Norton parked in the darkness a hundred feet from the entrance to the park. From where he sat hidden in the shadows of trees, he could see the pond shining faintly in lamplight. The benches around it were empty. Damn, damn, he thought. If she can’t make it...
If she came to him, he knew he would be saved. Free. But his fate hung on such whimsical threads. Her father’s mood. He might smile at her, not taking his eyes from the television, hardly hearing her question: “Okay, sure.” Or he might have had a bad day. A chewing-out from his boss. And take out his bitterness on her, exercising parental spleen to restore his ego. “No, and that’s final. Do you see the time? Do you think I want you running around the streets like a damned whore?”
Norton saw her then, walking slowly along a graveled pathway toward the plaza, her small figure moving through the symmetrical shadows cast by the tall poplars. She must have come in from the Hayrack side, he thought, watching as she sat down on an iron bench facing the pond. She was all alone in the park, her face a white blur in the pale lamplight and her body small and huddled beneath the arching limbs of the poplars.
Norton got out of his car and closed the door gently, the sound losing itself in a wind that whispered in the yew hedges. He stood in the protective darkness and watched her for several minutes. When it became apparent that she intended to wait for him some of his nervousness abated; he was by temperament and training a frugal, realistic man, and he knew that she would not be here unless she hoped to get something from him. It was the situation he faced every day in the loan department at the bank; people wanting something and prepared to bargain for it. In this case he didn’t feel like insisting on any particular terms or arrangements, but simple professional habit warned him to watch out for his own interests.
Norton walked into the park, his footsteps on the gravel loud and clear in the cold air. She turned toward the sound and when he emerged from the shadows she stood up and smoothed down her skirt with nervous little gestures.
“You’re late,” she said. “I can’t stay long.”
“I’m sorry.” They were only a few feet apart but he whispered the words as if they were conspirators on a dangerous mission. “I’m sorry, Cleo.” The sight of her youth had unnerved him; a blue kerchief was bound about her hair and beneath this her face was childishly small and vulnerable. She wore a loose-fitting sweater and skirt, loafers and thick ankle socks, a teen-ager’s uniform, sloppily amusing, childishly provocative. Last night she had been different; she must have been different, he thought with something like horror. In his panic he wondered if this were the same girl.
He couldn’t think of anything to say. “I don’t have much time,” he said at last. “Are you all right? Are you afraid of me?”
“Why should I be? It’s all over.” She was staring up at him but he could not see the expression in her eyes. “But how about you? Aren’t you afraid of me?”
“Please try to understand — I lost my head. I shouldn’t have done it, I know. But I couldn’t help myself.” He was suddenly caught in an agony of remorse. “I’m sorry. I swear to God I didn’t mean to hurt you. Can’t you believe that?”
“You thought it didn’t matter what you did to me. I could tell that much.”
“You’re wrong, Cleo. Please listen to me. I’m older than you are and I understand some things better than you can. It happened because I liked you — do you see what I mean? Right from the start, from the instant I laid eyes on you, I felt that you were special.”
“Well, you took a funny way to show it.”
“But I lost my head completely. I couldn’t help myself. Some men are like that, Cleo. I’m ashamed, Cleo, ashamed of what I did, you’ve got to believe me.” This was not as he had envisioned their meeting in the sustaining warmth of fantasy. Instead of graceful, ameliorating phrases he was blurting out his guilt in accents of fear, his hands opening and closing convulsively, his voice rising in a trembling bleat. “I apologize from the bottom of my heart,” he said. “And I’m desperately sorry. Can’t you believe me, Cleo?”
“Well, that doesn’t cost anything to say.”
Norton got his nerves under control. He realized that she was preparing to bargain with him, for there had been more petulance than animosity in her tone. This was touching, he thought. It was sweet and brave of her to think she was a match for an experienced man.
“Now listen to me,” he said, attempting to harden his voice with authority. “I’ve apologized and I think you know I mean it. So there’s no further need for fussing. It’s always pleasanter in the long run to talk things over reasonably. Not much business would get done in the world if everyone went around with a chip on his shoulder. I guess you can see that, Cleo, for you’re obviously a smart little girl. What’s past is past, and there’s no point crying about it. The future is important — that’s the thing to worry about. And as far as the future is concerned, well, I could make up for last night, if you want to look at it that way.” As he saw interest quicken in her face Norton’s instinctive caution asserted itself; there was no point in overselling himself, he thought. In fact, the less she knew about him the better. “I’m not a rich man,” he said, smiling. “But we might have fun, Cleo. Do you know what I mean?”
“Well, it’s pretty obvious, I guess. But I don’t want money.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know. It’s nothing you can put into words, I guess.”
Norton realized with something close to wonder that all of his anguish and fears had been unnecessary; the dread of exposure, humiliation — that had all been a waste of emotion. He understood her perfectly now; and he knew he had never been in any danger.
Norton was suddenly aware of the silence, the faint wind above them in the trees, and of the simple fundamental fact that they were alone here in the shadows of the night, understanding each other without reservation or regret. The soft lamplight made her smooth cheeks shine like gold, and he could see the slight sweet rise of her breasts beneath the heavy wool sweater.
“I’ll drive you home,” he said.
“No, I can walk.”
“I told you I’d be nice to you. I mean it, Cleo.”
“No, not tonight.” She smiled quietly.
“Don’t tease,” he said. “Don’t do that, Cleo.”
“I’ve got to go.” She took a step backward, moving from light to shadow, her skirt flaring in the wind. He saw the flash of her bare legs, thin and white and heartbreakingly lovely in the yellow brightness. “No, Cleo, don’t go,” he said. “I won’t let you.”
Norton was reaching for her shoulders when a bolt of fire exploded across his face and shoulders. As he staggered under the blow, dimly but fearfully aware that he had been struck from behind, his first sensation was one of shock and confusion; but then the pain came dreadfully alive, flaming unendurably on his face, and he cried out and covered his head with his arms.
The girl said: “It’s him, Duke, it’s him all right.”
Norton twisted awkwardly, still holding his arms about his head. “Don’t,” he cried weakly. “Listen to me. It’s a mistake.”
A boy in a red sweater stared down at him. A leather belt was looped around his fist, the end of it flicking slowly along the graveled pathway.