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III

Studs smiled apologetically at Catherine in the doorway. “Come in,” she said sheepishly.

“I’m not late, am I?” he asked, feeling the necessity of saying something.

“Why, no. I have things about ready, though, because I got off work a little early today to come home and cook.”

“Well, that was certainly nice of you,” he said hoarsely.

“Here, give me your hat and coat,” she said, accepting them and hanging them in a hall closet off the front door.

They looked at each other. She broke into an effervescently spontaneous smile.

“Is this going to be all the greeting I get?”

“Well .. .” he said gravely.

“You’re not even going to say you’re glad to see me?” she said, showing disappointment.

Seeing the look of tragic discomfort on his face, she smiled lightly, drawing a grin from him.

“I’m glad, naturally.”

“You men!” she exclaimed familiarly.

She flung her arms about him, kissed him, led him by the hand into the parlor.

“Aren’t you going to tell me how glad you are to see me?” she said as they sat down on the small couch in the corner of the parlor.

“Yes, I am.”

“And now, tell me, what have you been doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“These last few days.”

“Oh, nothing much. There hasn’t been anything to do. I haven’t been doing any work because things are pretty quiet with my dad.”

“Want to know what I’ve been doing?”

“Why, sure.”

“I’ll tell you. I’ve been wondering when you would have enough sense to telephone me. You’re such a booby, taking things so seriously. You men, you’re worse than babies when it comes to trying to understand a girl.”

“Maybe it’s because girls are babies.”

“Oh, yeah,” she smiled.

“Nice babies,” he said heavily.

She mussed his hair playfully, kissed him, momentarily nestled her head against his shoulders. She jumped up.

“You wait here a minute until I call you,” she said like a mother instructing a child, shoving him back onto the couch as he arose.

He watched her vanish from the parlor, and leaned back Comfortably in the couch. His eye travelled about the small, neat parlor, with the square piano against one wall, two flush easy chairs, a lamp with a flowery blue-bordered shade reposing on a doily in the center of a small table. Outside, the rain had stopped, and an after-glow endowed the street with a mellow coloring. A pleasant street, with homes and apartments, and it made him think of the 5700 block on Indiana Avenue in the old days.

He could hear her fussing in the rear of the apartment. She was doing things for him. He was gratified. Now he was sorry he had goofed around with that Jackson bitch. All she was good for was a jazz and he’d gotten that and finished. If they ever saw each other again they wouldn’t speak. But wouldn’t he love to sink his fist down her dirty goddamn throat! Still, it was a closed book, best forgotten.

“Bill?”

He walked self-consciously to the back, and he was struck by the pleasant sight of the dining room, the oval table set for two, the freshly baked chocolate cake flanked by two burning red candles. There were glasses of tomato juice cocktails before each plate, and the steak soaked with juicy gravy, the baked potatoes, and carrots and peas in a separate dish were already on the table.

“Now, dear, hurry up and let’s drink our tomato juice so that the rest of the supper doesn’t get cold.”

Smiling, they sat down and drank the tomato juice. “Well, what do you say?”

“Nice.”

“Is that all?”

“Very nice.”

“Hurry up, now, you serve the meat.”

He cut two large slices of steak with an air of profound seriousness, and laid one on each plate. She served the carrots and peas. He reached for a baked potato, sank butter into it, buttered a slice of bread.

“How does it taste?”

“Swell,” he answered with his mouth full.

“Is the steak seasoned enough?”

He nodded, still chewing, and during a brief silence he thought that anyway, he was grabbing himself off a girl who could cook.

“You’re not saying a lot about the supper I cooked for you?”

“I