“That’s not...” Carol started.
He turned his attention to the phonograph, hearing the honeyed tones of Bing Crosby. Reen stood at the side of the room, his arms folded over his chest, a big crud-eating grin on his face.
“‘Swingin’ on a Star,’” Andy said.
“Oh, well,” Carol sighed. “It’s not really a bad song.”
“No. It got the Academy Award, you know. Did you listen to that the other night?”
“No, I didn’t. I read about it in the papers, though.”
“I don’t think Going My Way should have got it, do you?”
“Not at all. Did you see Gaslight?”
“That was a good picture,” Andy said. “Well, she at least got the award for it.”
“She’s one of my favorites,” Carol said. “I go to see anything she’s in.”
“Ingrid Bergman? Yeah?”
“Well, why not?”
“No, it’s just that... well, you’re such different types. I mean, she’s pretty in a different way than you. So I thought...”
“My, we’re full of compliments tonight, aren’t we? First your friend, and now...”
“Oh, I wasn’t trying to... Well, gee, you know you’re pretty, don’t you?”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, sir,” Carol said, smiling.
He didn’t know what to answer, so he concentrated on his dancing, listening to “Swingin’ on a Star,” wishing it were “You Made Me Love You.” The Crosby record had a slight jump to it, and it didn’t blend too well with the fox trot steps he’d learned. Some couples on the floor were Undying to it.
“Did you see Laura?” Carol asked.
“Yes. That was another good one.”
“I think it should have won.”
“It did get something,” Andy said.
“It did?”
“Well, one of the stupid things. Photography, screenplay, something like that.”
“Dana Andrews was very good in that,” Carol said. “Better than Bing Crosby. He should have got it.”
“I don’t think he was even nominated.”
“We should have been in charge of the awards,” Carol said.
“I’d have given it to Mickey Mouse,” Andy said, smiling.
“Do you go to the movies a lot?”
“Yes. Do... do you?”
“Oh, yes.”
How do you ask a girl to go to the movies with you? he wondered. What do you say?
“Maybe... maybe we...”
The record was coming to an end. He summoned up all his concentration and went into the final dip, holding the dip as the record played its final chord. He saw Reen at the player, and then, instantly following the first record, the golden tone of Harry fames reached up for the canvas canopy of the club, and Reen smiled and winked.
“‘You Made Me Love You,’” Carol murmured.
“Reen’s all right,” he said out loud, wanting to think it. “He just couldn’t find it before.”
They did not speak at all during the record. They listened to the music, and they moved over the dance floor. She danced very well, or at least she danced very well as far as his knowledge went. She was the first girl he’d ever really danced with, and he certainly appreciated her more than he had either Frank or Reen or Bud. He held her in his arms, wanting to draw her closer to him, but afraid to. She was just a little shorter than he, and his cheek touched hers once, but he pulled it away rapidly, not wanting her to get the wrong idea. The wrong idea, of course, was the right idea because there was nothing he’d rather have done than put his cheek against hers. He kept his hand in the small of her back, and he could feel the firm flesh on either side of her spine through the thin blouse she wore. She was very well built, he thought, slender, but not with that skinny look about her, that awkward skinniness that makes a lot of girls look like slobs.
She had good hips, and nice breasts, maybe not as big as that girl with the string of pearls, but bigger than the girl Bud was with tonight. What was her name? Helen.
He could feel her breasts against him whenever he dipped, but he didn’t dip too often because he didn’t want her to think he was dipping just to feel her breasts. He could also feel the very slight bulge of her stomach whenever he dipped, and he hoped he wouldn’t get excited, so he didn’t dip at all after that. He tried the breaks Reen had taught him, and the first time he broke, his hand went too far around her back so that his fingertips could feel the sideward swell of her breast. He pulled his hand back quickly, but she hadn’t seemed to notice, and he wondered if he should try it again.
He wondered what Bud would do in a situation like this, and he wondered if he should ask Bud about it, and at the same time he wondered how he could ask her to go to the movies with him. But he didn’t want to start talking again because there was something very nice about just dancing with this girl, Carol, Carol Ciardi — he rolled the name on the tongue of his mind — just having her in his arms like that, as if he owned her, as if she were truly his, Carol Silvera. He felt like a good dancer with her, and he enjoyed the feeling, and he enjoyed the easy way they talked, though he certainly wished he could think of some way to ask her to the movies.
The record was running out, like the sands of time, and he felt that this might be the very last time he would ever dance with her. Suppose she left right after this record? Suppose she went home and he never saw her again, never in his whole life? Suppose the boys wanted to leave now? My God, suppose this girl should get away?
“Carol...” he said.
“Yes?” She looked up at him, and he drowned in the brownness of her eyes.
“Carol...” What now? How do I ask? How, how?
“Yes, Andy?”
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“Yes?”
“I... are you... well... Carol... could you... would you like to go to the movies with me tomorrow? Afternoon?” He swallowed the panic in his throat.
“Tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said eagerly.
“I’m awfully sorry, Andy. I already have a date for tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
“But some other time, perhaps.”
“Sure. Sure, some other—”
“Will you be coming down to the club again?”
“I... I don’t know... it’s hard to say.”
“Why don’t you come down again next Friday? We’ll talk some more then.”
“Well... maybe,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t dare come down without the boys, and not sure whether or not the boys would want to return. “We’ll see.”