The Slipper Read online

  The Slipper

  Jennifer Wilde

  For my mother,

  who always believed in dreams

  and helped make my own

  become a reality

  1

  The girls in their white summer dresses sat in a row, young, excited, full of dreams. The girl with the long dark-gold hair was by far the prettiest, but she seemed totally unaware of it. Her hands were clasped together nervously in her lap and her blue eyes were apprehensive as, at the podium, Mr. James, the principal, droned on and on about the virtues of this particular graduating class. On the other side of the platform the boys sat stiffly, uncomfortable in their dark suits and ties. Caps and gowns had been ordered from a firm in Wichita but had failed to arrive in time, which may well have been a blessing as the robes were wool and the Kansas sun beat down without mercy on this last day of May, 1955. Friends and relatives who had come to share these moments of glory shifted impatiently on the hard metal folding chairs set up on the school lawn and wished the principal weren’t so windy, wished he’d curtail the platitudes, announce the scholarships and get on with it.

  Carol Martin brushed a heavy wave of dark-gold hair from her temple and clasped her hands together again. Would he ever stop blathering? Would he ever make that announcement that was going to change her life? She gazed at the sea of faces there on the lawn and spotted Uncle Edgar, disgruntled and uninterested, clearly here against his will. Aunt Jessie sat beside him, prim and very proper, doing her duty. In her heart Carol knew that neither of them would miss her when she left. They had taken her in ten years ago when her parents had been killed in an automobile accident in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and they had duly raised her and seen to her needs and fulfilled their responsibilities as upright, God-fearing citizens, but they had never loved her.

  Not really, she thought. Uncle Edgar loved only his drugstore, devoting all his time and energy to the business. Aunt Jessie was obsessed with keeping her house clean and tidy, an example to all good Kansas wives. Their niece had always been an outsider, never mistreated, true, but never fully accepted either. Ever since she had come to live with them—a skinny seven-year-old orphan back then, frightened and bowed with grief—she had felt herself an intruder. She wouldn’t be a bother to them much longer now. If only Mr. James would stop pontificating and make the announcement.

  Looking away from her relatives, Carol noticed a stranger sitting in the back row and wondered who he might be. His clothes, his entire demeanor proclaimed him an alien in the midst of these middle-class farmers and small-town businessmen. His dark auburn hair was sleek, stylishly brushed, a shade too long. His tanned face was attractively weathered, his eyes dark brown, and a rather wry smile played on his wide, full lips. He wore polished brown loafers, trim brown slacks, a cream linen shirt and a bronze silk tie. His brown-and-tan checked sport coat was superbly tailored, obviously expensive and obviously not purchased at J. C. Penney’s, the only major store in town. A beautiful gold watch gleamed on his left wrist. As Carol studied him, he glanced surreptitiously at the watch and arched one fine dark brow, and then he looked up and his eyes met hers and Carol blushed faintly and gazed down at the hands in her lap. The man was quite old, forty at least, and she wasn’t at all interested. The only thing of any interest now was that all-important announcement. How many more platitudes could Mr. James mouth about this fine nation, these fine young people, the glorious future ahead of them?

  “As you know,” he said at last, “each year the Norman Philips Scholarship is awarded to one young man and one young woman who have maintained the highest level of grades and attendance throughout their sojourn at Joseph Henry High School. It is now my privilege to present these scholarships to two remarkable young people who have been a shining example to their classmates during the past three years.”

  He paused. He beamed. Carol caught her breath. She had been waiting three years for this moment, three years of constant study, of perfect attendance, of almost perfect grades—one B in Latin in her sophomore year, the rest straight A’s. Hours and hours of studying, poring over the books, sweating through exams, always afraid she might slip up, make an error, put down the wrong answer. Tension. Stress. Determination. She knew that she had to escape this small, stifling town, these good, simple, narrow-minded people, and the Norman Philips Scholarship would provide the means. There was a great, glamorous world out there beyond the cornfields, and she meant to explore it and savor all its fascinations. Carol brushed her soft white skirt and straightened her shoulders as Mr. James cleared his throat.

