“Don’t defend her, or I’ll crack you across the face!”
“I’m not defending her. I’m just trying to show you that it meant nothing. That it—”
“They why’d you do it?”
“I don’t know why.”
“You’ll have to do a little better than that.”
“What the hell do you want me to do?” he asked, becoming a little angry himself. “Get down on my hands and knees?”
“Yes.”
“I apologized. I said I was sorry. I’ll be damned if I’m going to—” He stopped. Her sobbing had found voice now. “Helen, look, for Christ’s sake, can’t we—” He pulled her to him, and she stood stiff as a board, not moving.
“Don’t,” she said. Her voice was bitter cold.
“Helen, can’t you see how much you—”
“Don’t. Bud, don’t, don’t, don’t!”
She pulled away from him, cupping her face. He heard the sobs erupt into full-fledged misery. He sighed heavily.
“I’m... I’m sorry I annoy you,” she said through the tears.
“You don’t annoy me,” he said patiently.
“I know I do,” she said, crying.
“All right, you do. Listen, can’t you stop that crying?”
“No,” she sobbed.
“Come on, I’ll take you home.”
“No, I don’t want you to take me home.”
“Then what the hell—”
“Take your Bunny home. Take her home and finish what you started, you bastard!”
“Then how’re you going to—”
“What do you care?” she said, her voice rising. “Why don’t you leave me alone? Why don’t you just leave me alone?” The tears came freely. She could not control them, and she did not try to control them. “Just leave me alone. Please, please, for God’s sake, leave me alone.”
“Helen...”
He heard footsteps at the end of the driveway. He peered into the darkness and saw only a figure silhouetted by the street lamp.
“Someone’s coming,” he whispered.
“I don’t care.”
“Well, can’t you stop crying? For Christ’s sake, someone’s—”
“Bud?” the voice called. “Is that you?”
“Andy?”
“Yeah.”
Helen took a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed at her face with it. Andy walked closer to them.
“Hi,” he said. “Some night, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Bud said quietly.
“I’m not breaking up anything, am I?”
“No,” Bud said.
“Will you take me home, Andy?” Helen said suddenly.
“Huh?” Andy glanced hastily to Bud tor confirmation.
“You heard her,” Bud said tightly.
“Well, gee, I don’t know. I mean... is something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Helen said. “Will you take me home?”
“Take her home, kid,” Bud said. “There’s someone I have to see.”
He hesitated only long enough to see the pain register in Helen’s eyes, hating himself for hurting her that way, but protecting his adolescent pride. He turned his back then and walked toward the far end of the driveway, turning at the corner of the house and stepping down into the club. Andy watched him go, feeling quite awkward, knowing something had happened, but not knowing quite what.
“Did you have a fight?” he asked.
“Yes,” Helen said quietly. “We had a fight.”
They walked to the end of the driveway and then turned left toward Rochester Avenue. She dried her eyes again, not wanting her crying to show when they reached the lighted sidewalk.
“It’s a nice night,” Andy said awkwardly.
“Yes,” she answered. “Lovely.”
“What’d you fight about?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
They kept walking, stopping on Rochester Avenue, across the street from Somers Memorial Park. “Do we take a bus or what?” he asked.
“Let’s walk a little,” she said.
He hesitated a moment. “All right. Which way?”
She began walking without answering him, crossing Rochester Avenue and heading for the park. He walked with her, not wanting to leave her because Bud had, in essence, asked him to see her safely home. At the same time, he was not enjoying himself. He wished she were Carol, and the thought of Carol fanned the excitement that still smoldered within him.
“Your friend is a bastard,” she said.
“Huh?” He had never heard a girl use that word before.
“Bud. He’s a fourteen-carat bastard.”
“Well, gee,” Andy said. “I never thought that. You’re just sore. Because you had a fight.”
“‘There’s someone I have to see,’” she said, quoting Bud. “That rotten bastard.” She was getting angry again, just thinking about it. He had hurt her badly that night, and the hurt was beginning to fester inside. She nursed the hurt, coddled it while her anger grew. They walked into the park, passing couples hand in hand, walking beneath the spreading trees, walking on the shadow-filled concrete path that wound leisurely through the spring greenery.
“Tasteless,” she said vehemently. “Completely tasteless. I wouldn’t spit on someone like her.”
He did not answer. He let her talk.
“What am I supposed to do? Chain him? If you can’t step out of a room without someone... someone...” She clamped her mouth shut, the vision of the kiss flooding into her mind again. She could see the girl’s swollen backside in the purple silk dress. Bud’s arm around her, her painted face lifted for his kiss. Everyone watching. He cared a lot, he did. Making a fool of her that way. Advertising to the world that Helen Cantor was a lovesick kid who... “He doesn’t want love,” she said aloud. “I know what he wants. I know what he wants, the bastard. I wish I didn’t love him so much. Is love like this, Andy? Does it always hurt so goddamned much?”
“I don’t know,” he said, thinking his own love was sweet and painless. Suddenly she began crying again. She hated herself for crying, and the self-hatred sought a source, and the source was Bud. She hated him viciously in that moment, loving him at the same time, the tears scalding hot on her cheeks.
“Let’s sit down,” she said, weary all at once. “Let’s find a place to sit.”
They walked, looking for a bench, not wanting to sit next to lovers. They gave it up finally and walked onto the grass, sitting in the black shadow of a big tree, far from the concrete path.
When she stopped crying, with the hatred tears still wet on her cheeks, she asked, “Is he your best friend?”