“What’s the matter?” She inquired, so softly.
He made no answer. No word could possibly emerge from him. He sat and stared.
“What ever’s the matter?” She said, passing the glorious hand over his cheek, in short, caressing it, “Come on, come with me,” she murmured, taking his hand now, gently urging him up.
He felt himself going up, up, up. He was up. Before her. In all his shame—and glory. She didn’t seem to be offended. In fact, Ponce suddenly and alarmingly thought, Had She Noticed? How couldn’t she have noticed? Ponce was in despair, pondering, trembling hard there.
The goddess’s warm hands were still on him, she stood there, before him. He was just slightly taller than her.
“You’re shaking like a leaf, my goodness,” she said to him, “What’s the matter?” She asked again, in that softest, warmest, most enchanting voice—in the whole universe, ever-increasing his despair.
“I guess—” He said—“Must be—” He also said—“It—” He then said—“I think—” He said—And stopped dead.
He stood there.
She spoke gently and tenderly, “You’ve just been through too much today. Yes. I'm sure that’s it. I'm not feeling all that wonderful myself—” She said—“So, imagine you—” She still held his hand. “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked you to come tonight, Ponce—” She said—“That really wasn’t all that considerate of me, maybe—” She paused again—“Well, if you want to go—”
“I don’t want to—’’ He said, definitely.
She smiled, he was almost sure he felt an increase of pressure from her hand, “Alrighty—come and have some cocoa then," She sang.
He nodded, and she led the way. All the way to the kitchen, and in his condition, she held his hand.
“A shock like that’s going to take us all some time to get over.” the angel said, flipping a knob of her electric stove, “I’m not so sure I’d even be conscious tonight—if I had— found her,” She said.
Ponce, saying nothing, just fought hard to subdue his shame.
“Let’s just hope they soon find the fellow,” She told him.
Ponce, astutely, sat on a kitchen stool, silent, watching her.
“Oh—” She said, facing him, “I think it’s marvelous!”
Ponce nodded, feeling good about that. He knew she meant it. She poured the cocoa into cups. She popped marshmallows in each cup. He watched them, fascinated, as they floated. The cocoa smelled great. Like his mother's—
“There you are,” she said, handing him a cup.
“Thanks a lot,” the boy murmured, taking a sip, right away.
“Ummmm—” She said.
“Real good,” he told her.
“It’ll calm you down,” she said, taking over another stool, not far from him. She was made for it.
“You’re from New York, aren’t you, Miss Smith?” the lad ventured.
“That’s right,” she told him, “Syracuse, in fact.”
“Like it there?"
‘‘Oh. it was alright. I went to school there. Oh. but I’m very happy here. I love this town,” She enlightened him.
“I like it too,” Ponce tried, “I get bored sometimes though, no kidding. Miss Smith—” He paused, further trying, “A lot of the time—” He halted.
She smiled. He treasured that smile.
Pretty Maids All in a Row 115 “What do you hope to do with yourself, Ponce? Next year will be your last at Sawyersville—”
He sipped his cocoa, slowly. It was so delicious.
“Gee this is good—” He said, and continuing, “Oh, I’m not really too sure about that yet, Miss Smith—” He paused, and looked around. It sure was a cute kitchen. “I want to be a writer—** He said, quietly, “I guess you know that—”
“And I think you’d make a good one—” She said.
“But I have to find some way to make a living, don’t I, Miss Smith?” He said, intelligently.
“Why not teach?” She said.
“Well—I get real scared in front of people—no kidding, Miss Smith—I’m not so sure I can take it, in front of a class—all the time—” He confessed.
She understood.
“Well, we all get scared, Ponce, let me tell you—” She said,—“I can’t tell you how scared I was during my practice teaching! Golly! I get scared even now, sometimes,” She paused—“It’s something you get over—or learn to live with—at any rate—” She said, reassuringly.
Ponce nodded, and sipped more cocoa. The marshmallow bumped his lips. He took a nibble.
“What does your father do, Ponce?” She inquired, watching him.
“Oh—he works for the V.A.—” Ponce answered—“In Kitston—the big V.A. building there. You know?” He said —“Do you know him?”
“I met him at a P.T.A. meeting last year, to tell the truth. He seems awfully nice, Ponce,” She told him, “How do you get along?”
“Oh fine—We get along fine,” Ponce said.
There was silence. He finished the marshmallow.
“I like Mom best,” he confessed.
Miss Smith gave a little laugh, “And what boy doesn’t?” Ponce sipped the cocoa.
“Peppy?” She asked.
“My cat—boy, Miss Smith, what a cat—”
She laughed again.
“I ought to have one.”
“Well, I can get you one.”
116 Pretty Maids All in a Row “Oh, would you?”
“Sure, Miss Smith.”
And more silence.
“That would be nice.”
“Oh, they’re great.”
“I always had a cat—at home—growing up—” She said. “Aren’t they great?”
‘They really are great”
“I’ll get you one.”
A pause.
“I have a little brother, you know—” Ponce said.
“Isn’t his name Joe?”
“Well how did you know?”
“His teacher up at the elementary school is a friend of mine—” She smiled.
“Miss Tyler?”
“That’s so.”
“What do you know.”
“Aw, he is—The things he comes out with!”
“I'll bet—”
Ponce grinned, “I call him Rusty Joe—”
“How cute!”
Silence again.
Ponce sipped cocoa.
“What do you think about Vietnam?” Suddenly, he
asked.
His hostess didn’t seem to have at all expected that one. For a moment, she looked baffled, almost. Then she took a sip, and looked warmly at him.
“Well, why don’t you tell me what you think of it?” She said.
Ponce held the cup in his hands. He liked the warmth that came to him from it.
“Well—I don't know—I don’t think it’s too good of an idea though—” He said.
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t much see what the point of it is supposed to be —” He said, “Do you?”
“To tell you the truth—I don’t,” she answered, “No, I don’t.”
“And yet try telling that to just about anybody in this town!" He said.
“Well, actually, Ponce,” she said, “You’d be surprised how many teachers feel the same way. I mean, like we do. And I’ll bet a lot more people than you think—” She also said.
Ponce sat quietly.
“Just like integration?” He said.
Miss Smith was thoughtful. “Now that’s a very, very difficult problem,” she said.
Ponce nodded, “I know it is.”
“At least,” she said, “We’re making some attempt to solve the problem—in a decent way—” she paused, “Unlike other places, those horrible South Africans, for instance—” She paused—“Aren’t you proud of the worthy contribution Sawyersville’s made? I mean, it’s something, anyway—”
“I know it is.”
“Shall we go back to the front room?” She said.
“O.K.” Ponce said.
“I want to hear more about your theme—the ins and outs of it—I just don’t know how you came up with such a good idea—” She said, getting up now, “Bring your cocoa with you.”