  “And the winners are—” The principal paused again, still beaming, and Carol thought she might faint. “Mister John Huddleston!” he exclaimed dramatically. “And Miss Janette Anderson!”

  “No!” Carol cried.

  She was on her feet. She had no idea how she came to be standing. Everyone was staring at her. Her heart was pounding. She felt dizzy. She felt she was in the middle of a very bad dream. She shook her head repeatedly, and then she sobbed and turned and stumbled down the steps on the side of the platform and fled up the aisle between the rows of spectators. People were speaking in shocked whispers and everyone was still staring, Uncle Edgar, Aunt Jessie, the handsome older man in the expensive clothes. A large black-haired woman wearing a fuchsia dress and a white carnation corsage jumped to her feet and pursued the girl, catching her by the arm as Carol cleared the back row.

  “Carol!” the woman cried. “Oh, Carol, I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, darling. I know how hard you worked. I know what this meant to—”

  “One B!” Carol sobbed. “One lousy B when I was in the tenth grade, and Janette Anderson gets the scholarship! She doesn’t need it! Her father owns the hardware store. He’s rich!”

  Mrs. Epperson was sobbing herself. She was the speech teacher, and Carol had been her favorite student for the past three years, a bright, gifted, incredibly intuitive young girl who stood out like a diamond among the shuffling farm boys and plump, giggling hoydens who populated her classes. Carol had had the lead in the class play a month ago and was the only student Mrs. Epperson had ever taught who might actually amount to something, given the right breaks, and now … Mrs. Epperson gasped as Carol pulled her arm free.

  “It isn’t fair!” Carol exclaimed.

  “Life isn’t, my darling. Life is many things, but it’s rarely fair—”

  Carol didn’t hear the rest of the words. She rushed across the lawn in her high-heeled white pumps and across the football field where, almost every afternoon, sweaty jocks strutted and swaggered and vied for the attention of girls in fresh lipstick and fluffy sweaters and tight skirts who huddled on the weathered wooden bleachers and hooted encouragement. Carol had never been one of those girls. There had never been time. There had been time for nothing but the books, the algebra problems, the science projects, the French verbs. And what good had it done her? What good? She left the school grounds and crossed the street and moved hurriedly, blindly through the streets of the small town that had been a prison to her for the past ten years.

  An hour later, without really knowing how she got there, she found herself curled up on the ground, surrounded by tall green stalks, in one of the interminable cornfields that surrounded the town. Her soft white dress was soiled. The heel on one of her pumps had broken off. Her cheeks were pale, stained with tears that had already dried. She was numb. The anguish inside was so great that she could no longer even feel it. All her hopes, all her dreams had been shattered in one brief moment, and there was no reason to go on living.

  Janette Anderson, who was overweight and had pimples and a rich father, had won the scholarship, and Janette didn’t even care about going to college. She had no ambition, no aspirations. All she cared about was getting married and having babies and living a safe, secure, mundane life in Ellsworth, Kansas, as had her parents before her. She would marry a nice, dull boy and he would go into the hardware business with her father and they would live in a nice, comfortable house and become proud parents, and Janette would cook three meals a day and keep house and join the PTA and never know, never care about all those exciting things happening in the rest of the world. It would be enough for her. It was enough for most people. Never, never would it be enough for Carol, but, at seventeen, she was doomed. Doomed.

  Another hour passed and then another. The sky had darkened to gray and a soft violet haze filled the air when she finally stood up and brushed the dust from her skirt. Still numb, her face white, her blue eyes filled with bleak resignation, she walked down the rows of corn, limping a little because of the broken heel. Clearing the corn, she crossed the narrow strip of barren ground and stepped onto the road. A horn blared deafeningly. There was an ear-splitting screech, the sound of tires desperately gripping the road and leaving rubber. Carol barely glanced up as the huge car swerved violently, missing her by inches. She watched with total lack of interest as it shot across the road and slammed to a jerking halt. The man she had seen earlier at commencement flung open the door, climbed out and stalked angrily toward her, his face ashen.

