8

Nat sat at his desk, trying to concentrate on the Great Depression. He managed about half a page, but he found his mind kept wandering. He went over the short meeting he’d had with Diane, again and again. This didn’t take long because she’d hardly said a word before his father had joined them and suggested they ought to be leaving.

Nat had cut out her picture from the football program, and carried it around with him wherever he went. He was beginning to wish he’d picked up at least three programs, because the little photo was becoming so worn. He’d rung Tom the following morning on the pretense of discussing the Wall Street crash, and then casually threw in, “Did Diane say anything about me after I’d left?”

“She thought you were very nice.”

“Nothing else?”

“What else could she say? You only had about two minutes together before your father dragged you off.”

“Did she like me?”

“She thought you were very nice, and if I remember correctly, she said something about James Dean.”

“No, she didn’t—did she?”

“No, you’re right—she didn’t.”

“You’re a rat.”

“True, but a rat with a telephone number.”

“You have her telephone number?” said Nat in disbelief.

“You catch on quickly.”

“What is it?”

“Have you completed that essay on the Great Depression?”

“Not quite, but I’ll have it finished by the weekend, so hold on while I get a pencil.” Nat wrote the number down on the back of Diane’s photograph. “Do you think she’ll be surprised if I give her a call?”

“I think she’ll be surprised if you don’t.”

“Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright. I don’t suppose you remember me.”

“No, I don’t. Who are you?”

“I’m the one you met after the Hotchkiss game and thought looked like James Dean.”

Nat glanced in the mirror. He’d never thought about his looks before. Did he really look like James Dean?

It took another couple of days, and several more rehearsals, before Nat had the courage to dial her number. Once he’d completed his essay on the Great Depression he prepared a list of questions, which varied according to who picked up the phone. If it was her father, he would say, “Good morning, sir, my name is Nat Cartwright. May I please speak to your daughter,” if it was her mother he would say, “Good morning, Mrs. Coulter, my name is Nat Cartwright. May I please speak to your daughter.” If Diane answered the phone, he had prepared ten questions, in a logical order. He placed three sheets of paper on the table in front of him, took a deep breath, and carefully dialed the digits. He was greeted by a busy signal. Perhaps she was talking to another boy. Had she already held his hand, even kissed him? Was he her regular date? Fifteen minutes later he phoned again. Still busy. Had another suitor called in between? This time he only waited ten minutes before he tried again. The moment he heard the ringing tone he felt his heart thumping in his chest, and wanted to put the phone right back down. He stared at his list of questions. The ringing stopped. Someone picked up the phone.

“Hello,” said a deep voice. He didn’t need to be told it was Dan Coulter.

Nat dropped the phone on the floor. Surely gods don’t answer phones, and in any case, he hadn’t prepared any questions for Diane’s brother. Hastily he picked the receiver up off the floor and placed it back on the phone.

Nat read through his essay before he dialed a fourth time. At last a girl’s voice answered.

“Diane?”

“No, it’s her sister Tricia,” said a voice that sounded older, “Diane’s out at the moment, but I’m expecting her back in about an hour. Who shall I say called?”

“Nat,” he replied, “would you tell her I’ll phone again in about an hour?”

“Sure,” said the older voice.

“Thank you,” said Nat and put the receiver down. He hadn’t any questions or answers prepared for an older sister.

Nat must have looked at his watch sixty times during the next hour, but he still added another fifteen minutes before he redialed the number. He’d read in Teen magazine that if you like a girl, don’t appear too keen, it puts them off. The phone was eventually picked up.

“Hello,” said a younger voice. Nat glanced down at his script. “Hello, can I speak to Diane?”

“Hi, Nat, it’s Diane. Tricia told me you’d called, how are you?”

How are you wasn’t in the script. “I’m fine,” he eventually managed, “how are you?”

“I’m fine too,” she replied, which was followed by another long silence while Nat searched for an appropriate question.

“I’m coming over to Simsbury next week to spend a few days with Tom,” he read out in a monotone.

“That’s great,” replied Diane, “then let’s hope we bump into each other.” There certainly wasn’t anything in the script about bumping into each other. He tried to read all ten questions at once. “Are you still there, Nat?” asked Diane.

“Yes. Any hope of seeing you while I’m in Simsbury?” Question number nine.

“Yes, of course,” said Diane, “I’d like that very much.”

“Goodbye,” said Nat looking at answer number ten.

During the rest of the evening, Nat tried to recall the conversation in detail, and even wrote it down line by line. He underlined three times her words—yes, of course, I’d like that very much. As there were still four days before he was due to visit Tom, he wondered if he should call Diane again—just to confirm. He returned to Teen magazine to seek their advice, as they seemed to have anticipated all his previous problems. Teen gave no help on calling a second time, but did suggest for a first date he should dress casually, be relaxed, and whenever he got the chance, talk about other girls he’d been out with. He’d never been out with another girl, and worse, he didn’t have any casual clothes, other than a plaid shirt that he had hidden in a bottom drawer half an hour after he’d bought it. Nat checked to see how much money he’d saved from his paper route—seven dollars and twenty cents—and wondered if that was enough to purchase a new shirt and a casual pair of slacks. If only he had an older brother.

He put the finishing touches to his essay only hours before his father drove him across to Simsbury.

As they traveled north, Nat kept asking himself why he hadn’t called Diane back and fixed a time and place to meet her. She might have gone away, decided to stay with a friend—a boyfriend. Would Tom’s parents mind if he asked to use their phone the moment he arrived?

