“It’s got to be Mel Blanc,” Eileen was saying now. “They’re all Mel Blanc.” Beth was still holding the smoke in, hoping that it would loosen her up. She had been sitting on the floor with these college students for half an hour and had said nothing.
“Blanc does Sylvester, but he doesn’t do Donald Duck,” the young man said with finality. He turned around to face Beth. “I’m Tim,” he said. “You’re the chess player.”
Beth let the smoke out. “That’s right.”
“You’re the U.S. Women’s Champion.”
“I’m the U.S. Open Co-Champion,” Beth said.
“Sorry. It must be a trip.” He was red-haired and thin. She had seen him sitting in the middle of the classroom and could remember his soft voice when they recited Russian phrases in unison.
“Do you play?” Beth did not like the strain in her voice. She felt out of place. She should either go home or call Mrs. Wheatley.
He shook his head. “Too cerebral. You want a beer?”
She hadn’t had a beer since Las Vegas, a year before. “Okay,” she said. She started to get up from the floor.
“I’ll get it.” He pushed himself up from where they were sitting on the carpet. He came back with two cans and handed her one. She took a long drink. During the first hour the music had been so loud that conversation was impossible, but when the last record ended no one replaced it. The disk on the hi-fi against the far wall was still turning, and she could see the little red lights on the amplifier. She hoped no one would notice and play another record.
Tim eased himself back down next to her with a sigh. “I used to play Monopoly a lot.”
“I’ve never played that.”
“It makes you a slave of capitalism. I still dream about big bucks.”
Beth laughed. The joint had come back her way, and she held it between her fingertips and got what she could from it before passing it to Tim. “Why are you taking Russian,” she said, “if you’re a slave of capitalism?” She took another swallow of beer.
“You’ve got nice boobs,” he said and took a drag. “We need another joint,” he announced to the group at large. He turned back to Beth. “I wanted to read Dostoevsky in the original.”
She finished her beer. Somebody produced another joint and began sending it around. There were a dozen people in the room. They’d had their first exam in the evening class, and Beth had been invited to the party afterward. With the beer and marijuana and talking to Tim, who seemed very easy to talk to, she felt better. When the joint came up again, she took a long drag on it, and then another. Someone put on a record. The music sounded much better, and the loudness didn’t bother her now.
Suddenly she stood up. “I ought to call home,” she said.
“In the bedroom, through the kitchen.”
In the kitchen she opened another beer. She took a long swallow, pushed open the bedroom door and felt for a light switch. She could not find it. A box of wooden matches sat on the stove by the frying pan, and she took it into the bedroom. She still could not find a switch, but on the dresser was a collection of candles in different shapes. She lit one and shook out the match. She stared for a moment at the candle. It was a lavender upright wax penis with a pair of glossy testicles at its base. The wick came from the glans, and most of the glans had already melted away. Something in her was shocked.
The telephone was on a table by the unmade bed. She carried the candle with her, sat on the edge of the bed, and dialed.
Mrs. Wheatley was a bit confused at first; she was dazed from either TV or beer. “You go on to bed,” Beth said. “I’ve got a key.”
“Did you say you were partying with college students?” Mrs. Wheatley said. “From the university?”
“Yes.”
“Well, be careful what you smoke, honey.”
There was a marvelous feeling across Beth’s shoulders and on the back of her neck. For a moment she wanted to rush home and embrace Mrs. Wheatley and hold her tight. But all she said was, “Okay.”
“See you in the morning,” Mrs. Wheatley said.
Beth sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the music from the living room, and finished her beer. She hardly ever listened to music and had never been to a school dance. If you didn’t count the Apple Pi’s, this was the first party she had ever been to. In the living room the song ended. A moment later, Tim sat on the bed beside her. It seemed perfectly natural, like the response to a request she had made. “Have another beer,” he said.
She took it and drank. Her movements felt slow and certain. “Jesus!” Tim whispered in mock alarm. “What’s that purple thing burning there?”
“You tell me,” Beth said.
She panicked for a moment as he pushed himself into her. It seemed frighteningly big, and she felt helpless, as if she were in a dentist’s chair. But that didn’t last. He was careful, and it didn’t hurt badly. She put her arms around his back, feeling the roughness of his bulky sweater. He began moving. He began to squeeze her breasts under her blouse. “Don’t do that,” she said, and he said, “Whatever you say,” and kept moving in and out. She could barely feel his penis now, but it was all right. She was seventeen, and it was about time. He was wearing a condom. The best part had been watching him put it on, joking about it. What they were doing was really all right and nothing like books or movies. Fucking. Well, now. If only he were Townes.
Afterward she fell asleep on the bed. Not in a lovers’ embrace, not even touching the man she had just made love with, but sprawled out on the bed with her clothes on. She saw Tim blow out the candle and heard the door close quietly after him.
When she awoke, she saw by the electric alarm clock that it was nearly ten in the morning. Sunlight came around the edges of the bedroom window blinds. The air smelled stale. Her legs were prickly from her wool skirt, and the neck of her sweater had been pressed against her throat, which felt sweaty. She was ferociously hungry. She sat on the edge of the bed a minute, blinking. She got up and pushed open the kitchen door. Empty bottles and beer cans were everywhere. The air was foul with dead smoke. A note was fastened to the refrigerator door with a magnet in the shape of Mickey Mouse’s head. It read: “Everybody went to Cincinnati to see a movie. Stay as long as you like.”
The bathroom was off the living room. When she had finished showering and had dried herself, she wrapped a towel around her hair, went back to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There were eggs in a carton, two cans of Budweiser and some pickles. On the door shelf was a Baggie. She picked it up. Inside was a single, tightly rolled joint. She took it out, put it in her mouth and lit it with a wooden match. She inhaled deeply. Then she took out four eggs and put them on to boil. She had never felt so hungry in her life. She cleaned up the apartment in an organized way, as if she were playing chess, getting four large grocery bags to put all the bottles and butts in and stacking these on the back porch. She found a half-full bottle of Ripple and four unopened beer cans in the debris. She opened a beer and began vacuuming the living-room carpet.
Hanging over a chair in the bedroom was a pair of jeans. When she had finished cleaning she changed into them. They fit her perfectly. She found a white T-shirt in a drawer and put it on. Then she drank the rest of her beer and opened another. Someone had left a lipstick on the back of the toilet. She went to the bathroom and studying herself in the mirror, reddened her lips carefully. She had never worn lipstick before. She was beginning to feel very good.