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"My mother might change her mind if Mrs. Peshkov were invited to join the Buffalo Ladies' Society."
Woody had not been expecting that. "Why, it's the snobbiest club in town!"
"Exactly. If Olga Peshkov were a member, how could Mom object to Daisy?"
Woody did not know whether this scheme would work or not, but there was no doubting the earnest warmth of Charlie's feelings. "Maybe you're right," Woody said.
"Would you approach your grandmother for me?"
"Whoa! Wait a minute. Grandmama Dewar is a dragon. I wouldn't ask her for a favor for myself, let alone for you."
"Woody, listen to me. You know she's really the boss of that little clique. If she wants someone, they're in--and if she doesn't, they're out."
That was true. The society had a chairwoman and a secretary and a treasurer, but Ursula Dewar ran the club as if it belonged to her. All the same, Woody was reluctant to petition her. She might bite his head off. "I don't know," he said apologetically.
"Oh, come on, Woody, please. You don't understand." Charlie lowered his voice. "You don't know what it's like to love someone this much."
Yes, I do, Woody thought, and that changed his mind. If Charlie feels as bad as I do, how can I refuse him? I hope someone else would do the same for me, if it meant I had a better chance with Joanne. "Okay, Charlie," he said. "I'll talk to her."
"Thanks! Say--she's here, isn't she? Could you do it tonight?"
"Hell, no. I've got other things on my mind."
"Okay, sure . . . but when?"
Woody shrugged. "I'll do it tomorrow."
"You're a pal!"
> "Don't thank me yet. She'll probably say no."
Woody turned back to speak to Joanne, but she had gone.
He began to look for her, then stopped himself. He must not appear desperate. A needy man was not sexy; he knew that much.
He danced dutifully with several girls: Dot Renshaw, Daisy Peshkov, and Daisy's German friend Eva. He got a Coke and went outside to where some of the boys were smoking cigarettes. George Renshaw poured some Scotch into Woody's Coke, which improved the taste, but he did not want to get drunk. He had done it before and he did not like it.
Joanne would want a man who shared her intellectual interests, Woody believed--and that would rule out Victor Dixon. Woody had heard Joanne mention Karl Marx and Sigmund Freud. In the public library he had read The Communist Manifesto, but it just seemed like a political rant. He had had more fun with Freud's Studies in Hysteria, which made a kind of detective story out of mental illness. He was looking forward to letting Joanne know, in a casual way, that he had read these books.
He was determined to dance with Joanne at least once tonight, and after a while he went in search of her. She was not in the ballroom or the bar. Had he missed his chance? In trying not to show his desperation, had he been too passive? It was unbearable to think that the ball could end without his even having touched her shoulder.
He stepped outside again. It was dark, but he saw her almost immediately. She was walking away from Greg Peshkov, looking a little flushed, as if she had been arguing with him. "You might be the only person here who isn't a goddamn conservative," she said to Woody. She sounded a little drunk.
Woody smiled. "Thanks for the compliment--I think."
"Do you know about the march tomorrow?" she asked abruptly.
He did. Strikers from the Buffalo Metal Works planned a demonstration to protest against the beating up of union men from New York. Woody guessed that was the subject of her argument with Greg: his father owned the factory. "I was planning to go," he said. "I might take some photographs."
"Bless you," she said, and she kissed him.
He was so surprised that he almost failed to respond. For a second he stood there passively as she crushed her mouth to his, and he tasted whisky on her lips.
Then he recovered his composure. He put his arms around her and pressed her body to his, feeling her breasts and her thighs press delightfully against him. Part of him feared she would be offended, push him away, and angrily accuse him of treating her disrespectfully, but a deeper instinct told him he was on safe ground.
He had little experience of kissing girls--and none of kissing mature women of eighteen--but he liked the feel of her soft mouth so much that he moved his lips against hers in little nibbling motions that gave him exquisite pleasure, and he was rewarded by hearing her moan quietly.
He was vaguely aware that if one of the older generation should walk by there might be an embarrassing scene, but he was too aroused to care.
