She breathed heavily, her lumpy, ill-defined breasts rising and falling like something in a laundry bag. "For deserting from the Navy."

"Izzat right?" said Ralph. "How about that?"

She started to slide into the facing seat, slowly, seeking his permission with watery eyes.

"You got to go when my friend comes," said Ralph.

"Sure thing, Ralph. I don't want to intrude."

He thought it might be a good thing to have Margie see him sitting with Imogene when she came in, Margie having been a bit arrogant on the phone to somebody who still had not altogether moved from the position in which he was doing her the favor. You had to keep one-up on women. He would also enjoy throwing Imogene out when the time came.

Imogene put her cheeks in her hands, elbows on the table, and said tragically: "We were engaged."

"Hmm."

Defensively she said: "I couldn't wear a ring because I'm underage and my parents would kill me, but we were, all right." She wiped her eyes with her short, rather stumpy fingers, the nails flecked with fragments of red polish. "But now I guess they'll shoot him."

"Naw," jeered Ralph. "That's only in wartime. He'll just be sent up for a long stretch."

She dropped her hands and stared. "How long?"

"Oh..." He looked at the ceiling fan, its big blades lazily circulating. "Twenty-thirty years, anyway." He chuckled. "In the good old days, you know, Captain Bligh and all that, he would have got a hundred lashes and then made to walk the plank or been keelhauled. You know what that was-"

But she did not listen to this historical lore. She murmured, "Oh, God," and buried her face in her hands., "Well, easy come, easy go," said the sadistic Ralph.

Her grieving countenance emerged. "You swear?" she asked.

Ralph's compassion was at last mildly stirred, and he changed his tune. "I don't really know about court-martials in peacetime. Maybe he'll cop a plea or something and get off light. It's probably serious but not hopeless, Imogene. You really stuck on that guy?"

She screwed her face up horribly. "I hate him!" She leaned across the table and took his wrist. "You swear you won't divulge this to a soul, Ralph Sandifer?" Without waiting for an answer, she then said at a low but intense pitch: "He got me in trouble."

Ralph leaned back, his head against the wall of the booth. He decided it was not decent to gloat publicly on the confirmation of his prediction.

Imogene was still attached to his wrist. "He turned out to be a real rotten egg," she said.

"So what are you going to do now?"

She lowered her dirty-yellow head almost to the tabletop; he saw the brown roots of her hair. "Kill myself, I guess."

Ralph pulled his wrist free. He patted her on the scalp, which felt like a bale of hay. "Cut the noise," he said sharply. "Don't be a dope. You got to get yourself taken care of."

She came up for air. "How? I don't know anything about stuff like that. I never knew anything about the whole business. I just let Lester do what he wanted to. He said he'd beat me up if I didn't." She was too desperate to cry. Ralph was grateful for that.

"Well," said he, "if you want, I'll look into the matter for you, Imogene. There's this colored fellow who works for my dad. He used to be a boxing champ. I bet he'd know where you could go and get fixed up. He's been around, see. I'll ask him for you, not mentioning any names of course. Probably someplace over there where they'd do that for you and no body'd be the wiser." He pointed his index finger at her in the well-known gesture of his father.

As he talked on, her tense face relaxed, and when he finished it was almost worshipful. She took his hand again, this time with her fingers into the palm. For a moment he thought she might tickle him there, in the legendary fuck-me signal that Horse was always claiming to get from girls.

"That would be sure swell of you, Ralphie." She turned her head and peeped at him sidewise. "I always have liked you, but never had the nerve to let on, because I thought you'd think it was fresh. I would of asked you to my parties if I thought you would of come, but I didn't dare. Some people think you're stuck up, but I always said no, he's too sophisticated for the hicks around here, and-"

Seeing Elmira heading their way to take an order, he cut this off. "I'll get back to you soon on this matter, Imogene. Now, if you don't mind, my friend is supposed to show up."

She grimaced in disdain. "Horace isn't going to show his face tonight, I can guarantee that." Then her lips protruded as if to whistle, but instead she said softly: "You wanna walk over in the park? I'm real grateful for all you're doing."

Ralph got up briskly. She was no longer precisely to his taste, but having been warmed up by the call from bare-breasted Margie, and then left here to cool for an hour, he was not immune to this offer. He had read, in some sex manual Hauser had borrowed secretly from his old man, that women could do it for months after they became pregnant. Also, Imogene had revealed herself as a complete whore to begin with, and he now had total control over her. She was no longer a beauty, but neither was she a dog by any means.

Elmira was not offended that they were leaving without having spent a cent. She merely asked: "Hey, Ralph, didya ask your dad about that car?"

Ralph had forgotten the request, but he said: "Sure did, Elmira, and he'll see what he can do."

Imogene took his hand and held it as they walked to the door. He did not look to see what impression this made on the kids in the booths along the route. It might not be good by tomorrow, when everybody would know about Lester; it might not be good right now. But if you had nothing better to do than worry about popular approval, you were a horse's ass.

