“Warren’d make you a fine husband. He’s a regular church-goer, he earns good money as a plumber and he’s half out of his head about you.”
“He’s twenty-five years old and he’s fat.”
Her mother studied Josephine. “Poor Polack girls don’t find no knights in shinin’ armor. Not in Texas and not noplace else. Stop foolin’ yourself.”
Josephine would permit Warren Hoffman to take her to the movies once a week. He would hold her hand in his big, sweaty, calloused palms and keep squeezing it throughout the picture. Josephine hardly noticed. She was too engrossed in what was happening on the screen. What was up there was an extension of the world of beautiful people and things that she had grown up with, only it was even bigger and even more exciting. In some dim recess of her mind, Josephine felt that Hollywood could give her everything she wanted: the beauty, the fun, the laughter and happiness. Aside from marrying a rich man, she knew there was no other way she would ever be able to have that kind of life. And the rich boys were all taken, by the rich girls.
Except for one.
David Kenyon. Josephine thought of him often. She had stolen a snapshot of him from Mary Lou’s house long ago. She kept it hidden in her closet and took it out to look at whenever she was unhappy. It brought back the memory of David standing by the side of the pool saying, I apologize for all of them, and the feeling of hurt had gradually disappeared and been replaced by his gentle warmth. She had seen David only once after that terrible day at his swimming pool when he had brought her a robe. He had been in a car with his family, and Josephine later heard that he had been driven to the train depot. He was on his way to Oxford, England. That had been four years ago, in 1952. David had returned home for summer vacations and at Christmas, but their paths had never crossed. Josephine often heard the other girls discussing him. In addition to the estate David had inherited from his father, his grandmother had left him a trust fund of five million dollars. He was a real catch. But not for the Polish daughter of a seamstress.
Josephine did not know that David Kenyon had returned from Europe. It was a late Saturday evening in July, and Josephine was working at the Golden Derrick. It seemed to her that half the population of Odessa had come to the drive-in to defeat the hot spell with gallons of lemonade and ice cream and sodas. It had been so busy that Josephine had been unable to take a break. A ring of autos constantly circled the neon-lighted drive-in like metallic animals lined up at some surrealistic water hole. Josephine delivered a car tray with what seemed to her to be her millionth order of cheeseburgers and Cokes, pulled out a menu and walked over to a white sports car that had just driven up.
“Good evening,” Josephine said cheerfully. “Would you like to look at a menu?”
“Hello, stranger.”
At the sound of David Kenyon’s voice, Josephine’s heart suddenly began to pound. He looked exactly as she remembered him, only he seemed even more handsome. There was a maturity now, a sureness, that being abroad had given him. Cissy Topping was seated next to him, looking cool and beautiful in an expensive silk skirt and blouse.
Cissy said, “Hi, Josie. You shouldn’t be working on a hot night like this, honey.”
As though it was something Josephine had chosen to do instead of going to an air-conditioned theater or riding around in a sports car with David Kenyon.
Josephine said evenly, “It keeps me off the streets,” and she saw that David Kenyon was smiling at her. She knew that he understood.
Long after they had gone, Josephine thought about David. She went over every word—Hello, stranger…I’ll have a pig in a blanket and a root beer—make that coffee. Cold drinks are bad on a hot night…. How do you like working here?…I’m ready for the check…Keep the change…. It was nice seeing you again, Josephine—looking for hidden meanings, nuances that she might have missed. Of course, he could not have said anything with Cissy seated beside him, but the truth was that he really had nothing to say to Josephine. She was surprised that he had even remembered her name.