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"Here, let me," said Daisy, and she took the handkerchief from his large hand.
She moved intimately close to pat his lapel. He went still, and she knew he could smell her Jean Nate perfume--lavender notes on top, musk underneath. She brushed the handkerchief caressingly over the front of his jacket, though there was no spill there. "Almost done," she said as if she regretted having to stop soon.
Then she went down on one knee as if worshipping him. She began to blot the wet patches on his pants with butterfly lightness. As she stroked his thigh she put on a look of alluring innocence and glanced up. He was staring down at her, breathing hard through his open mouth, mesmerized.
iv
Woody Dewar impatiently inspected the yacht Sprinter, checking that the kids had made everything shipshape. She was a forty-eight-foot racing ketch, long and slender like a knife. Dave Rouzrokh had loaned her to the Shipmates, a club Woody belonged to that took the sons of Buffalo's unemployed out on Lake Erie and taught them the rudiments of sailing. Woody was glad to see that the dock lines and fenders were set, the sails furled, the halyards tied off, and all the other lines neatly coiled.
His brother, Chuck, a year younger at fourteen, was on the dock already, joshing with a couple of colored kids. Chuck had an easygoing manner that enabled him to get on with everyone. Woody, who wanted to go into politics like their father, envied Chuck's effortless charm.
The boys wore nothing but shorts and sandals, and the three on the dock looked a picture of youthful strength and vitality. Woody would have liked to take a photograph, if he had had his camera with him. He was a keen photographer and had built a darkroom at home so that he could develop and print his own pictures.
Satisfied that the Sprinter was being left as they had found her that morning, Woody jumped onto the dock. A group of a dozen youngsters left the boatyard together, windswept and sunburned, aching pleasantly from their exertions, laughing as they relived the day's blunders and pratfalls and jokes.
The gap between the two rich brothers and the crowd of poor boys had vanished when they were out on the water, working together to control the yacht, but now it reappeared in the parking lot of the Buffalo Yacht Club. Two vehicles stood side by side: Senator Dewar's Chrysler Airflow, with a uniformed chauffeur at the wheel, for Woody and Chuck, and a Chevrolet Roadster pickup truck with two wooden benches in the back for the others. Woody felt embarrassed, saying good-bye as the chauffeur held the door for him, but the boys did not seem to care, thanking him and saying: "See you next Saturday!"
As they drove up Delaware Avenue, Woody said: "That was fun, though I'm not sure how much good it does."
Chuck was surprised. "Why?"
"Well, we're not helping their fathers find jobs, and that's the only thing that really counts."
"It might help the sons get work in a few years' time." Buffalo was a port city: in normal times there were thousands of jobs on merchant ships plying the Great Lakes and the Erie Canal, as well as on pleasure craft.
"Provided the president can get the economy moving again."
Chuck shrugged. "So go work for Roosevelt."
"Why not? Papa worked for Woodrow Wilson."
"I'll stick with the sailing."
Woody checked his wristwatch. "We've got time to change for the ball--just." They were going to a dinner-dance at the Racquet Club. Anticipation made his heart beat faster. "I want to be with humans that have soft skin, speak with high voices, and wear pink dresses."
"Huh," Chuck said derisively. "Joanne Rouzrokh never wore pink in her life."
Woody was taken aback. He had been dreaming about Joanne all day and half the night for a couple of weeks, but how did his brother know that? "What makes you think--"
"Oh, come on," Chuck said scornfully. "When she arrived at the beach party in a tennis skirt you practically fainted. Everyone could see you were crazy about her. Fortunately she didn't seem to notice."
"Why was that fortunate?"
"For God's sake--you're fifteen, and she's eighteen. It's embarrassing! She's looking for a husband, not a schoolboy."
"Oh, gee, thanks, I forgot what an expert you are on women."
Chuck flushed. He had never had a girlfriend. "You don't have to be an expert to see what's under your goddamn nose."
They talked like this all the time. There was no malice in it: they were just brutally frank with each other. They were brothers, so there was no need to be nice.
They reached home, a mock-Gothic mansion built by their late grandfather, Senator Cam Dewar. They ran inside to shower and change.
Woody was now the same height as his father, and he put on one of Papa's old dress suits. It was a bit worn, but that was all right. The younger boys would be wearing school suits or blazers, but the college men would have tuxedos, and Woody was keen to look older. Tonight he would dance with her, he thought as he slicked his hair with brilliantine. He would be allowed to hold her in his arms. The palms of his hands would feel the warmth of her skin. He would look into her eyes as she smiled. Her breasts would brush against his jacket as they danced.
When he came down, his parents were waiting in the drawing room, Papa drinking a cocktail, Mama smoking a cigarette. Papa was long and thin, and looked like a coat hanger in his double-breasted tuxedo. Mama was beautiful, despite having only one eye, the other being permanently closed--she had been born that way. Tonight she looked stunning in a floor-length dress, black lace over red silk, and a short black velvet evening jacket.
Woody's grandmother was the last to arrive. At sixty-eight she was poised and elegant, as thin as her son but petite. She studied Mama's dress and said: "Rosa, dear, you look wonderful." She was always kind to her daughter-in-law. To everyone else she was waspish.
