Rosemarie made the decision for me, as the woman usually does.
“Would you stop the car in front of that big Dutch Colonial house, Chucky Ducky?”
We were driving north on East Avenue, returning from the Lake Theater on a hot June night. We had seen Twelve O’Clock High and stopped at Petersen’s for our two malted milks each.
Rosemarie was wearing white shorts and a blue blouse that matched her eyes. The shorts made it possible for me to caress her thigh in the theater. She had, however, arranged our seating at Petersen’s so she was out of reach.
“I’ll have to stop this soon,” she had told me with a wink. “I have put on twelve pounds in the last five months. My doctor says fifteen is about right. … Do you think I’m getting fat?”
“You’ll never get fat, Rosemarie.”
“That’s what my doctor says too. He says the real danger is that I’ll end up a beanpole. Still, some of my clothes don’t fit me anymore. Do you notice the change, Chuck?”
“I notice that you are happy most of the time.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s because I’m in love. But I mean do you notice that I’ve put on weight?”
I was naïve about women, but not so naïve as to think that would be an easy question to answer.
“You’re more shapely,” I said cautiously. “There’s more of you to cuddle. Either way, you’re beautiful.”
She blushed and beamed.
“Same old Chucky Ducky. Always clever with words”—she touched my hand affectionately—“especially when the woman asks a loaded question.”
I kissed her hand. She giggled.
“I’m glad you weren’t flying in one of those B-17s.”
“I’m sorry I ever wasted time in the Army.”
“If there’s another war, they won’t be able to take you.”
“There’s not going to be another war.”
We sang “Good Night, Irene” as we drove north. I was to drop her off at her father’s house. He was away in Las Vegas. Then I would pick her up the next morning and drive to Long Beach and join the rest of the family. Neither of us was willing to risk my staying.
Then she told me to drive over to Euclid and stop in front of the big Dutch Colonial.
“They’re doing some work here,” I said.
“Remodeling it completely.”
“Nice place… whose is it?”
“Mine.”
“Yours?”
“Uh-huh. My guardian had no objection to my buying it. … I’m putting in a really big darkroom. All modern equipment”.
Double gulp.
“You’re going to take up photography?” Slap on the arm. “When are you planning to move in?”
“Probably January.”
“A Christmas wedding?”
“Maybe.”
“Who’s the lucky man?”
“Haven’t made up my mind yet!”
I realized that the decision had been made long ago, long before the St. Patrick’s Day dance, long before the night at her apartment, long before I had been thrown out of Notre Dame. Probably when we had started corresponding during my time in Bamberg.
“Well, if you don’t find anyone else, I might be available.”
I thought of Trudi, my lost love from Germany. I had tried to find her, had I not? She probably had found someone else.
“I’ll consider that possibility.”
We laughed and hugged fiercely and assured each other of our enduring love.
“I’ve made some other arrangements too.”
“Oh?”
Why did I feel a trap closing on me?
Doubtless because one had.
“I’ve bought a seat on the Board of Trade!”
“What!”
“Not for myself.”
“I don’t want it,” I said firmly, knowing that I would have to take it. “I’m no good at exciting situations!”
My hand, working entirely on its own, found its way to her breast. She held it and pushed it harder against herself, unbuttoning her blouse with her other hand.
“Yes, you are. I don’t know what you did in Germany, but they would not have given you that medal unless you did something exciting.”
“I want to be an accountant,” I said stubbornly, as my fingers probed beneath her bra.
“Accounting is boring.”
“It is not”
“It is too. This way you can go to school and take your pictures in the afternoon.”
“I don’t want my wife to support me.”
“I’m not supporting you, I’m loaning you the money. Some capital to trade with too.”
“Absolutely not!”
She considered my refusal.
“I don’t want to live in your house either,” I said.
“If you want to live with me, you’ll have to live in my house.”
I found her nipple, already hard, and caressed it gently.
“Chucky,” she gasped.
“You want me to stop?”
“Certainly not!”
“All right, I’ll live in your house till I can afford to buy one, but I won’t take your money.”
“Fair enough compromise,” she said. “Now you’d better take me home… to my other home, that is.”
I slipped her bra back into place, buttoned up her blouse, and kissed her solidly.
Even as she trotted up the steps of the house at 1105 North Menard and turned to wave back at me, I knew that she would find an indirect way to put me on the floor of the Board of Trade.
Fair exchange? A risky job in exchange for her body?
It certainly seemed so that night.
Back at the O’Malley residence on East Avenue, I realized that our engagement would become common knowledge at Long Beach the next day. Doubtless she had requested Father John Raven to reserve the day at St. Ursula’s. No escape, not that I wanted to escape. Exactly.
Yet I was scared, terrified, if truth be told. How had I managed to slip into the trap so easily?
I would be expected to provide a ring for her. I chuckled to myself. Fortunately I had bought a ring with a presentably large stone at a sale I had seen in a small jewelry store on State Street. Just in case I should need it.
The next morning I put the ring on her finger as she sat next to me in the car in front of her father’s house at 1105 North Menard.
“Chucky!” she exclaimed. “Did you go shopping this morning? Oh, what an idiot I am! You’ve had it all along!”
“I learned in the Army that a good soldier has to be prepared for everything.”
She kissed me enthusiastically.
“It’s such a big stone, Chuck darling, you shouldn’t…”
“Yes?”
“Strike that last comment,” she said grimly. “I’m an ass.”
I laughed. “Don’t use such terrible language about my fiancée!”
“Yes, sir.”
She stared at the ring in fascination as we drove through the city.
On Sunday morning of that weekend the headline in the Tribune reported that North Korean troops had invaded South Korea.