The Spiked Heel

He arrived at eight on the button. Mrs. Knowles came back to tell Cara her friend had come and Cara, fully dressed and waiting for five minutes, said, “Tell him I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

Her mother, used to Cara, said nothing, but she secretly, told herself that such tactics were the best insurance you could buy against marriage, and then went to tell McQuade to make himself comfortable.

Morosely, Cara sat by the window, wishing wistfully, and a little sadly, that her escort for tonight were Griff rather than McQuade. Griff was a good guy.

The good guys and the, bad guys. The clichéd television concept caused her to smile. The meek shall inherit… what?

What had Griff inherited? He was a good guy, a nice guy. He’d taken her out, and he’d been embarrassed when she’d pressed her body against his, embarrassed even though he’d flared into excitement for a moment. He was a good guy, and he’d got nothing.

David Brooks, the first. He was really David Brooks III, but in her mind he would always be the first, and with wry amusement she realized she could no longer even remember his face, and the realization was painful. Had Brooks been a good guy? She dimly remembered him bragging about the sweet young freshman co-eds who had dropped their lacy lingerie and their honor at the sight of his virile form. Not a good guy, not a good guy at all, David. Why had she chosen him for the first? Does anyone ever choose anything, really? Things have a way of happening. Things happen when you’re ready for them.

And all the rest? Good guys? None like Griff, and the knowledge was at once exasperating and terribly saddening. She cared not a whit for Griff, really, but there was something somehow unjust about the fact that she had given him nothing, and the others she’d cared even less about got everything. If he had been in the room with her that moment, she would have recklessly seduced him, thrown all of her womanly wiles at him, done for him what she had never done, really given herself, sweetly, warmly, and only because he was good and down deep she knew she herself was rotten.

Not really rotten, Cara, she told herself. But a little moldy in spots.

Reluctantly she went out to greet McQuade.

From the instant she saw his eyes, she knew it would happen that night. The eyes she saw were the eyes of an old friend. She had learned those eyes well. They filled her neither with excitement nor dread. The eyes of an old friend never do.

“You look lovely,” he said, his voice more Southern than usual.

“Thank you,” she said lightly. He was a big man, McQuade, dressed now in a blue tropical suit, the solidity of the color making him appear larger. His blond hair was efficiently, economically combed. There was a smile on his face, and above the smile the gray eyes were ignited with the smoldering inner fire she knew so well.

“Are we ready?” he asked editorially.

“We are,” she said.

“Dancing?”

“Heavens, no. We’d melt.”

“Theater?”

“If you like.”

“Not really. I thought…” He smiled in embarrassment and then shrugged boyishly, contradicting the glow in his eyes. “Well, it’s a silly idea.”

His trick did not fool her. “What?” she asked.

“A drive to Jones Beach,” he said in a rush. “It’s such a hot night, Cara, but wonderful really, more stars than I’ve ever seen in my life. I thought… do you like the beach?”

For a moment, she wanted to shout No, not the beach. Dancing or the theater, someplace crowded, someplace where there are people, people. The rebellion died.

“It sounds good,” she said dully.

“Fine. Then let’s go.”

They said good night to her parents. Dr. Knowles shook hands with McQuade, his liking for the fellow all over his round dentist’s face.

They make a handsome couple together, he was thinking, a mighty handsome couple.

14

They drove out over the Whitestone Bridge. McQuade kept the top of his convertible down, and she could see the stars expanding overhead, a great litter of sparkling gems on black velvet. She rode with her head back on the leather seat, the wind blowing her hair free. She could see the other cars whisking past, cars full of Saturday-night daters, young girls, happy girls and girls like… like herself.

But none so discreet, Cara. You are so discreet.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing,” she said.

Nothing. The sum total of my life. Nothing.

“I should have offered a penny,” he said, smiling. He took one hand from the wheel and found her hand, squeezing it.

They drove onto the Belt Parkway, flushed with amber lights, the tires humming secretly under the weight of the car. McQuade kept the radio going, the music mingling with the rush of the wind, carried away behind on the concrete, dropped onto Grand Central Parkway, and then Southern State. They did not talk much.