Mr. Hopkins was walking back
from lunch at a downtown restaurant with
two other men from his office. “Hey, look
at those legs,” said one of them.
“Yeah,” said the other one.
“and what an ass.”
They were observing a young
woman in a short tight-fitting skirt
across the street.
Mr. Hopkins looked at her
but said nothing. He didn’t approve of
such comments. He especially didn’t approve
when they came from married
middle-aged men like himself. He’d been married
twenty years and had two
children, an eight and a ten-year old. He’d
never been with a woman other
than his wife. He didn’t understand why other
men seemed to lust after
other women young enough to be their daughters.
That night after he’d gone
to bed an image of the young woman in the
short skirt flickered briefly in his mind, as if someone
had thrust a snapshot of her before his eyes. He quickly dismissed
it and went to sleep.
The next Saturday Mr. Hopkins
and his wife went out to a dinner party.
Their babysitter was a thin blonde high school girl
named Carolyn. They’d
never used her before. She was from somewhere
outside their neighborhood.
She was a very plain girl.
When they returned from the
dinner party, the two kids were in bed and
Carolyn was in the living room reading a book.
It was a novel by Graham
Greene. They asked how the kids had behaved and Carolyn
said they’d been no trouble. Mr. Hopkins said he’d drive Carolyn
home.
“So the kids were okay?”
asked Mr. Hopkins as he drove his car through
dark residential streets.
“They were fine.”
“Do you read a lot?”
“Yes, I guess I do.”
They fell silent. Mr.
Hopkins had a picture of Carolyn standing in front of her locker in a high
school hallway, clutching a pile of books to her thin chest while around
her other girls were chattering away, making plans for the weekend.
A plain girl, she'd be baby-sitting or, if not, she'd be at home reading.
Mr. Hopkins suddenly became aware of Carolyn beside him, a young girl,
a young unspoiled woman. She gave off a faint scent, not perfume,
but of soap or shampoo. He glanced over and saw the curve of her
breast beneath her blouse. In his imagination, he pulled over the
car and drew her close to him.
“That’s my house,” she said.
He slowed down and stopped.
Ordinarily, he would have gotten out to
hold the door open for her. But he didn’t trust
himself to do so. He stayed in his seat, gripping the steering wheel
with both hands.
“Well, good night,” she said,
getting out. “Thanks for taking me
home.”
“Good night,” he said.
He watched her go up the walkway to her
house, open the door and go in. He took his
hands off the steering wheel; they were trembling.
What was the matter with
him? What was happening? It was as if some
other person, a stranger, was suddenly inside him.
He drove back slowly.
One thing was sure, they couldn’t have her baby-sit
for them again. He
couldn’t take the risk. He’d tell his wife the
girl had said she’d be too busy.
When he got back home, his
wife was watching the late news on television. “Well, she seems like
a nice girl,” she said.
He sat down and picked up
the newspaper. “Yeah, she seems okay.”
“We’ll have to have her baby-sit
again.”
“Sure. Why don’t
we go to a movie next week?” He put down the
newspaper because his hands were trembling again.
He didn’t know who had
said those words. He didn’t know what was going
to happen.