  “Have you lost your mind!” he roared. “Stepping out onto the road like that, right in front of me—I almost killed you!”

  “I wish you had,” she said in a dull voice.

  “My God!” The man raked the fingers of his right hand through thick auburn waves, his eyes glazed with shock. “If I hadn’t been damned quick you’d be dead now! I’d have hit you!”

  “You’d have done me a favor,” she said.

  “Jesus!”

&nb
sp; The man shook his head and took a deep breath and made a valiant effort to control himself. Carol was tall, but he seemed to loom over her. He must be at least six feet three, she thought idly. He had taken off the expensive sport coat. His bronze tie had been tugged loose. His cream linen shirt had short sleeves. His shoulders were quite broad, his arms well muscled. Even though he was probably well over forty and old enough to be her father, Carol had to admit that he was good-looking. Better-looking than Mr. Matthews, the history teacher all the girls flirted with. Certainly better-looking than the boys with calflike eyes and sweaty palms who were always trying to get her to go to the Pike Drive-In with them.

  The man sighed, raking fingers through his hair again, and then he really looked at her for the first time. His dark-brown eyes filled with interest. There was nothing calflike about them.

  “You,” he said. “The girl who—”

  “The girl who made a fool of herself in front of the whole of Ellsworth,” Carol said bitterly.

  “Are you all right?” he inquired. Although husky, his voice was soft, a kind voice.

  “I’m fine,” she said coldly.

  The suggestion of a grin played on his full lips. Something like amusement gleamed in those dark-brown eyes.

  “I don’t suppose you have a drink on you?” he said.

  “I don’t suppose I do.”

  “I could use one right now. Could I ever.”

  “You’re out of luck,” she informed him. “The only place in Ellsworth you can buy a drink is Jake’s Bar and Grill. It’s a sleazy dive, hardly the sort of place for a man who wears fine clothes and drives a Cadillac.”

  “A Cadillac I almost wrecked, thanks to you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Carol said.

  “Are you?” he asked.

  “Not really. I wish you’d killed me.”

  “Ah, youth,” he said. “You’re seventeen years old. Everything is high drama at seventeen, and the drama is generally earth-shaking tragedy. Ibsen or Strindberg or Tennessee Williams, rarely Noël Coward. You don’t really want to die.”

  “I most certainly do!”

  The grin came into full play. It was a most engaging grin. Carol knew she must seem ridiculous to him, must seem a silly, self-dramatizing child, but how could anyone his age expect to know how she felt? He was sleek and poised and had clearly never known heart-wrenching disappointment. One of those people to whom everything came easy—and in abundance. He had remarkable good looks, charm, wealth. Intelligence, too, Carol admitted. Most people in Ellsworth had never even heard of Ibsen or Strindberg.

  “How do you know I’m seventeen?” she asked tartly.

  “I know quite a lot about you,” he informed her. “After you dashed off like that, disrupting the oh-so-solemn exercises, I made it a point to find out about you. I talked to your speech teacher, Mrs. Epperson. She’s a great admirer of yours.”

  “Why—why would you be interested in me?”

  “I have my reasons,” he said.

  He might be over forty and terribly suave, but he was just like the horny youths of Ellsworth. He wanted to get into her pants. She despised him. She despised the whole world.

  “I see,” she said.

  “I doubt that you do, my child, but we’ll leave it for the moment. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

  “I’m not going home. I can’t go home—not ever again.”

  “You read Thomas Wolfe, too? A young man’s writer, Wolfe. One idolizes him at twenty. At forty, alas, one finds him overwrought, excessive and shockingly self-indulgent. Like youth itself,” he added.

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “Would I do that? You can’t go home, and I take it you’re not going to the dance at the gym tonight. Can’t say that I blame you—all those crepe paper streamers, all those balloons, that rock and roll band with the singer in the inevitable pink jacket caterwauling about Peggy Sue and blue suede shoes. Frightfully depressing under the circumstances.”

