Say something, Beckwith! She asked you a question.
"Uh—would you like to take a walk?" God, I hope she doesn't think I want to lure her to the room. "Uh—I mean in the courtyard."
"Good idea/' she said. "It's incredibly stuffy in there."
As they descended the stone stairway and strolled out into the chilly autumn evening, they introduced themselves.
"I'm Bob Beckwith. And as you probably can tell, I'm a math major."
"Are you always so self-deprecating?"
"Only with girls. I didn't catch your name."
"Sheila—Sheila Goodhart. And I haven't picked a major yet. Is that okay?"
"It's terrific, Sheila. It shows intellectual independence." She smiled.
lliey walked slowly around tlie courtyard. The band was barely audible.
"This college is so beautiful/' she said. ''It's like another century."
"Which reminds me," Bob replied, ignoring his non sequitur, "are you busy next weekend?"
"Yes," she said.
He was crushed.
"Oh."
"I mean with midterms. Fve got to cram. How about the week after?"
"How about if I came up to Vassar next week and we studied together? I really mean study. Sheila, 'cause I'm a grind and I've got midterms too."
"Okay, Bob. I'd like that."
"Great." His heart was pirouetting.
Half an hour later, he walked her to Chapel Street, where the buses were waiting. Bob was in turmoil. To kiss or not to kiss, that was the question. At length he concluded that it would be best to play it safe. Why risk grossing her out?
"Well," he said as she was about to board the bus, "I look forward to next weekend. Uh—but I'll call you around the middle of the week. Like—er— maybe Wednesday at eight-fifteen. Okay?"
"Okay," she said and then, "So long." She turned and darted up the steps.
He watched her walk toward the back of the bus. She found a seat on his side, sat down and looked out at him. She was gorgeous even through a dirty windowpane.
He stood transfixed as the bus moved away from the curb, then down the street and into the New Haven night.
"Beckwith, where the hell'veyou been?" "Out, Bernie."
"I was looking everywhere for you. Did you duck the mixer?"
*'No/'
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"What happened, goddammit, what happened?"
Bob waited. Finally he smiled and said, "Let's just put it this way, Bernie: The tie worked."
NA'HEN HE KISSED HER THE NEXT WEEKEND, IT WAS
all over. He knew for certain she would be the love of his life. Don t ask precisely how. He just was absolutely sure.
In the few minutes preceding that fateful embrace, as they were walking from the Vassar canteen to her dorm, he made a final frantic attempt to dry his palms. Again and again he rubbed them against his sweater—to no avail. He could not, therefore, reach for her hand. Instead he very casually put his right arm around her shoulder. This accomplishment, mentally rehearsed all that previous week, was followed by a startling and unexpected development: she put her left arm around his waist.
What does this mean? thought Bob.
To any casual observer, it had been an ordinary college date. They sat opposite one another in the library reading all afternoon, went off campus for pasta at Francesco's, and returned to the library, where they both, true to their words, really studied. Not just their books, but each other.
There were the inevitable biographical details. Sheila was the youngest of three daughters of a Fairfield County physician. Her mother (''the only
47
Democrat in town"), was second-string art critic for the Stamford Gazette. Not only had her parents never divorced, they didn't even want to. Which is probably why both her sisters had married so young.
Bob's father had taught math at Penn for nearly forty years, during which time he published two textbooks and assembled a vast collection of jokes. C'Oh, that's where you get your sense of humor.") Bob's mother had died when he was barely seven, and Dan Beckwith thought it best to send his son to boarding school. Fortunately, Lawrenceviile was less than an hour from Philly, so they could spend all their weekends together. Weekdays were pretty dismal, though, until the first form, when Bernie Ackerman arrived upon the scene. Even then he was a total madman, walking sports encyclopedia and fanatically loyal friend.
''Thanks to Bern, I met my future wife/' Bob said to Sheila at dinner.
''Oh?" Her face was quizzical.
"You," he said.
She laughed.
"I'm not joking," he insisted.
"We've just met," she answered, looking away.
"Sheila, by their third date, Romeo and Jiiliet were already dead."