However, as he stepped onto the sidewalk, two things happened. The first, to his pride, was a sudden decision that he could not follow Lester Hauser: he might get syphilis. The second was that he saw Margie, leaning forlornly against the outside wall.

He extricated himself from Imogene. "Listen," he said, "you go on home and get your rest. You got to take it easy in your condition. I'll see that person tomorrow and let you know what he says."

He abandoned her with that, and went to Margie, who for all her attitude of distress, was all dolled up in a type of Sunday frilly dress, robin's-egg blue in the light coming from Elmira's, and with high heels and silk stockings. And wearing some kind of uplift brassiere, stuffed with Kleenex or socks, because her knockers looked bigger than Imogene's. In fact, had she not been in a hangdog attitude he might not have recognized her quickly.

Now he was fearful she would think the worst when seeing him with Imogene, but she gave no indication of so doing, her eyes fixed on the pavement. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Imogene had crossed the street and was proceeding, with a voluptuous stride, into the darkened park.

He took the initiative. "So there you are! God, I was waiting inside for an hour."

She did not raise her head. Another woman in trouble. "Come on," he said. "What's eating you now? How'd' I know you would stand out here?"

Without warning she threw her arms around him and put her head against his chest. "Something awful happened on the way over here. I just can't get it out of my mind."

Ralph thought: If she was raped, I know where my father keeps his pistol. But then she did not look disheveled. In fact her hair was clean, brushed, and shining. She was also wearing lipstick that had not been smeared until she pressed her face against his sports shirt, leaving, when he pulled away slightly, a big red blotch.

He noticed another novelty, and wondered that it had taken him so long: she was not wearing her glasses. But there was not that much difference: she had not suddenly become Jane Wyman.

He asked: "Where's your specs? Don't you need them any more?" Which in fact was what he always wondered about the Jane Wyman character; gorgeous, true, but blind.

"I took them off!" she wailed. "I don't want to see any more awful things."

He took her hand and began to walk.

At the corner she had recovered sufficiently to say: "Aren't you going to ask?"

"I'm asking."

She shuddered dramatically and said: "I can't tell. It's too horrible."

"Then don't."

She stopped and said indignantly: "You men are all alike. If it was a woman, you'd sing another tune."

"Margie, I honestly don't know what you're talking about." Those big tits he saw under the streetlamp couldn't be her own.

"That terrible man you were with the other day, coming out of the Greek's. I mean, he was there and so was I, but he left first and you were talking to him when I came out. Remember?"

"Oh, yeah, Leo. He's not terrible. He's a nice guy. Works for my father. His mother just died. Funny you should mention him. I was just over there. He had her laid out on a sofa. That was weird, I grant you, but you can't shoot him for that."

"You don't know the half of it," said Margie, who furthermore seemed to be wearing some orangey pancake make-up like an older woman; it darkened her complexion but did hide the discolorations left by acne. "I was on my way here, peacefully walking along the street, passing some old house down on Hickory, when I suddenly heard a kind of hissing, you know, 'Pssst!...Pssst!' It was getting dark but the streetlights hadn't come on yet, and there was some rustling noise in a bush. So I stopped and looked, and then this man, this awful man, all of a sudden steps out from behind a bush and says, 'Hi, girlie,' And it was that Leo."

"Yeah," said Ralph, "he's been acting peculiarly all day. He's really upset by the death of his mother--which I guess is reasonable."

"He was stark naked," said Margie.

"Wow," said Ralph. "I didn't suspect he was that far gone."

"He was all covered with hair, like an animal."

"Did he do anything else?"

"No, he ran back in the house when I screamed."

Ralph shook his head. "Poor devil. He showed me a wax apple he bit when he was a baby."

Margie reared back, hands on hips. "Poor Leo! He's a criminal!"

"Well, I wouldn't say that," said Ralph. "He is under pressure."

"Ralph Sandifer! Are you going to tell me you don't intend to do anything?"

"What could I do?"

"Ask him for an apology."

Ralph's voice rose to a higher pitch than hers: "An apology?"

"Well, am I or am I not your girl?"

Ralph took the crook of her elbow and started to walk her again. "Let me explain something, Margie. That wasn't personal, see. Leo's gone off his rocker."

"If I was a man I'd give him a good horsewhipping."

"That wouldn't do any good. He's not responsible for his actions, you see. He's more to be pitied than censored, like the fella says."

"That's an easy out. Neither is an ax-murderer."

He sensed it would be useless to continue the argument. He might even sour her against himself if he did. Therefore he said, after a pause: "I guess you're right at that. Tell you what I'll do: I'll get hold of him tomorrow and by God, unless he apologizes, I'll beat him within an inch of his life."

Margie pulled him against her. She was amazingly strong for such a small girl. "Don't do anything foolish, Ralph. He may be dangerous."

