Connie, of course. Connie Winsor. They’re practically engaged. But you must know Connie too, if you know old
George.
”
“Well, not exactly. He’s just sort of the friend of a friend.”
By that time they are drinking brandy, and the dining room is almost empty; everyone else is downstairs, dancing, celebrating New Year’s Eve.
Potter says, “Well now, I insist that you two kids go on down and rush into the fray on the dance floor. I absolutely insist.”
Well really—at last. But when Lavinia looks over at Gordon she sees that his pale face is paler yet, is dead white, and breaking out in sweat across his forehead and on his upper lip. Gordon is drunk; he is going to be sick.
Probably just in time, he gets up and lurches across the room, to the men’s room. Lavinia does not watch him go, nor does she look up when Potter says, “Well, the poor old guy. All my fault, really. Ordering all that stuff,” and he looks regretfully in the direction of his departed friend.
Gordon does not come back. More time passes; a weak conversation limps along between Potter and Lavinia, and still no Gordon.
At last Potter says, “Well, I’d really better check.” He gets up and clumps across the floor.
In his absence Lavinia peers at her own face, in her small gold compact; she is okay, she sees, nothing smeared or shining, or out of place.
Looking embarrassed, Potter comes back alone. “I think I’d better take you home,” he says. “He’ll be okay, but it may take some time. I’ll come back later and pick him up.”
Lavinia smiles, radiantly. “I’d love for you to take me home,” she says.
Potter drives slowly, in the big car that, although actually his, Lavinia thinks of as Gordon’s; they have spent so much time necking in it. In the streets of Cambridge people are blowing horns, making noise, all over Harvard Square. There is a near traffic jam; it takes almost twenty minutes to get from the Pudding over to the Radcliffe dorms—twenty minutes during which Potter and Lavinia do not speak. It is easy not to, with all that noise outside.
Somewhat surprisingly, Potter parks the car at the far end of the quad, near the tennis courts, where Lavinia and Gordon often have parked; it is darkest there. Potter’s intentions seem innocent, however; he only asks, “Want a cigarette before you go in? Actually it’s quite early, for New Year’s Eve.”
Not answering him, on a quick impulse which she neither understands nor examines, Lavinia moves toward Potter; her hands reach and clasp the back of his neck, her mouth presses his.
For an instant Potter simply allows himself to be kissed, like a man savoring some new sensation, passively. But then, very gently, smoothly, knowingly, his hands reach into her coat; he pulls her to him, and he is kissing her deeply, as Lavinia thinks, How odd this is, we might be anyone at all, any couple on New Year’s Eve. How impersonal sex is, really, after all. She thinks all that even as she responds, returning his kiss and the pressure of his body.
At last they separate. For a moment Lavinia is afraid that Potter will say something wrong, will say that he loves her, or something, ruining it all. Instead he reaches into a pocket, probably for ahandkerchief. She is also afraid that he has come to some false conclusion, that his silence is ominous.
Having found the handkerchief, Potter offers it. “You need this?”
“Thanks, I have one.” Lavinia applies her own small handkerchief to her mouth, and then, expertly, fresh lipstick, as though she could see in the dark.
Potter says, “You’re very beautiful, you know, Lavinia.”
She smiles, as she thinks that that was the perfect thing for him to say. Exactly right, not spoiling or defining anything. She smiles upon him, in the dark, as she says, “I’d better go in now.”
He clumps along beside her to the steps of Barnard Hall, where, of course, they do not kiss again. Lavinia touches his arm. “Thank you, Potter.
George.
”
“Well, not exactly. He’s just sort of the friend of a friend.”
By that time they are drinking brandy, and the dining room is almost empty; everyone else is downstairs, dancing, celebrating New Year’s Eve.
Potter says, “Well now, I insist that you two kids go on down and rush into the fray on the dance floor. I absolutely insist.”
Well really—at last. But when Lavinia looks over at Gordon she sees that his pale face is paler yet, is dead white, and breaking out in sweat across his forehead and on his upper lip. Gordon is drunk; he is going to be sick.
Probably just in time, he gets up and lurches across the room, to the men’s room. Lavinia does not watch him go, nor does she look up when Potter says, “Well, the poor old guy. All my fault, really. Ordering all that stuff,” and he looks regretfully in the direction of his departed friend.
Gordon does not come back. More time passes; a weak conversation limps along between Potter and Lavinia, and still no Gordon.
At last Potter says, “Well, I’d really better check.” He gets up and clumps across the floor.
In his absence Lavinia peers at her own face, in her small gold compact; she is okay, she sees, nothing smeared or shining, or out of place.
Looking embarrassed, Potter comes back alone. “I think I’d better take you home,” he says. “He’ll be okay, but it may take some time. I’ll come back later and pick him up.”
Lavinia smiles, radiantly. “I’d love for you to take me home,” she says.
Potter drives slowly, in the big car that, although actually his, Lavinia thinks of as Gordon’s; they have spent so much time necking in it. In the streets of Cambridge people are blowing horns, making noise, all over Harvard Square. There is a near traffic jam; it takes almost twenty minutes to get from the Pudding over to the Radcliffe dorms—twenty minutes during which Potter and Lavinia do not speak. It is easy not to, with all that noise outside.
Somewhat surprisingly, Potter parks the car at the far end of the quad, near the tennis courts, where Lavinia and Gordon often have parked; it is darkest there. Potter’s intentions seem innocent, however; he only asks, “Want a cigarette before you go in? Actually it’s quite early, for New Year’s Eve.”
Not answering him, on a quick impulse which she neither understands nor examines, Lavinia moves toward Potter; her hands reach and clasp the back of his neck, her mouth presses his.
For an instant Potter simply allows himself to be kissed, like a man savoring some new sensation, passively. But then, very gently, smoothly, knowingly, his hands reach into her coat; he pulls her to him, and he is kissing her deeply, as Lavinia thinks, How odd this is, we might be anyone at all, any couple on New Year’s Eve. How impersonal sex is, really, after all. She thinks all that even as she responds, returning his kiss and the pressure of his body.
At last they separate. For a moment Lavinia is afraid that Potter will say something wrong, will say that he loves her, or something, ruining it all. Instead he reaches into a pocket, probably for ahandkerchief. She is also afraid that he has come to some false conclusion, that his silence is ominous.
Having found the handkerchief, Potter offers it. “You need this?”
“Thanks, I have one.” Lavinia applies her own small handkerchief to her mouth, and then, expertly, fresh lipstick, as though she could see in the dark.
Potter says, “You’re very beautiful, you know, Lavinia.”
She smiles, as she thinks that that was the perfect thing for him to say. Exactly right, not spoiling or defining anything. She smiles upon him, in the dark, as she says, “I’d better go in now.”
He clumps along beside her to the steps of Barnard Hall, where, of course, they do not kiss again. Lavinia touches his arm. “Thank you, Potter.
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