Coming out through the door he gave her a pat on the behind, a caressingly affectionate pat that was definitely not brotherly. Charity twisted aside to avoid any other contact.
"Donnie! Ugh! How many times do I have to tell you… to keep your hands to yourself?"
He mimicked, reciting, "Keep your hands to yourself, Donnie… or I'll tell Mom! Christ! You're not with it, Sis! You don't know where it's at! I'll bet you wouldn't say cock… even if you had a mouthful!"
"Shut up, Donnie! I don't want you to use those words around me!" She was angry, instantly. She huffed off to sit on the couch, ignoring him.
"You'll learn them… sooner or later!" he taunted; then he chanted, "Shit! Cock! Cunt! Fuck!"
Charity covered her ears with both hands. "Stop it!" she screamed. "Stop it!"
"Never!" He went on, "Ass! Prick! Cum! Suck!"
She hurled her math book at him. It missed. "Shut up… Donnie… or I'll tell Dad!"
"What'd he do…? That old drunk! Fuck him!" Donnie roared. Then, "Where is he?"
"Out!" she said. "Out to get some more beer, I think!"
"That figures!"
"You get out, too… and leave me alone!"
"When I'm damned good and ready! I'll split when I feel like it!"
She was on her feet and stormed into her own room, slamming the door behind her and hurling a final word over her shoulder, "Foul mouth!"
Don laughed aloud. Christ! She was pretty when she's angry. He didn't know what had possessed him to taunt her, but he had enjoyed watching her as she had burned with anger, her expressive face mirroring her every emotion; in addition, the way she had twitched her hips, her tapering, white thighs showing under her miniskirt as she had flashed past him produced a pang of pure lust in him. Damn! What a beautiful chick his sister was! Man! She comes on strong! What a swinging chick she's going to be! Too bad she's my sister… all that nice cunt going to waste! Shit!
Going into his own room, behind the kitchen, he dug out the ten roaches he had bought that afternoon, extracted two and re-wrapped them, carefully, stowing them in his shirt pocket… just in case Marcy would want to burn one with him. The other eight hand-rolled cigarettes went back into their secret hiding place. He was ready to go. He went out the back door, walked around the house, climbed onto his big bike and kicked the engine into a full-throated roar.
He roared down the avenue, staying well within the speed limits. The last thing he wanted was for one of the local pigs to bust him for speeding. They might try to shake him down. If they did… they'd find the two marijuana cigarettes, for sure. Then, they'd have him for possession… and he'd wind up in Juvie… and that's the last place, man! The last!
Arriving at the address Marcy had given him, he found the house to be one of the older ones in town; however this grand old house was not falling into decay. It had been well cared for over the years, and when Marcy invited him in, he saw that it had been remodeled and thoroughly modernized. The name on the mailbox intrigued him: it was one of the oldest and respected names in Redfern. A Lunceford had been one of the founding fathers of the city, and the Lunceford name figured prominently in cultural and political, as well as business aspects of the community.
"You a Lunceford…?" he asked.
"Yeah… like old Isaac Lunceford was my great grandpa…" she said, flippantly, "but don't let it get to you! I don't! All that silly old crap turns me off!"
Don knew that his family had come to Redfern not long after its founding. He remembered that they had lived in such a house as this, further out on the edge of town in the orange groves. Somehow, his father had lost the house and the grove, and the family had had to move into town to take up residence in the shacky house in which they now lived. He was too young to know and understand all of the reasons. There was a bankruptcy. They were evicted. His father couldn't seem to hold a job. He was drunk most of the time, anyway. Don's mother had been supporting them for several years. It was all a big mess, for try as he might, he couldn't warm up to his father, give him the respect a son should give a father. Christ! The old drunk!
"What kind of wheels you got, Don?"
"My bike…" he answered. "Why?"
"I thought you might have a groovy car we could ride in."
"Sorry…"
"Well, you know… like if a guy wants to make it with a chick, he's got to have a car!" she explained.
"Yeah… Well…"
"Houses are too risky! We got to stay here… and my folks could come home… and well, you know, there'd be a big crunch… but in a car… Man! It's groovy… nothing but privacy… if it's fixed up right…"
Don understood, now, and suddenly, his big Japanese motorcycle was nothing but real kid stuff. He had to have a car! Christ! No wonder he hadn't been making it… as often as he would like. It's the dudes with the cars that are scoring, man!
"You better park it in the alley!" she told him.
"Right on!" he agreed and went to do as she suggested. He was elated. She was practically inviting him to stay, although she had not said it in so many words. Her meaning was clear enough to him.
Marcy Lunceford met him on the back walk, just inside the gate. It was dark now, and she put an arm around him, snuggling close and led the way to an old-fashioned, screen-enclosed pergola standing in deep shadows under towering trees in a corner of the spacious back yard. He draped an arm, carelessly over her shoulder and cockily allowed his hand to stray down to a pouting hemisphere of firm young breast. Through the thin material of her dress he caressed and gasped with acute pleasure to discover that she wore no bra to confine them. The bud of her nipple was firm and erect, burgeoning into the palm of his hand, tantalizingly.
"You dig that?"
"Like, wow… you know…" he said, carelessly.
They were in the pergola. She led him to a seat on a roll-around garden lounge. It had a nice soft mattress on it, and he lay back, luxuriously, on it. "Man! This is soft! Better than my pad." He reached for her.
She came easily into his arms, lying on top of him, their mouths searching, finding, welding in a deep kiss, their tongues probing, tasting and twining together. It was she who broke the kiss and asked, "You got some grass?"
"Yeah… you want to take a chance… here?"
"It's plenty safe!" she affirmed.
"Nosy neighbors…"
"They're like too fossilized to know what's with it."
Don broke out one of the roaches, lighted it and inhaled deeply, holding it in his lungs as long as he could, passing the cigarette to her and watching as she duplicated his actions. To be safe, he took a regular cigarette from his pack, lit it, hoping that the odor of the burning tobacco would cover the characteristic, burning-alfalfa smell of the marijuana. They traded, puffed, inhaled, held breath, exhaling slowly, allowing the narcotic smoke to work in them, its effect beginning slowly and building, building, building, until time stood still and the beauty of the night was magnified, every sound was heard… and they were all-seeing… all being. There was only the beauty of now! This is where it was! Everything was there in the smoke. The world was love… and love was everything, because they were young and healthy human animals… knowing all things… and capable of doing all things. They were the young invincibles! It was their right, indeed, their command to love. "Love the world!" it said. "Love each other! Love me…" it said, "and I'll love you back!"
The roach burned down. He snuffed it out and re-wrapped the remaining paper, ash, leaves and twigs, carefully, allowing none to escape him. It was necessary to be this careful; investigating narcs could find even one carelessly dropped particle. He put it safely in his pocket and buttoned it; then, languidly, seeing Marcy, clearly, in all her glorious beauty, he reached to the zipper on her dress, running it down her back and the whisper of the tiny pieces of metal was loud in his ears, as though a freight train had thundered through the quietly serene pergola.