I took Terry to the symphony. She didn't dig classical music very much, and preferred pop stuff and vocals. I took her on jobs with me occasionally, but unattached men would ask her to dance, and she usually did. She told me that several had asked her for dates but she had declined. I couldn't blame her. It was boring for her to sit all evening and wait for me, and of course I couldn't dance while I was working.
One day, lying in each other's arms after making love, Terry told me that she loved me. She asked if I thought I might ever marry a reformed hooker. I knew that she loved me in the way a puppy loves its master, but I also knew that as fond of her as I was, I didn't love her. We had no basis for a lifelong relationship. We spent the summer days at the beach or park, or over in Marin County, and it was all very idyllic, but I had always assumed that there would be an end; there had to be.
I told her gently but honestly how I felt and she cried the rest of the day. Ours was a surface relationship; there was nothing deep or binding in it, and at seventeen I felt that I wasn't ready for that kind of commitment. I was the first solid support that Terry had known since she moved away from home, so I knew how she felt. I could remember how I had felt about Mora as a pillar of security in a swirling new world of self alone. Now I was such a pillar to Terry.
She spent a good deal of time job hunting but still hadn't found anything. Then, the week before my senior year began, a musician friend who worked days for the phone company told me about a secretarial opening in their head office. I set up an appointment for Terry. She went, was interviewed and tested, and filled out forms, and the following morning we were notified by phone that she had been accepted for the job, with a starting salary of ninety dollars a week as secretary to one of their executives.
Terry's depression over my rejection of her turned to mania. She was so excited that she couldn't sit still. We celebrated by going out for dinner, and then I took her to the Fairmont Hotel to see the Danny Thomas show, bought her a corsage, and had the photo girl in the hotel's Venetian Room take our picture.
The next morning she went for an employment physical, and when she returned I showed her the letter that Mora had written me almost two years before. Watching her face as she read the letter, I knew that she understood. I told her that another chapter in my life was over, as was another chapter in hers; that it was time for us both to move on, time to continue our search.
Three days later I found her a nice furnished apartment on Bush near Laguna and helped her move her things. We continued to see each other often for a while. Several times I stayed overnight at her place, and several times she stayed over at mine, but we both knew that it was over.
I gave her good advice; I told her to start dating and looking for a husband and a nice, normal life as a nice, normal housewife and mother. I told her to pretend that she was a virgin and fight for her "honor" for all she was worth with each man she dated. The old adage is still true, even for today's socially aware male. Each man wants to screw every girl he meets, but down deep, under all the sociological bullshit, he still wants his wife to be a virgin, to have the knowledge (or at least the illusion) that he is the only man with whom she ever made love, and all the New Liberal talk about preferring girls with experience melts into a deeply ingrained puritan ethic.
And so, although I continued to see her, I wrote off Terry, ex-hostess, ex-whore, ex-lover, as another learning experience. It would seem that she had learned more from me, but I doubt it."
For the first time I had a woman, another human being dependent upon me for support, for morale, and for moral sustenance. I paid the bills, took care of her when she was ill, gave her advice, looked out for her welfare, and was concerned for her happiness and her future. I did the right thing by getting her out of whoring, by keeping her with me, and by sending her gently into the world on her own when I thought she was ready. It was my first taste of real responsibility.
I liked it.
PART FOUR
Chapter 1
The school year began as had all the school years before it, with roll calls, seat assignments, and introductions by new teachers.
English literature was a special class for college-bound students who didn't need any more verb conjugation. It was located on the third floor of the main school building. During the long summer you forget, but one whiff of the convict-made wooden desks, the canvas window shades, and the faint trace of chalk dust brought it all back in an instant. It was as though you had never left and that three-month interval were just a daydream between classes.
The buzzer hadn't yet sounded, and a pleasant, low hum of voices, students renewing old friendships, filled the background. I didn't know anybody, so I sat with my own daydreams, pondering on the difference in noise level between this class, which was all college material, and the other classes, filled with ticket-punchers just hanging around to get their high-school diplomas.
Our teacher walked in just as the buzzer went off, signaling the beginning of class. We were supposed to have Mrs. Gilchrist, an ancient and revered member of the faculty, but the lady who walked through the door certainly wasn't she. She was tall, about five foot six, and except for her face it was pretty hard to tell anything about the rest of her. She wore her ink-black hair pulled back in a severe schoolmarm bun, accentuating the narrow lines of her face, which was quite lovely. Her emerald-green eyes were framed in thick, old-fashioned spectacles which sat on a thin, straight nose, forming a T with thin, straight lips over a rounded chin. She wore a white blouse with a ruffled dickey sticking out in front between the lapels of a conservative, gray wool suit, the skirt of which hung nearly to her darkly stockinged ankles. Her shoes were the hideous, fat-heeled, lace-up type on which shoe salesmen made an extra commission because they rarely sold a pair. The jacket and skirt of her suit were so full-cut that it was impossible even for me to read 'the body underneath.
It was obvious that she was quite nervous as she walked purposefully to the blackboard and, in large letters, wrote MISS LAWRENCE, breaking the chalk twice in the process. I thought that she -must be around thirty or maybe even a bit older.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," she said in a soft, barely audible voice. "My name, as you can see, is Miss Lawrence, and this is English literature, in case any of you are in the wrong room."
Nobody moved.
"Good, then we're all in the right place. If you're wondering about Mrs. Gilchrist, she had some very serious surgery during the summer and will be recuperating for a long time, possibly the entire semester, so, while I'm here -as a substitute, it looks as though I may be with you for an extended period."
She moved a bit awkwardly over to the desk and sat down, folding her hands carefully on her blotter. "I don't believe in alphabetical seating. You may sit wherever you wish, but if you have a sight or hearing problem I would suggest you get up to the front of the room somewhere. So if you want to change seats, do it now."