Part 11 (2/2)

She tells him all about her family. I must've been left on their doorstep, she says, because I'm not like any of them. Daddy's a tyrant. And a bore. Mummy's a fussy old hen. And my older sister's a simp.

Willie almost says he knows about not getting along with older siblings, but he doesn't want to think of his brothers. Not tonight. He eats his hot fudge sundae in careful, measured spoonfuls, prods Bess with questions.

What's your favorite food?

Oh that's easy. Ice cream.

Me too. What's your favorite book?

That's easier. Wuthering Heights. I agree with Mr. Emerson-all humankind roots for a pair of lovers. Nothing quickens our attention and excites our sympathy like a Cathy and a Heathcliff.

Right. Wuthering Heights. That's my favorite too.

You're lying.

Yeah.

I'll loan you my copy.

Do you have any pets?

A terrier named Tennyson. That's my favorite poet.

What's your favorite place in the world?

Three-way tie. Paris. Rome. Hamburg. What's yours?

I don't have one.

Well what's your least favorite place in the world?

Home.

Oh dear.

What's your finest quality?

My memory. I can read a poem once and have it by heart. Do you have a good memory?

I'll never forget this day, he thinks. I'm bad with names, he says.

Most aren't worth remembering.

What's your greatest fault?

I can't sit still. You?

I'm from Irish Town.

He tells her about Father's failing business, Mother's endless grief, his own inability to find work. He surprises her, and himself, revealing so much in such a plainsong voice. In this lifetime it's the closest he'll ever come to a full confession.

He walks her home through the park. In a dark, secluded spot she leans against a tree and grabs his necktie, pulls him to her. He puts one hand against the tree, the other against her cheek. The scratchy roughness of the bark, the creamy smoothness of her skin-this too he'll never forget. They kiss.

She tells him that she hasn't lost her innocence yet, in case he was wondering.

I'd never wonder about a thing like that, he whispers.

Gosh, you didn't even wonder? I must not be as attractive as people tell me.

She pokes him in the ribs, to let him know she's kidding. But she's not kidding.

On their second date, at the same secluded spot, she takes Willie's hand, puts it inside her dress. She guides the hand over her breast, under. He can feel her young heart, ticking like a new watch. It will run forever.

He removes his hand, restrains himself, and her. No, Bess. No.

Why?

Isn't right.

Who decides what's right?

He has no answer for that. But still he holds firm.

All their dates arrive at this same stalemate, until their courts.h.i.+p becomes a kind of burlesque. After an hour or two at Coney Island, or the drugstore, they walk and walk and soon find themselves in some hidden enclave within the park. Bess undoes a b.u.t.ton, or two, and guides Willie's hand, or else drops her hand, touches between his legs. Willie stops her, saying it wouldn't be right. She acts fl.u.s.tered, but Willie believes she secretly admires his restraint. Then they say good night, each of them flushed, confused, longing.

Eddie and Happy are appalled. Eddie thinks Willie has lost his mind, or his manhood. Happy calls him an ingrate. Happy gave Bess to Willie-that's the myth they share. Happy kids Willie that, if Bess is going to waste, he might just take her back.

But if anyone gave Bess to him, Willie thinks, it was G.o.d. Through divine grace-he can think of no other explanation-Bess Endner is his sweetheart, and he doesn't want G.o.d to think him ungrateful. So he behaves the way G.o.d would want. The way a hero in an Alger novel would behave.

Though it goes against his grain, though it stuns his best friends, his strategy of unwavering chivalry pays off. After weeks of courts.h.i.+p Bess stops Willie at their favorite tree and puts her face on his chest. Well I hope you're happy, Willie Sutton. I've fallen in love with you.

You have?

Oh yes.

Truly?

Truly, madly. You're my heart's darling.

Why, Bess?

Willie-what a question.

No. Really. I mean, I'm tough, but I'm no Eddie. I'm not bad looking, but I'm no Happy. Why me?

All right, she says. I'll tell you, Willie. I love you because you look at me the way every girl thinks she wants to be looked at, though I suspect very few girls could really bear such intensity. Such scrutiny. You look at me as if you want to devour me, as if you want to carry me off, keep me prisoner on a desert island, carve statues of me.

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