“It’s really got you down,” Tiger said, “Under the floorboards.”
“Oh God it has. It has. Yes.” She told him.
Soon, she would sob. Tiger decided to shift his approach. As always, he sensed it, intuitively. “What’s upset you most about it?” He put to her gently.
She blurted it out, surprising him, “The sex. The sex in it. Oh God! Disgusting!” And she burst into tears, a flood of them.
Tiger sat quietly and calmly across from her, watching her sob her heart out, as he knew she would. It was a release triggered by the depths, and no doubt of it, he mused. Not to be tampered with. He watched her.
After a while, she said, “I can’t possibly work here any longer.”
He nodded. Certainly, he agreed with her. But there was more. No process ever had more. And he was out to help her. He recognized the limitations of the help he could offer her, but his obligation was clear. A frontal assault was called for. He would do what he could, if no more than that. Proffer might even thank him. He was fully aware how much the man leaned on her. For one. He must be about ready, he mused, for that TV store.
“Do you feel you might be the next one?” Tiger asked, as soon as her sobs had abated, somewhat.
She looked up at him. She certainly looked miserable.
“It’s possible!” she said, “I’ve thought of it!”
“I think the thought dominates you," he offered her.
“Well it is possible—Mr, McDrew—isn’t it?"
Tiger searched for an answer to that
“Isn’t it?" she demanded.
Where was the answer to that? And her need was total.
“Well,” he said, finally, finding words as he went along, as he did, often, his gift being what it was, “You and I. we both know what kind of a world it is—” He paused, letting
394 Pretty Maids All in a Row “Do you think of him?”
“I—think of him—”
“What do you do then?”
“I play—I play—”
“And then?”
“After a long time—”
*7 come—”
“Yes—”
“It’s beautiful. For a moment. A moment—” She paused. She was murmuring inaudibly. Then, *7 get so wet—" Another pause. A long one—‘‘I curl up—I have—spasms—” She paused. “Then I’m sick.”
“That’s death.”
“Sick, sick—”
“You’re dead.”
She remained with her head down.
“You’re in love with Harry Proffer,” he told her, quietly.
Strange, but true. He knew. How well he knew. He sighed to himself, in wonder, at the byways, the under-the-surface ways, as always, the multiple intersections and skyways, all ways, of human life, that most astonishing of processes. What a process.
“That’s right,’* she murmured, barely there.
“Do you think he’s the murderer?"
“No,” she told him.
He watched her moving. Her head, very slowly, was moving. Soon, she would be looking at him.
“In your mind though—he is.” He told her. “Because you want him. You know what I mean. And since all these —sad events—these tragedies—” He paused, surveying her, “These murders—” He paused again, “You can’t bear being in the same room with him—for you know what you would like him to do to you—and you know what that would mean—in your mind, that is—” He paused once more, he continued speaking very quietly, “That’s why you want to leave here—” He told her, “That’s what you’re really terrified of—” He paused again, “Don’t you think so?”
She said nothing. She only stared at him. Those beautiful green eyes were staring steadily at him.
“Sex, Death.” He said. “Sex means death to you.”
Pretty Maids All in a Row 395 This much he told her. He knew well there was much more. But he had plans for her. There would be plenty of time to get down to it. Deep down. All of it He knew it “What kind of a figure do you have?” He asked her.
Those eyes stayed on him.
“Stand up,” he said to her. She did so. “Take off your jacket.” She did so. She had on a blouse. And under that, he knew, a tight bra. It nearly flattened her. “Take off your blouse.” He told her. She hesitated. ‘Take it off.” He murmured. Slowly, she did so. She stood there. “Now the bra.” He told her. Very slowly, she slipped out of it She held it. She stood there, nothing on from the waist up, still gazing at him. He gazed at them. He had been right Not bad at all. They were white. Fine uplift free of their straps. Tips. He liked the tips. Very fine uplift. They screamed for kisses, caresses. Her hands only fondled them. He knew it
“Do you look at them?”
“What?” Her voice was far away.
“Before your mirror—when you’re undressed—do you stand there—looking at them?”
“Yes—” she told him.
“You can’t suckle them—”
“No—”
“You’d like to—”
“Yes—”
“They’re very nice.”
He thought about her. There was plenty to think about there. He continued gazing at her, quite a while. And she was permanent.
“Turn around,” he told her. “Slowly.” She did so. There was the side view. Beautiful. “Slowly.” She completed her turn. She faced him—ready for anything.
“Get dressed.”
Slowly, after a long moment, she did so. She said nothing.
He told her, “I want you to come to see me here once a week.” He paused. “At this time.”
She was just slipping back into her blouse.
“Can you do that?” He murmured.
Slowly, her eyes on his, she nodded.
His eyes stayed on her. . . .
Ponce floated down the halJway, after the class. She had called to him, just as he was about to go out the door, and he had turned, and gone up to the desk. To her. The others had by then all left the room. He stood before her, rubber-kneed and trembling, too afraid to look at her, waiting to hear her. He was ready to stand there all day long—if necessary.
“Ponce—” he heard. Her dulcet tones.
Somehow, and slowly, he looked up. He almost saw her face. There was her—chest—
“How are you, Ponce?” She said, and he thought he would melt.
“O.K.—” He said, fighting hard, his eyes still on her breast.
“Look at me, Ponce,” he heard. And he lifted his head. Her face. He fell, head first, into those divine eyes—
Now she said, as he swam. “Keep up the good work,” she paused, he gave a nod, it was his head, nodding, her voice was so warm so low—soft and low—“/ want you to keep up the good work” She paused once more. “Promise that?” She stopped. He nodded his head again. He wanted to rest it on her breast—“That’s all.” She said. “You can go now.” She also said.
And he said, only dimly aware of the words being said, “Can I come to see you again?”
She had smiled. That warm smile. He lived for that smile—
“Of course.”
He had heard. . . .
Ponce, floating along down that teeming hallway, heard only those words. . . .
Lieutenant Folio was interviewing Rochelle. He was struck by the maturity of the girl. Her records said she was a Junior and age seventeen. Yet, if someone had asked him, and he was no fool, he would have said she was at least in her early twenties. It was her way. She had some way. Folio knew she was no kid. She had seen life, and how. That was sure. He was getting nowhere with her.
“Now—Rochelle—” He had some trouble calling her that. It would have been better, would have sounded better, if he said, Miss Hudson. That he felt. But—he had started out this way, as of course with all the others. Come to think of it—some of the others—he mused—kids these days! They grew up so fast He thought of his own, ten years old and already wearing a bra—of some sort. Pre-bra. That sort. Sure, he knew, nowadays they all did that. He had heard—the latest rage. He knew that. He was nuts about her in any event, no matter how many bras she wore—“I’d like to give you another chance to think about that question—” He said—“Because I’ll tell you, if you can help me, it would be helping yourself, in the long run, and all the girls in this town, you know it—”