Free Idiots First by Bernard Malamud Page A

the office that he suggested they go for a drive one evening at the end of the week. Mary Lou agreed, saying maybe they could stop off somewhere for a drink, and Cronin, momentarily hesitating, said he thought they might. All the while they had been talking she was looking at him from some inner place in herself, and he had the feeling he had been appraising her superficially.
    On the ride that night Mary Lou sat close to Cronin. She had at first sat at the door but soon her warm side was pressed to his though he had not seen her move. They had started at sunset and for an hour the sky was light. The Northern California winter, though colder than he had anticipated, was mild compared to a winter in Chicago, but Cronin was glad to be in touch with spring. He liked the lengthening days, and tonight it was a relief to be with a woman once more. The car passed through a number of neon-lit mountain towns neither of them had been in before, and Cronin noticed that every motel flashed vacancy signs. Part of his good mood was an awareness of the approach of a new season, and part, that he had thought it over and decided there was nothing to worry about. She was a woman, no eighteen year old kid he would be taking advantage of. Nor was he married and about to commit adultery. He felt a sincere interest in her.
    It was a pleasant evening drive in early March and on their way back they stopped off at a bar in Red Bluff, about forty miles from the college, where it was unlikely anyone they knew would see them. The waiter brought drinks and
when Mary Lou had finished hers she excused herself, went to the ladies’ room, and upon returning, asked for another on the rocks. She had on a bright blue dress, rather short, and wore no stockings. During the week she used no lip rouge or nail polish; tonight she had both on and Cronin thought he liked her better without them. She smiled at him, her face, after she had had two, flushed. In repose her smile settled into the tail end of bitterness, an expression touched with cynicism, and he wondered about her. They had talked about themselves on the ride, she less than he, Cronin reticently. She had been brought up on a farm in Idaho. He had spent most of his life in Evanston, Illinois, where his grandfather, an evangelical minister, had lived and preached. Cronin’s father had died when Cronin was fourteen. Mary Lou told him she had once been married and was now divorced. He had guessed something of the sort and at that point admitted he had been divorced himself. He could feel his leg touching hers under the table and realized it was her doing. Cronin, pretty much contented, had had one drink to her two, and he was nursing his first when she asked for a third. She had become quiet but when their eyes met she smiled again.
    â€œDo you mind if I call you Mary Louise?” Cronin asked her.
    â€œYou can if you want to,” she said, “but my real name is Mary Lou. That’s on my birth certificate.”
    He asked her how long she had been married before her divorce.
    â€œOh, just about three years. One that I didn’t live with him. How about yourself?”
    â€œTwo,” said Cronin.

    She drank from her glass. He liked the fact that she was satisfied with a few biographical details. A fuller exchange of information could come later.
    He lit a cigarette, only his second since they had come in, whereas she squashed one butt to light another. He wondered why she was nervous.
    â€œHappy?” Cronin asked.
    â€œI’m okay, thanks.” She crushed a newly lit cigarette, thought about it and lit another.
    She seemed about to say something, paused, and said, “How long have you been teaching, if you don’t mind me asking you?”
    Cronin wondered what was on her mind. “Not so long,” he answered. “This is only my first year.”
    â€œYou sure put a lot in it.”
    He could feel the calf of her leg pressed warmly against his; yet she was