across streets and befriended stray cats.
Even Link had been impressed. In his eyes, Craig was strong and solid, a top athlete and a devil with the women. Which, she thought, was true enough.
“Where are we going, Craig?”
“Springfield.”
“Springfield?”
“For dinner,” he said. “Springfield is an ugly little town with very little to recommend it. It has to its name one good hotel, three fourth-rate whorehouses and one fine restaurant. One exceptionally fine restaurant, unbelievable for Ohio.”
“What’s the name of it?”
“Kardaman’s,” he said. “You’ll like it.”
She liked it. Kardaman’s was located on a side street just a few doors off the main stem of the city. It was housed in a white frame dwelling set back a good distance from the street. A neatly painted signboard announced the restaurant’s name and nothing more. A white-coated Negro greeted Craig by name and ushered them to a table. It was the only table in one small room off the main dining room. Through the window April could see the outskirts of Springfield. The Negro, whom Craig had addressed as Paul, lighted two candles with a wooden match, shook out the match, and hurried away.
“This is lovely,” she said.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“What’s good here?”
“Drinks, first of all.” A waiter came over and Craig ordered scotch on the rocks for both of them. When the drinks arrived they touched glasses and sipped the liquor. She was developing a taste for scotch, she thought. Soon she would know how to tell one brand from the next.
“Your parents are nice people,” he said.
“I suppose so.”
“They are, April. They’re small-town to the core and there’s a great deal that they do not and never will understand.”
“Like me.”
“Like you.” He smiled. “Like anything outside their own specific frames of reference. Your father worries about pinkos in Washington and whether he’ll sell enough condoms to pay the rent. Your mother worries about church affairs and reputations and hopes you’ll marry a nice sweet boy who comes from a good dull family. And your brother wants to be a football hero so all the girls will lift their skirts for him. They’re square as hell, but they’re still nice people.”
He sighed, smiling still. “I’m long-winded tonight. Mind if I order for both of us? I think I know what you’ll like.”
He did. He ordered something called beef Stroganoff, which she had never had before and it was delicious. He ordered a good bottle of red wine along with the meal. Afterward he ordered brandied coffee, which somehow settled everything in her stomach and in her mind as well.
She sat sipping her coffee and relaxing in complete luxury.
“This is wonderful,” she said.
“The coffee?”
“The everything.”
“You’re happy, April?”
“Very happy.”
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I want to make you even happier, April.”
The Mercedes shifted down to second and the gears acted as a brake. The car slowed. Craig hit the brake and the sleek sports car glided to a perfect stop.
“We’re home, April.”
Her head was lighter than air. I feel pretty, she thought. I feel pretty and witty and bright. She stepped out of the car, looked once more at Craig’s home. At dusk the house rose even more dramatically from the landscape. He took her arm and she leaned a little against him. They walked together to the door.
Without a word she followed him inside, standing patiently beside him while he closed and bolted the door. He turned, and all at once she was in his arms, her breasts drawn tight against his chest, her eyes closed, her heart beating against her ribs like an animal shaking its cage. His arms went around her. With one hand he stroked her silky hair; with the other he rubbed the small of her back until she tingled.
He kissed her. At first—but only for a moment—her lips and his merely brushed. Then her mouth opened and his tongue darted inside, a
Even Link had been impressed. In his eyes, Craig was strong and solid, a top athlete and a devil with the women. Which, she thought, was true enough.
“Where are we going, Craig?”
“Springfield.”
“Springfield?”
“For dinner,” he said. “Springfield is an ugly little town with very little to recommend it. It has to its name one good hotel, three fourth-rate whorehouses and one fine restaurant. One exceptionally fine restaurant, unbelievable for Ohio.”
“What’s the name of it?”
“Kardaman’s,” he said. “You’ll like it.”
She liked it. Kardaman’s was located on a side street just a few doors off the main stem of the city. It was housed in a white frame dwelling set back a good distance from the street. A neatly painted signboard announced the restaurant’s name and nothing more. A white-coated Negro greeted Craig by name and ushered them to a table. It was the only table in one small room off the main dining room. Through the window April could see the outskirts of Springfield. The Negro, whom Craig had addressed as Paul, lighted two candles with a wooden match, shook out the match, and hurried away.
“This is lovely,” she said.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“What’s good here?”
“Drinks, first of all.” A waiter came over and Craig ordered scotch on the rocks for both of them. When the drinks arrived they touched glasses and sipped the liquor. She was developing a taste for scotch, she thought. Soon she would know how to tell one brand from the next.
“Your parents are nice people,” he said.
“I suppose so.”
“They are, April. They’re small-town to the core and there’s a great deal that they do not and never will understand.”
“Like me.”
“Like you.” He smiled. “Like anything outside their own specific frames of reference. Your father worries about pinkos in Washington and whether he’ll sell enough condoms to pay the rent. Your mother worries about church affairs and reputations and hopes you’ll marry a nice sweet boy who comes from a good dull family. And your brother wants to be a football hero so all the girls will lift their skirts for him. They’re square as hell, but they’re still nice people.”
He sighed, smiling still. “I’m long-winded tonight. Mind if I order for both of us? I think I know what you’ll like.”
He did. He ordered something called beef Stroganoff, which she had never had before and it was delicious. He ordered a good bottle of red wine along with the meal. Afterward he ordered brandied coffee, which somehow settled everything in her stomach and in her mind as well.
She sat sipping her coffee and relaxing in complete luxury.
“This is wonderful,” she said.
“The coffee?”
“The everything.”
“You’re happy, April?”
“Very happy.”
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I want to make you even happier, April.”
The Mercedes shifted down to second and the gears acted as a brake. The car slowed. Craig hit the brake and the sleek sports car glided to a perfect stop.
“We’re home, April.”
Her head was lighter than air. I feel pretty, she thought. I feel pretty and witty and bright. She stepped out of the car, looked once more at Craig’s home. At dusk the house rose even more dramatically from the landscape. He took her arm and she leaned a little against him. They walked together to the door.
Without a word she followed him inside, standing patiently beside him while he closed and bolted the door. He turned, and all at once she was in his arms, her breasts drawn tight against his chest, her eyes closed, her heart beating against her ribs like an animal shaking its cage. His arms went around her. With one hand he stroked her silky hair; with the other he rubbed the small of her back until she tingled.
He kissed her. At first—but only for a moment—her lips and his merely brushed. Then her mouth opened and his tongue darted inside, a
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