Surcher halted there, observing there were ten more pages of this. He wasn’t a martyr, after all. He felt he could in all fairness and without any prejudice or damage whatsoever to his cause—his reputation, his profession, skip the rest. And he did. He just turned to the last page, which was written in a sloping, cockeyed, downhill and uphill manner, as if the writer had just had a fix, or was profoundly sleepy, at least, and the signature, illegible, alas. Though, hazarding a rough guess, Surcher mentally wrote down: "Ribby."
And on to the next one:
My Dear Jill,
I’m so glad you were accepted. I think this is a piece of news all of us can’t help but be very, very happy about. I know you will be very happy here, and of course we shall be only too glad to see you.. . .
Surcher skipped the rest, four pages of it, though he made a mental note to possibly inquire just what it was about, this acceptance. It was signed, "Martha" Simply.
Taking a deep breath, thinking of Dolly, his wife, wondering if she had yet gone to bed, he went on to the next
And the next.
His eyes starting to burn again, he gazed at the heap of
letters beside him. He turned, he looked at the single,
solitary, glittering scrap of a letter on the corner of his
desk—
He blew a kiss at it.
21
Ponce, pedaling through the streets of Sawyersville, was as spruced up as a bridegroom—almost. He had shaved, electrically, he had combed and brushed his rather short brown hair, carefully. He had examined his face for a long time, in that mirror. He wasn’t handsome, he knew, but he wasn’t ugly either, that too he definitely knew. He found his face very interesting, in fact. It looked different from each side, and, on the whole, he preferred the view from the left side. It had always struck him as a very interesting fact, how faces looked different from each side, and each angle, too. Head on, for example, he looked real good. He had made a note to look at her squarely, as much as he could. He had chosen his clothes with care. He looked very good. And he had told his parents that he was off to see Tiger. He hated doing that, but he felt he had to. He knew it was his only chance of being allowed out—tonight, of all nights. Incredulous, but ever patient and full of adoring parental faith in their Ponce, they had let him go. It hadn’t been all that easy, of course. He had to argue awhile, and insist, in his quiet way, for quite a while. In the end, he had won out.
He chose the most direct route to Miss Smith’s apartment house, but he was going to be a little late in any event, due to the prolonged negotiations and preparations. Rusty Joe, his little readheaded brother of course, had stared at him with big questioning eyes, aware as he was that some momentous event had transpired in Sawyersville that day, but not quite one hundred percent in tune with the exact nature and/or significance of it, just yet. .Peppy had hung around him, and tagged after him, meowing, tripping him up. for he had forgotten to feed her, of all things, and so had his mother, extraordinarily. Peppy gave not one damn about the event, or any event, she wanted to be fed, and on time, come what may. And he had done so, finally, apologizing profusely to her. She had only purred, and devoured her meal, selfish beast, as usual.
Ponce had a copy of his Eng Lit book and a notebook on him. He was going over in his mind certain aspects of the work in question which would possibly be of use as the subject of the proposed theme. At any rate, he was trying very hard to go over these aspects, for to tell the truth they all led to one aspect, and that was Miss Smith. His mind and body were dominated by a certain general bewilderment and an associated spectrum of feelings ranging from sheer, brute lust to dark, stark terror. This was one of the reasons he had in fact chosen his bike as the mode of transportation to the house of his dream. It would give him time to think and work off some of the more potentially dangerous, wild, uncontrollable impulses surging all through him, like a house on fire. Even though it would get him there somewhat late. He could have gone on his cute little motor scooter, or, if he had talked long enough, and hard enough, his mother’s car, of course. But he had chosen his bike. And he was glad of it. It was a brisk November night. It wasn’t cold though. Just perfect for cycling. . . .
What would her place be like? He wondered. His heart pounded and shuddered at the mere thought of it, actually stepping inside it, actually confronting the supreme being, that divine dream, that honey. He had only seen the apartment house on Elmwood Avenue once or twice before, from the outside, whizzing past on his scooter. It was a fairly large brick apartment house, and to tell the truth he didn’t know anyone who lived in it—except the goddess. Would they talk in the parlor? Talk, Ponce wondered, how would he be able to talk, he wondered and wondered. He assumed a parlor, for he had in his fantasy a vivid picture of what the place would be like, or should be, at any rate: it included a warm, cozy parlor, suitable for small, intimate parties, and similar get-togethers, or gatherings, for two, for example, preferably. Would she sit beside him on a sofa? Or would she have a couple of easy chairs or other chairs and each would occupy one? Where would they be? He wondered. Would there be a table? A card table? Would he lay his book on the table? And notebook? Where would he lay that notebook? It needed some space, opened up, that is, especially. Would there be room for the notebook? On a card table? Ponce pondered the matter, and other matters, which now were leaping up in his mind like lightning flashes as he pedaled on through the cool night air. He sensed, in a sense, even as he was answering them, or trying to answer them, that they were irrelevancies— such was the nature of one part of this young lad’s extraordinary makeup. He sensed that. He knew that the real question, the only question, was and could only be: What would happen? In a way, he realized, he stood at a crossroads in his existence: How would he handle it? Or, Would he handle it? Ponce wondered, worried, for the possibilities were trying. Would he be handled? That was worrying. Ponce pedaled. Above all he hoped that when he got there he wouldn’t walk in through an open door and find another one, like this morning. That was a worry. He drove it off though, it was one he couldn’t bear keeping more. At any rate, he tried very hard to. . . .
He was getting near the place. All he had to do was take a right at the next comer, Tenth Street, go down about one hundred yards or more, the length of a football field of course, turn left at Elmwood, and—
Ponce faltered, he almost fell off his bike. How would he ever do it? What about when he got to the door? Would he just raise his hand, hold it out, knuckles toward the door, and let the quivering of his body take care of the rest? What kind of a rap would that be? A rat-a-tat. He hoped she had a doorbell. Maybe he could guide his finger to it and actually in one wild burst get the strength and courage to press it. He slowed his bike down to a crawl. His body hammered. He began to plunge, within himself, a gross despair overtaking him. He would never make it. No