He thought of Tiger. Suddenly, that internalized bedrock stirred in him, and sustained him, pumping courage, life, and hope—through him. As he had seen him do so many times with the football team, during halftime, when they had been taking a beating. He saw him, before him. He was there, counting on him. Could he let him down?
How could he? Who ever did? Who would dream of it? It was true, it was a fact, it was interesting, Ponce suddenly mused, how many games Sawyersville actually won in the second half. No matter what had happened in that first half. He saw him. At football practice. At the games. In the classroom. In the auditorium. In the Guidance/Counseling Office. ... He saw him everywhere. Effective. Formidable. Calm. Human. ... He saw Peppy. He saw his mother. Rusty Joe. His father. ... He broke his plunge, he headed upward. He felt himself heading upward. The bike moved faster. He turned the corner. He pedaled. . . . Another corner. ... If nothing else, he had hit Elmwood.
. . . He pedaled into it. . . .
“Hello! Come on in!”
The voice, in the doorway, obviously belonging to the warm, sweet-scented, gorgeous body, also there, came to him.
Ponce fought hard, like a tiger. He fought to control his violent trembling.
“H-H-Hello—Miss—Smith—” he managed.
She was wearing a pale-green dress, Ponce somehow noticed, not the same skirt and sweater she had on in the school today, Ponce, observant as ever, noticed. The dress clung to her with a warmth and fondness which only a dress on her could conjure, it outlined her form, heavenly. Ponce, inside, was hammering. He saw the way it dipped toward her astonishing treasures. He thought he caught a glimpse of the soft, round, white tops of them, just peeking out of the dress, when she moved. He hammered more, hanging on to a slim thread of consciousness, no more.
She let him in, or rather, he almost fell in.
“Well, I'm glad to see you, Ponce,” she hummed, in that divine voice, “We can have a nice talk, can’t we, about the whole matter—” The voice flowed through him.
“Right—Miss Smith—” he got out, astonishing himself.
He saw a room that wasn’t all that far removed from his fantasy though it was somewhat larger. It was softly lit, there was a sofa, two easy chairs, and a table and chairs around it. Also, at the end of the room a desk. A pretty little desk. Where she corrected exams, and themes, and papers, Ponce thought, warmly. He made “A” on most of them.
“Yes—MLss Smith—” his voice answered.
He sat down on the sofa about two and a half feet from her, a wild man, throbbing inside, and terrified.
Silence.
Miss Smith was moving around on the sofa, making herself comfortable. Casually comfortable. Ponce, though not looking, knew it. She seemed to be reaching for something, though Ponce still did not have the courage to look. The next thing he heard was the flick of a lighter. Then he saw and smelled cigarette smoke. It floated, billowed, enveloped him, he was part of that floating now. Now—
“You don’t smoke, Ponce, do you?” The dream of a voice, he was aware, was asking him.
“N-No—Miss Smith,” the lad answered.
“Well, I hope you don’t mind if I do,” she told him.
She could have fired twenty shots at him, he wouldn’t have minded, of course.
“No—Miss—Smith—” the boy answered, “I mean—I-I don’t mind at all, Miss—Smith—” He paused now, “That’s what I mean—” He added.
“It really is an awful habit, in many ways, but I just love it,” He heard her say, as she took a long, long drag, out of his way.
“Comfortable?” She asked, sending out another billowing cloud of heaven-scent.
“Yes, Miss Smith—” Ponce politely told her.
“Now you just relax, will you—” She said to the lad, “You’ve been through a terrible day—I know—You poor kid,” She said, “I’m glad you came tonight.”
Ponce got out, “So am I—”
She pulled on the cigarette, as Ponce continued staring straight ahead, at eternity. There was also a wall. And a painting on it. He saw the painting. It was a reproduction, a fine print, really, of a Degas. A group of young ballerinas on the stage, rehearsing. It was beautiful, especially in the soft light. He kept on staring at it.
“Like it?” He heard, from somewhere.
“The painting?” He asked.
“That’s right.”
“A lot.”
“It’s just perfect.”
“Genius shines through—”
“Right”
“The painting envelopes one—doesn’t it, Ponce?”
“It does.”
“That’s the secret of any great work of art, Ponce—did you know that?”
“I had—an idea about that—”
“I’m sure you did. Yes. That’s why most modem art is so awful. Oh God it’s awful! It just makes attacks on the viewer. I hate modern art! Do you know what, Ponce? Ninety-nine percent of it at least is rubbish. Pure Rubbishi.” She said.
“Is that right? Miss Smith—?” The lad asked.
“I’m afraid it is.”
“I—didn’t know that.”
“Please take my word for it.”
“I don’t know—much—about modern art Haven’t really seen—much of it—it—Miss Smith—”
“Please take my word for it.”
“I will, Miss—Smith—”
He didn’t dare look, but he felt she was smiling now.
“You know I went to Italy last summer, don’t you, Ponce?”
“Yes—Miss Smith—”
Could she speak Italian? He wondered—
“What a marvelous, marvelous place Florence is! Oh, Ponce, I had a most breathtaking week there. I’ve never known such pleasure. Such joy. Such delight! There just isn’t a city like that anywhere. It’s perfect, Ponce. Why those sculptures by Michelangelo in the Medici tombs alone are worth the journey! And that’s just the beginning of it! Ponce, the priceless treasures in the galleries, the Uffizi, the Pitti—I wish I could have borrowed one or two of the masterpieces—for example, the Madonna and Child, by Filippo Lippi—or his portrait of a fellow monk —that one’s fabulous! Oh, Ponce, what have you got me started on? Once I start, I just never stop—on this subject —did you know that?”
“I—didn’t know—that,” said the lad.
Silence. Again.
He heard her move around again, probably making herself even more comfortable. He heard her fingers tap the cigarette, over an ashtray, probably.
“So I’d better stop,” she said, “After all, you didn’t come here tonight to hear a lecture on Art!”
She laughed, softly. Ponce throbbed away, constantly.
Silence.
Miss Smith was definitely reaching over the ashtray again, this time to stab out the cigarette, Ponce knew. Also, he had found the courage to peek—out of the farthest comer of his eye—and of course what he saw made him throb all the more, filling him in addition with a wild impulse to tear out of the room, through the walls, if necessary—somewhat—much as— He drove it away. Would it plague him the rest of his life, that memory? As soon as she sat back, or started to sit back, Ponce’s gaze once again jumped straight ahead.
“Well,” said the dream, “What about Milton?” She said.
“He was a great poet,” he said.
“That he was,” Miss Smith agreed.
“His—early poems show—a characteristic mingling of Renaissance and Puritan influence,” the lad said.
“Look at me,” said Miss Smith.
Somehow, after a mighty struggle, and very slowly, the lad turned to face the dream.
“Don’t be shy with me,” she said, and who else in the world had a voice like that? "Just picture yourself in class, will you, Ponce—? It’s the same—” She smiled at him, while he hammered away, somewhere, not there. She lifted her hand to her hair a moment, “You don’t think I’m going to eat you. do you?” She said.