  Carol scowled. She’d never met anyone who talked like him. He smiled and curled his fingers around her elbow, guiding her toward the car.

  “We’ll drive on a ways,” he said. “Maybe we’ll find a bridge.”

  “A bridge?”

  “So you can jump off. Of course it would be much more dramatic to step in front of a train, like Anna Karenina, or take poison, like poor Madame Bovary, but I fear a bridge will have to suffice. I believe there’s one a few miles this side of Wichita. Quite high, too, if memory serves.”

  “You are making fun of me!”

  “Come along, Carol.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “I probably shall, eventually. Right now I intend to go someplace quiet and dimly lit where I can have a very tall drink. You’re underage, of course, but you could use a drink yourself and I imagine they’ll bend the rules. Perhaps you’d prefer a milkshake?”

  Carol didn’t bother to reply. She climbed obediently into the car, knowing full well that he intended to get her drunk and have his way with her. It didn’t matter. Nothing would ever matter again. He started the motor, pulled back onto the road, and they were cruising along at a steady speed, the motor purring gently, night falling fast now. He turned on the headlights, and they cut into the shadows like two pale silver spears. She felt another sob welling in her throat. She fought it back and closed her eyes. A fresh tear trailed slowly down her cheek. The man made no attempt at conversation. He drove the powerful car with casual ease, his hands resting lightly on the steering wheel. Carol could smell expensive cloth and lime shaving lotion and the faint, musky scent of male flesh. It wasn’t at all unpleasant. Every girl had to lose her virginity eventually. It might as well be to someone who knew what he was doing.

  Twenty-five minutes later he slowed the car and pulled into the drive of a low, dark building with a discreet blue neon sign glowing over the recessed front door. Carol sat up, smoothing down her skirt. Her companion eased into an empty parking space and cut off the motor. He looked at her for a long moment, then got out and came around to open the door for her. She felt apprehensive now, hesitating as his hand closed over hers. He tugged gently on her hand, pulling her out of the car. The night air was cool. Pale yellow-gold light spilled out of windows, making soft squares in front of the building. Crickets rasped. Carol could smell crushed milkweed.

  “What—what is this place?” she asked nervously.

  “In my day it used to be called a roadhouse. Discreetly located several miles outside the city, far away from prying eyes. Discreetly run by a staff who keep their eyes lowered and ask no questions. Soft music on the jukebox. A small, intimate dance floor. Secluded booths and tables. Excessively high prices to keep out the riffraff.”

  “I—I can’t go in there. My dress is all rumpled and soiled. I’ve lost the heel on one of my shoes.”

  “Your dress is fine. You can take off your shoes.”

  “But—”

  “No one will say a word,” he assured her.

  Carol hesitated again and then, feeling very bold, pulled off her shoes and tossed them into the car. The man smiled and closed the car door and led her toward the recessed entrance. The neon light cast pale blue shadows over her skirt as they passed beneath it. A maître d’ in dark jacket greeted them and led them toward a booth in back of the large, dim room. “Moonglow” was playing quietly on the jukebox, and a single couple danced on the floor, the woman in clinging red silk jersey, the man in business suit and horn-rimmed glasses. No one paid the least attention to Carol’s wilted white dress and stockinged feet.

  “Scotch and soda,” her companion told the waiter who came promptly over to their booth, “and—uh—I think a glass of white wine for the lady. We’ll order dinner later.”

  The waiter nodded and departed. The room was all shadowy, candles burning in tiny red glass jars on all the tables and booths, no direct lighting whatsoever. It was quite wicked-looking, Carol thought, like something out of an Ida Lupino movie. She felt quite wicked herself and, yes, excited, too, despite the anguish inside. She looked at the man sitting across from her, his handsome face thoughtful now.

  “What were you doing at commencement?” she asked. “Are you related to one of the seniors?”