Marjorie Morningstar by Herman Wouk Page B

of a smile around his mouth,
     looked not unlike the seducers of fiction. Marjorie enjoyed reading about these ravishings,
     of course, and often dwelled on the vague paragraphs describing the ecstatic feelings
     of the girls, wondering what sex was really like. But the real thing close at hand
     wore an aspect of gritty discomfort. Sandy seemed too docile a sort to ravish her,
     but she rather wished they had stayed at the Prado to swim.
    At the beach she slipped behind the car to step out of her frock. The act of taking
     it off, she thought, might inflame Sandy. She delayed and dawdled behind the car,
     combing her hair and fixing her makeup. When she came out she saw him lying face down
     on the sand near the broken remains of an old rowboat, stripped to his bathing trunks,
     with his head under a ragged yellow newspaper. The sun was blazing, but there was
     a cool breeze. The cove was about a mile across, fringed by white-gold sand and tangled
     brush. Marjorie stood by the car for a while, savoring the peaceful silence, the splash
     of the surf, the smell of pine on the breeze; she was watching him cautiously. He
     made no move. She went to Sandy and sat beside him, but he did not look up. The sun
     was almost hot enough to burn her bare skin. Sandy was perspiring in little rivulets.
    “Sandy?” She noticed that his breathing was remarkably easy and regular. “Sandy—Sandy
     Goldstone, damn your hide, have you fallen asleep on me?”
    Thoroughly vexed, she kicked him in the ribs; there was such a thing as being too
     safe from rape. He jerked, grunted, rolled over, and sat up with a guilty grin, rubbing
     his eyes. “Doggone. Damn near fell asleep, didn’t I? Sun always does that to me.”
     He jumped to his feet. “Let’s go.”
    Marjorie knew only public-beach bathing, with its crowds, trash cans, frankfurters,
     lifeguards, and squalling children. It was all different to walk to the flat clean
     edge of the land and plunge into the empty sea. They splashed and dived and swam.
     When she was exhausted she sat on the sand and watched Sandy cavort and snort joyously
     in the water for another quarter of an hour.
    “Do you really want to be a doctor?” she said when he reclined dripping beside her.
    “Sure.”
    “What medical schools have you applied to?”
    “Well, I don’t know if I will apply, Marge. With my grades it’s just about hopeless.
     I have a high C average.”
    “But—” She stared at him. “Then you’re not going to be a doctor.”
    “Looks that way.”
    “Then
what
will you do?”
    “Doggone, you sounded just like my father then.”
    “No, really, Sandy—”
    “Know what I’d like to be, more than anything? A forest ranger. No, don’t laugh, I
     mean it. Ever been to Arizona? It’s heaven on earth in those national parks. Sky,
     stones, cactus, desert, the sun and the stars—nothing else. Know what a forest ranger
     makes? About thirty-five a week. That’s all I’d want, for the rest of my life, if
     I could be a ranger in Arizona.”
    “That’s—well, it’s an original ambition, anyway.”
    “I put in an application last summer. I didn’t even want to finish college. My father
     stopped that. Said I was going to finish college even if I spent the rest of my life
     digging ditches.”
    “What’s your father like, Sandy?”
    “Oh, quite a guy. Quite a dynamo.” Sandy sat up, brushing sand from his thick legs.
     “Slightly disappointed that I’m not the same type. Only son, too. I feel kind of sorry
     for him sometimes.”
    “Don’t you like the idea of—you know, running Lamm’s some day?”
    “Sure, I like it—or I would like it, the way you say it. Think it’s that simple? I’ve
     been in charge of the men’s hats section this summer. That’s all, just men’s hats.
     He’s let me make all the mistakes. He’s checked everything in that section every night
     down to the cash register receipts. Then at dinner he’s been climbing all over me.
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