Ralph could handle women, yet they often bewildered him. The next thing that Margie did was to lead him across the street into the park. Under a tree that kept dropping seeds that had a funny, not unpleasant stink, he kissed her with closed lips. She forced her tongue into his mouth and pressed her hard belly against his erection. He went into the bodice of her dress and with some difficulty among all the straps there, though with no resistance from her, he found that her breasts were indeed padded with what felt like toilet paper. He could toy there at will, but when, ablaze, he reached down and started up under her skirt, she pulled away and slapped at his face.

"If you want that, try Imogene Clevenger!"

Ralph kissed her again. "Maybe I'm in love with you."

"Then try to act like it," said she, pulling her clothes in order.

"I apologize."

"Accepted," said she. "It might interest you to know I've been crazy about you since the seventh grade. But I have my self-respect."

"And you've certainly got a right to it," said Ralph. "Come on, I'll walk you home."

The journey proved longer than anticipated, Margie turning out to be a monologist on inconsequential subjects--spats with her mother about the possible indecency of flaming lipsticks and nail polishes; thefts by her brother, twelve going on thirteen, from her supposedly secret cache of Mars bars; the ten-o'clock curfew imposed by her father and piously defended by her as "strict but fair"--family stories of the type in which Ralph himself never dealt and which he found tedious to hear unless told by Horse Hauser, whose examples were disgraceful, violent, hilarious. It seemed better taste to an outsider if a family was mocked by one of its members than if represented humorlessly.

When they finally reached her neighborhood, well beyond Bigelow's store in a westerly direction though not apparently bordering Darktown--he was somewhat disoriented by night and by her presence--Margie announced she was just about home, stepped behind a curbside tree, and beckoned to Ralph to join her.

Nodding at the nearest bungalow, he asked: "That your house?"

"Up the street." She gestured vaguely.

No doubt her folks, who emerged as puritanical in her long-winded account, were not supposed to know she was out with a boy without permission. But Ralph believed parents were quite right to take precautions against the Lester Hausers of the world. At the proper time he must go to Mr. Heppelmeier, Margie's father, shake hands, and introduce himself. He must get a haircut and shine his shoes, so that his clean-cut, hard-working character would be evident.

"Well," said Margie, leaning against the tree, hands behind her. She wore a thin, superior smile in the light from the streetlamp just across from them. "In the morning I am always grouchy, so if we see each other before class tomorrow, be prepared. But I'll be in my usual good mood by noon, so I can meet you in the cafeteria. Go there as soon as you can after the bell and get a table for us before they're gone. I might be a little late, because I generally have some things to discuss with the teacher. If so, just wait--no, if they've got cheese fondue and carrot-'n'-raisin salad, get a tray for me. And milk, and layer cake. Not pie. Don't get pigs in a blanket though. Stew is O.K., or chicken a la king--"

Ralph said quietly: "I go home at noon. I live only three blocks from school."

"Well, I don't," said Margie. "I live way over here. It's too far to go home, and I don't like to eat by myself. It's not fair."

He threw up his hands. "What can I do about it? I can't afford to pay for lunch every day."

"I didn't mean for you to buy mine!" she cried. However, he suspected her excessive indignation was due precisely to the fading of that hope. "Besides, you've got all those jobs of yours. What do you do with your money?"

"I don't make that much," said Ralph. "And what I make, I don't mind telling you I salt away."

Margie quizzically closed her lips in the center, but opened them slightly on either side to show the tips of her canines. It was a sort of trick expression, which Ralph would have been hard put to characterize, except that it made her look about forty.

"What do you salt it away for? Maybe you're just stingy."

She hit the target. He knew himself for a miser. Looking at the sum in his savings book, with the flanking interest payments in red--money born magically, not by work but from the copulation of one dollar with the next in the dark vaults of the bank--he enjoyed a swelling erection of soul. But he would have assumed that as his girl she could admire and not condemn that passion.

"Oh yeah?" said he. "Maybe I'm saving up for a ticket to New York. I'm not staying in this tank town forever."

That threw a scare into her. She brought her hands across her stomach and said feebly: "You're only fifteen."

"I didn't say it would be tomorrow. It's just something I'm keeping in mind."

"You're sure ambitious, Ralph...I'm sorry I said you were stingy. I guess one day you'll just think I'm some hick. You'll drive through here in a limousine and won't even recognize me." She looked as if she might cry; though, true, without her glasses she tended to look that way anyhow. He much preferred her when she was being vulnerable and not critical or demanding. However, he had begun to suspect that her quick changes of style were not altogether involuntary, that she would take as much as she could get after trying for all. He must stay on guard at all times. She was indeed a worthy opponent. Her yielding was valuable in that it represented a resistance momentarily overcome but not destroyed: it would be back to keep him keen.

Therefore he did not give her elaborate reassurances now. He did not say that his fortune consisted of $19.77 and that he would need at least a hundred before moving East. He said merely: "There'll be a lot of water under the dam before that happens."

He placed his hands not on her shoulders but on the rough, cold bark of the tree just above them, leaned forward at the waist, and kissed her partially opened mouth with his own closed lips. Result: no bone-on.

She tried to pull him closer but failed. She sensibly accepted the situation, as he had known she would.