Seed on the Wind

The kisses she found anywhere from distasteful to keenly pleasurable, according to the circumstances. There was not much savour in them, she thought; it surprised her and made her uncomfortable to observe the condition to which certain of her best friends could be reduced by an indulgence which to herself was no more than one item of the diverting routine of friendly intercourse with people she liked. She was of course aware, in a general sort of way, that in this department of social activity one thing had been known to lead to another and that carried to extremities it was even possible that disaster might ensue. She had experienced the assault of the hand on the knee, under the skirt even, the touch of the center lip, the clumsy trembling fingers seeking the neck-fastening — all the traditional half-daring half-pathetic little gestures of the male king groping doggedly for his destiny. They neither repelled her nor excited her nor amused her; she was as indifferent as it is possible to be in a situation which calls for action; with admirable lack of concern she succeeded in conveying the information that this laboratory was closed to experiment. Once, dared by Cecelia Harper, she did slap the face of an enterprising youth with such force that his head banged against a sharp edge of the car window and brought blood — which she compassionately wiped away with her handkerchief and then permitted him to keep the bit of linen and lace as a souvenir. He placed it, red with his blood, in the breast pocket of his vest, declaring that it should repose there forever.

It was this same Cecelia Harper who was eventually responsible, indirectly, for her final passage at arms with her father. It came in early autumn, just two months before her nineteenth birthday. For a week or more Lora’s head buzzed with her friend’s proposal; it was this proposal, in fact, which first made her sharply aware that life did present concrete problems which called for practical solutions, and that those solutions could not be arrived at without deliberate and intricate calculation. So at least it seemed to her; and for more than a week her head was filled with all the implications and counter-implications of Cecelia’s proposal, its probabilities and perils and advantages, until her brain swam and it became evident that it was impossible to reach any sensible conclusion whatever. That very evening she discovered to her astonishment that she had in fact decided the matter definitely and purposefully; what made her aware of it was this, that she found herself standing, straight and determined, by the long table in the living room, directly facing her father who sat with a cigar and a book, and saying to him:

“She’s going in two weeks, October twentieth. That’s two weeks from tomorrow. Of course in addition to my living expenses I’d have to have enough to pay for my lessons, but there are hundreds of teachers there, any of them better than I could get here, Mr. Vickers says so himself.”

She was thinking to herself, good lord I’m off, I’m actually doing it. Her father said nothing, he merely sat and looked at her as she rattled on, explaining that an old friend of Cecelia’s mother who lived there would see that they were properly settled in a proper neighborhood, a small furnished apartment probably, since that way two could live almost as cheaply as one. It sounded odd, even questionable, she admitted, but really it wasn’t at all; in Chicago such an arrangement was perfectly natural; why, Clem Baxter said there were at least a hundred thousand young women in Chicago, students and business women, living just that way. Still her father did not seem ready to speak, so she continued at random, in spite of her determination confused by his silence, speaking not much to the point, of Cecelia’s plans and ambitions, of her own delight at this opportunity to make something of herself, of the innumerable cultural advantages offered by a great center of commerce and the arts such as Chicago.

Finally her father opened his lips; but all he said was, in a dry restrained tone:

“So you want to go.”

Lora nodded.

“You want to leave your father and mother.”

Now listen to that, she thought, isn’t that awful. She said, “I’d have to leave someday I suppose.”

“Yes. Of course. You want to leave now.”

“It’s not leaving exactly — not as if I were going to be married for instance. Goodness, it’s only five hours away — I can come for visits—”

She was interrupted. Her father suddenly leaned forward in his chair and said sharply:

“You’re lying to me.”

“Lying! Why... what—”

“Why did you mention marriage?”

“I don’t know — I just happened—”