“Oh, my God,” said Nat as his father swung his car into a long drive and drove past a paddock full of horses. Nat’s father would have chastised him for blaspheming, but was somewhat taken aback himself. The driveway must have stretched for over a mile before they turned into a gravel courtyard to be greeted by the most magnificent white pillared colonial home surrounded by evergreens.

“Oh, my God,” said Nat a second time. This time his father did remonstrate with him.

“Sorry, Dad, but Tom never mentioned he lived in a palace.”

“Why should he?” replied his father, “when it’s all he’s ever known. By the way, he’s not your closest friend because of the size of his house, and if he had felt it was necessary to impress you, he would have mentioned it some time ago. Do you know what his father does, because one thing’s for sure, he doesn’t sell life insurance.”

“I think he’s a banker.”

“Tom Russell, of course. Russell’s Bank,” said his father as they pulled up in front of the house.

Tom was waiting on the top step to greet them. “Good afternoon, sir, how are you?” asked Tom as he opened the door on the driver’s side.

“I’m well, thank you, Tom,” replied Michael Cartwright as his son climbed out of the car, clinging to a small battered suitcase with the initials M. C. printed next to the lock.

“Would you care to join us for a drink, sir?”

“That’s kind of you,” said Nat’s father, “but my wife will be expecting me back in time for supper, so I ought to be on my way.”

Nat waved as his father circled the courtyard and began his return journey to Cromwell.

Nat looked up at the house to see a butler standing on the top step. He offered to take the suitcase, but Nat hung on to it as he was escorted up a magnificent wide circular staircase to the second floor, where he was shown into a guest bedroom. In Nat’s home they only had one spare bedroom, which would have passed as a broom closet in this house. Once the butler had left him, Tom said, “When you’ve unpacked, come down and meet my mother. We’ll be in the kitchen.”

Nat sat at the end of one of the twin beds, painfully aware that he would never be able to invite Tom to stay with him.

It took Nat about three minutes to unpack as all he had were two shirts, one spare pair of trousers and a tie. He spent some considerable time checking out the bathroom before finally bouncing up and down on the bed. It was so springy. He waited for a couple more minutes before he left the room to stroll back down the wide staircase, wondering if he would ever be able to find the kitchen. The butler was waiting on the bottom step and escorted him along the corridor. Nat stole a quick glance into each room he passed.

“Hi,” said Tom, “your room OK?”

“Yes, it’s great,” said Nat, aware that his friend was not being sarcastic.

“Mom, this is Nat. He’s the cleverest boy in the class, damn him.”

“Please don’t swear, Tom,” said Mrs. Russell. “Hello, Nat, how nice to meet you.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Russell, it’s nice to meet you too. What a lovely home you have.”

“Thank you, Nat, and we were delighted that you were able to join us for a few days. Can I get you a Coke?”

“Yes, please.”

A uniformed maid went straight to the fridge, took out a Coke and added some ice.

“Thank you,” he repeated, as he watched the maid return to the sink and continue chopping potatoes. He thought of his mother back in Cromwell. She would also be chopping up potatoes, but only after a full day’s teaching.

“Want me to show you around?” asked Tom.

“Sounds great,” said Nat, “but can I make a phone call?”

“You don’t need to, Diane’s already called.”

“She’s already called?”

“Yea, she phoned this morning, to ask what time you’d be arriving. She begged me not to tell you, so I think we can assume she’s interested.”

“Then I’d better call her back immediately.”

“No, that’s the last thing you should do,” said Tom.

“But I said I would.”

“Yes, I know you did, but I think we’ll walk around the grounds first.”

The next day at the Coulters’, Tricia answered the door. She was dressed for a game of tennis.

“Is Diane home?” Nat asked.

“No, she’s gone to some party at the Capitol with my parents. She should be back in about an hour. I’m Tricia, by the way. I spoke to you on the phone. I was just going to have a Coke. Want to join me?”

“Is your brother at home?”

“No, he’s training down at the gym.”

“Yes, please.”

Tricia led Nat through to the kitchen and pointed toward a stool on the other side of the table. Nat sat down and didn’t speak as Tricia pulled open the fridge door. As she bent over to remove two Cokes, her short skirt rose. Nat couldn’t stop staring at her white tennis panties.

“What time are you expecting them back?” he asked as she added some ice cubes to his drink.

“No idea, so for the time being, you’re stuck with me.”

Nat sipped his drink, not sure what to say, because he thought he and Diana had agreed to see To Kill a Mockingbird.

Nat was sipping his Coke when he felt a hand on his thigh. He blushed, but made no attempt to remove it. Tricia smiled across the table at him. “You can put your hand on my leg if you want to.” Nat thought she might consider him rude if he didn’t comply, so he reached under the table and placed a hand on her thigh. “Good,” she said as she sipped her Coke, “that’s a little more friendly.” Nat didn’t comment as her hand moved farther up his newly pressed slacks. “Just follow my lead,” she said. He moved his hand farther up her thigh, but came to a halt when he reached the hem of her skirt. Tricia didn’t stop until she had reached his crotch.

“You’ve still got some way to go to catch up with me,” Tricia said, as she began to undo the top button of his slacks. “Under the skirt, not over,” she added, without any trace of mockery. He slipped his hand under her skirt as she continued to unbutton his slacks. He hesitated again when his fingers reached her panties. He couldn’t remember anything in Teen magazine about what he was expected to do next.