The country darkness. The quiet azure peace. Smith putting his head on the pillow of lavender scented linen. Shutting the eyes. An elbow up over the ears. Digging the ankle and toes down slowly to the bottom to feel it free of animals. Miss Martin knows now in her own bed I only wanted company. Longer lived than shenanigans. Although when the smoke ring settled over that part of her it became a desperate moment. The look in her eyes when she looked, so silent and still. All the cash registers of the world ringing at once.
Eyelids down. Heart gently ticking over. Night marauders moving over leaves. Dream of a snowy tundra. Over which a man approaches speaking one hundred and five languages. He said the last five were nearly impossible to master. Then a nun ice skated by. ShirL Taken up the religious life. Miss Tomson stood, a big stately bitch. And said as she held out each ripe breast, you want a nice delicious peach buster. And laughed, her great white teeth breaking out just like sun after rain. I said hush they'll hear. She said when will we ever be on farting terms together Smith. My name echoed all over the valley. Turning into screams. A bang of a door. The pound of bare feet across the floor.
"Mr. Smith, O God, Mr. Smith."
Smith rearing up out of a dream of many hands of personal oppressors pulling on the hair as one attempted to dig up stakes to take off for the tundra. Miss Martin center cabin floor, wrapped and twisting in the trailing bedspread, shoulders atremble staring down round her in the dimness.
"Mr. Smith it dropped off the ceiling. Right on me. I felt it. A spider. It's stuck to the bedspread. O God get it away. Big horrible thing."
Fieldmarshal Smith up out of the covers. Naked to the rescue. Spider a great hairy thick legged thing on the floor. Big as a hand. Rearing back on the hind legs. Two front claws held up.
"Kill it for God's sake Mr. Smith kill it."
"I'll get a shovel."
"Don't leave me here with it."
"Easy now, Miss Martin."
"O God God."
"Throw the bedspread over it."
"I've nothing on."
"You must. It's our only hope."
Spider retreating back into a dappled ray of moonlight as George approached holding up the bedspread. Miss Martin huddled bending, arms over breasts and pubes in the shadows. Smith, private parts jangling, in this present rodeo. Rolling up the spider in the cloth. Sneaking a gentlemanly look at the figure of Miss Martin. Taking this insectivore to the door. Throwing the lot out into the night. Miss Martin shyly trembling by the telephone. Smith locking the screen.
"This is most awkward Miss Martin."
"Mr. Smith I'm terrified to go back into that bedroom."
George advancing upon Miss Martin. As she stood naked and alone. In need of comfort. Shook out of her wits by the hairy ten legged crawling creature. Feet bottoms dusty. If the phone rings now, one rip and it's out of the house altogether. Bump bump bump, hearts thumping. Droplet of sweat on the brow. Comes dripping off the tip of the nose. Lick it in between the lips. Touch of a hand on Miss Martin's shoulder. This is no mop closet.
Tears in Miss Martin's eyes. Better than terror. Flap of wings somewhere out in the trees. And she puts her arms around George Smith. And her head and hair on his chest. His arms around her shoulders.
"I don't know what to do George."
Smith mumchance, picking up Miss Martin. Carrying her across the room to the bunk. Lay her there. Unless one strains irrevocably with this display of strength. Long tiring day. One short circuit after another in Dynamo House. Provide for that spider and its heirs in my will. Her spine. Mouth. Teeth. Her hair. Which while in Golf Street she rinsed in blond tint. To cloak the mouse brown. After all the months of repression. Of tight lipped orders. Type this type that. Send this send that. Now take this. Tickle. And taste. As you said you cried. When I stood on top of the hill and the white river flowed by.
"George."
Smith, one ear on Miss Martin's breast. Her lips and mouth on the back of his neck. She raised her legs in the air, curling up her toes like fists. Shook them. Display of abandoned agility. Thank you spider.
"George."
Soft pressure on the face. Miss Martin I have something to tell you. It's brief. Just to say. Hello. Soft between your legs. Narrow niceness round your waist. Little belly over your crinkling hairs. You'll never forgive me because I can't remember your name. Got crushed out of my mind in the excitement. Get my mouth on yours and shut us both up. Among the molars. All the internal beauty. Nature gives love without warning. As well as this ass. O my God as I put it in you Miss Martin, the battle of control over. The upper lip curling, trembling, doing anything. Arms squeezing feeling tearing. Locked round it. You so graciously are. Strange to hear you groan, twist and gyrate, can hardly hold you on the bunk. You morsel. I might say so long tempting. Sniff under this arm. Honest sweat of fear. Green lawns. Where tennis is played. Remarkable backhanded volleys. After the match the losers' jamboree. For one tight minute I felt it would not fit. I pushed. Miss Martin pushed. We pushed together. In. With one long chested groan. All so friendly. Hold her by the wrists. She says a lovely pain. O my God Miss Martin, any minute now. Give me back that breast that elusive nipple. Give me that ear. Tart taste. And your hair, you wore it up and down. And folded round. Stuck with bobby pins. Came to Golf Street, in grey, in green, across the plenty troublesome months. A godsend. Up out of the subway, through the narrow financial gloomy streets. As the other thousands sit down to desks, light lights, shuffle the papers, fill the files, take the particulars and it was all so much easier years ago to take the fish out of the sea and sell it so much a fresh pound. Till a hundred college graduates stepped between. To freeze the poor fish while they mark up a profit for the boss. And in the door you came of 604 while I got up drafty off the wretched couch. Must ask you to hold my legs sometime out the air shaft window to peek at the sky. I'm going to explode, Miss Martin. Right into you. Tremble and clutch with more behind me in life now than there is in front. Dear God do you have any old friends who sing operas. Or who travel the seas ban-jaxed. Or go to their head doctor on Wednesdays, Herr Shrinker I was smashed off the tit at ten. Presto, bravo, Herr Patient. You mean Herr Shrinker I have had an insight. You said it, Herr Patient. Why do you laugh and chuckle so, Herr Shrinker. Ha ha, Herr Patient, you are too inquisitive, but perhaps I am amused by your little stories. Miss Martin you rear up so, dying ember light on your torso. How could I have ever realised what you were each long office day, tired over deals, trembling over contracts, cowering from letters. World like a lot of falling steps. Everything going into you, great cascade of white river while you stood that day the bottom of the hill the nasty old gossip women wailing and wracked. These two breasts your secrets. Pinker than I ever thought. Sharper and tilted Lily white. Sixty miles back to town. Four thousand to the north pole. Shirl will sue me. Bonniface will make me skip in fear. And you will tell me to do my own typing. Mr. Stone will lurk to catch me sneaking out the service entrance of Merry Mansions. All too unlovely for words. I charged at you Miss Martin, weapon raised. I was amazed. Having measured it recently. Now bigger than ever recorded. A fountain for a white river. Sprinkled like stars. Vanishing away when the morning comes. Leaving the litde light left.To glow And grow Inside You Thank You Spider.
9
DISTANT hilltops spreading a canopy of new green across the rolling land A spiral of smoke from George Smith's cabin in the woods. The white twisting Worrisome River singing on this Saturday morning. And the long lonesome wail of the steam engine coming up from the coast carrying a passenger for deposit at Cinder Vaiage.