaped, palely turned, the honest thrust of her nose, and the curved indentation surprised by her upper lip, the cheekbones daringly molded, the tendril of black hair escaping to lie against the jaw, the entire face in motion, eyes and nose and mouth jubilant and fresh and alive — I love you. You have tiny perfectly formed breasts; I watched your breasts beneath the black armor of your sweater. When you lifted your arm, when you put your hand beside your face with the fingers widespread in exasperation, your breasts rose and flattened for an instant, and then filled your sweater again when you lowered your arm, small and young and infinitely sweet, I love your breasts. I love your eyes, I love your hair, I love your long legs in their black tights and the promise of spring juices in you, the low chuckle in your throat, the lust that fills your green eyes, unaware. Oh my Janet, your mouth is sweet and wet and bruised by love, your lower lip is swollen with pollen. You walk with a headlong rush, there is an electric energy in you, a rhythm that gushes from your mouth in a broken Bronx college-girl jargon, that tilts your narrow hips, that drives the blossoming female bulge of you, full and achingly free beneath the black skirt. I want to touch you, I want to hold your slender naked body in my arms and touch you. I know what you are like, I know what you will be, my love, my Janet.