“I don’t know yet. I’m just drifting with the tide.”
“Well, the tide seems to agree with you. You’re looking well.” She smiled. “And I’m glad to see you’re beginning to dress sensibly.”
“What was wrong with the way I dressed?”
“Nothing. But those pegged pants, really, Bud!”
“Andy still pegs his slightly. Says it gives the pants leg a better look.”
“How is Andy?”
“He’s on the road again. Fine, the last time I heard. Headed for Sioux City, I think. Had you seen him recently?”
“Not for a long time. He’s a nice boy. A little confused, but nice.”
“Confused?”
“Yes, well... I mean, I don’t think he knows what he wants exactly.”
“Does anyone?”
“I suppose not,” Helen said. “But everyone’s not as talented as Andy is. There’s a difference.”
“The trouble with Psych majors—” Bud started.
“Yes, and I promise I won’t discuss basic feelings of insecurity at all tonight, all right? And please forgive my babbling, but this is the annual meeting of the Cantor-Donato Society for the Prevention—”
“Don’t, Helen.”
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“I’m enjoying myself. Let’s not spoil it.”
“I don’t want to spoil it, Bud.”
“Neither do I.”
She looked up at him, convinced now that her intuition had been correct, glad now that she’d followed it, surprised when her thoughts found voice.
“I do believe you have grown up, Bud.”
“Oh, sure,” he said, smiling. “Almost old enough to vote. Big college man, my own apartment, saving for a car, got a—”
“Did you move out of your folks’ place?”
“Few weeks ago. Would you like to—” He cut himself short. “Never mind.”
“What were you going to say?”
“I was going to ask you if you’d like to see the place. But I realized how it would sound. That’s the worst part about having your own apartment. Everyone thinks you should have etchings to go with it.”
“And you, of course, have no etchings.”
“Of course not.”
“I’d like to see it, anyway,” Helen said.
“You would?” he asked, surprised.
“Yes. Understand, of course—”
“I understand,” he assured her.
“Let me make my farewells and get my coat.” She paused. “Bud, if I’m throwing myself at you, please stop me.”
“You’re not.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure, Helen.”
“All right, I’ll be with you in a moment.”
It had been very cold outside, and the radiator in Bud’s apartment was sizzling and inviting when he opened the door and snapped on the light.
“Come in,” he said. “This is it.”
Helen stood in the doorway and examined the room. “It’s not what I expected,” she said. “It’s not a reflection of your personality.”
“I know. It’s a furnished room, a reflection of my landlady’s personality. Someday you’ve got to meet my landlady.”
“She won’t mind, will she? My being here, I mean.”
“She probably will, but the hell with her. Take off your coat.”
“I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble with your landlady. Not with apartments as difficult to find as—”
“My landlady will have no cause for worry,” Bud said, smiling.
Helen took off her coat and looked around. “It’s very nice, Bud. And I’m beginning to see touches of your personality already.”
“Like for instance?”
“Like the school pennants over the table, for instance. Princeton? Why Princeton?”
“Wish fulfillment,” Bud said.
“And the pipe rack on the table. I didn’t know you smoked a pipe.”
“I don’t. I keep them there for atmosphere.”
“And the record player, and the album of Woody Herman stuff next to it. And isn’t that a fames album I see on the floor there near the chair?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And, of course, the Petty-girl calendar. This wouldn’t be your apartment without a Petty-girl calendar.”
“A friend of mine left that here,” he said. He went to the closet and hung their coats away. “So,” he said, “what can I get you? I’ve got rye, and I’ve got some sherry, take your choice.”
“The sherry sounds safe,” Helen said.
“Sherry it is, then. Put on some records, why don’t you?”
He went into the kitchen and she called, “How does this work?”
“Turn the gizmo to ten-inch, switch the other gizmo to seventy-eight r.p.m., and then just pile the records on and throw the switch.”
“Will you trust my choice?”
“Certainly.”
“I’m picking all ballads.”
“Fine.”
He came back into the living room and handed her the glass of wine. “Forgive the kitchen tumbler. I haven’t any stemware.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” Helen said, smiling. “Shall we toast?”
“If you like.”
“I never let an opportunity to toast go by. It’s like getting a free wish on a star, and you get the drink in addition to it. What shall we toast?”
“You name it.”
“No, the man should make the toast.”
“To us?” he asked.
“Well, it’s somewhat clichéd, but I suppose it’ll suffice. To us. And to... well, to us.”
They clinked glasses together and sipped at the sherry.
“It’s good,” Helen said.
“It should be chilled.”
“Should it? I don’t know much about wines.”
“Neither do I. But I like it chilled.”
“You’re not a connoisseur?”
“Nope, ’fraid not.”
“You’ve developed honesty. Did you always have that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Answer me something honestly.”
“Shoot.”
“Why’d you ask me up here?”
“I wanted you to see where I lived.”
“All right.”