Ponce crossed over to the transistor beside the boy’s bed and turned it off. He knew Rusty Joe at that moment hated him.
“Are you going to bed?” The boy asked, not in the friendliest way.
“Yeh.”
“Well, take Peppy.”
And reaching under the covers he hauled out Ponce’s favorite cat, the purest joy of his life, outside of Miss Smith. He wondered how that crazy cat had managed to survive under all those blankets, anyhow. They really did have nine lives, Ponce fondly pondered. He took the gray-and-white darling in his arms and stroked her, murmuring to her. She started purring. Rusty Joe smiled. He too loved that cat, without a doubt of it. Now he doesn’t hate me. Ponce thought, grinning at him. That cat was a bond, alright.
“Where you been, Ponce?” the boy asked him.
“Out.”
“Got a girl friend?”
Ponce didn’t answer that. He was aware of the agent provocateur lurking behind that one.
“Don’t put Peppy under the covers again.,” he told the boy.
“She won’t die.”
“Don’t do it.”
“She likes it under there. No kidding. Read me a story.” “How many did Mom read you?”
“None.”
“Liar.”
“I'm not a liar.”
“And Dad?”
“Read me опеГ*
“Got a girl friend?”
“Aw, good night.”
Ponce started to withdraw from the room with his Peppy draped in his arms, purring away, loving it. Rusty Joe jumped out of bed.
“Where you going?” Ponce asked.
“To the toilet.”
“And then right back to bed. Don’t forget it.”
“Aw, Ponce, gee, you’re as bad as Mom, no kidding. Uncle Brucie—”
“Hurry up now,” Ponce interrupted, stiffening at the mere mention of the name.
“Boss Ponce!” Rusty handed him, scooting into the toilet. Ponce went downstairs with Peppy and deposited the little darling of a creature, still purring, in the kitchen, where she slept in a comfortable foam-pillow-lined basket. He spoke to her for a few seconds, petting her, sweet nothings, really. She loved them. He gave her a final caress and took off, heading for bed. He peeped in his brother’s room to make sure he was in bed. He was.
“Good night, Mike,” Ponce kidded him.
“Good night, Spike!” called out the boy, “See you at breakfast!” Ponce nodded, grinning. He loved the boy.
In his room. Ponce lay in bed, and all he could think of was Miss Smith. He had knocked gently on his parents’ bedroom door, then gone in. His mother was still awake, and she had hugged him and kissed him good night. His hand had accidentally brushed her breast. It was so soft. She didn't mind. She wore a light nightdress. He had felt her breast under his hand, he had been excited by it, for his mother had beautiful breasts. If there had been more light in the room he might even have seen them, as sometimes he did, through a light nightdress. They were nice, soft breasts. Like Miss Smith’s Ponce reflected, thinking of that dream, the dream of all his dreams, forever more. He grew warm, lying there, in bed. He thought of her, and couldn’t get to sleep. He felt such a tremendous longing for her, there just was no one else in the world he had ever longed so much for. If only he were older, and working, Ponce thought, he could date her and get engaged and marry her. He knew she liked him. He would give just about anything and everything he had or ever would have to be married to her. He tossed and turned on the bed, utterly unable to sleep. His heart pounded, he was in some state. He would see her tomorrow, she would be there in front of the class, she would be there, smiling, talking, moving. He saw her moving. He saw her near him, in that dress she had on tonight, moving. He clenched his fists, angry that he hadn’t been able to do a thing, anything, over at her place tonight. She had held his hand and stood near him and caressed his face. He had seen her breasts rising, he had seen the whiteness of them just rising out of the top of that dress, before him, as she leaned toward him. That had thrilled him. He had done nothing. Well why hadn’t she done something? Suddenly, Ponce found he was angry with her—a little. Certainly, she had seen the state he was in, his organ protruding a mile and nearly bursting out of his pants, no less. She had seen it! She hadn’t even mentioned it! Ponce’s anger faded quickly though. For he was aware that although she thrilled him physically and he would give just about everything to be able* to relate to her physically, she meant much much more than that to him, of course. Even in the lavatory, at school, when he jacked off over her, he knew. He always knew. Now he knew. He would always know, no matter what finally became of her. He was blue. She would probably be
Pretty Maids AII in a Row 147 meeting some guy one of these days and marrying him, Ponce thought. How long could a dream like that keep from being snatched up? Maybe she even had a boyfriend now, Ponce thought—he should have asked her. How could he ask her? Why hadn’t he done something? Lying there, once again growing warm, he felt sure he could have done something. Would he ever again get the chance to? He was sure she wouldn’t have stopped him, in fact, probably, maybe, there was just the chance, yes, she might have liked it. Certainly, she liked him. What other kid had ever been up there? Ponce didn’t know of any. He just couldn’t sleep, pondering all these things, seeing her, before him. Beside him. He was dying for her. He was just about burning for her. His organ was stiff and large, throbbing, screaming out for his hand. Should he stroke it? There was certainly plenty of it, enough to satisfy anyone, anyone, anyone. Ponce murmured her name. “Betty—Darling—” He was murmuring. He throbbed with longing for her, he was dying for her. He fought the wild desire to move his hand to the organ. He didn’t want that. He wanted to go beyond that. The real thing. Tonight, he had muffed the golden opportunity, he hadn’t done a single thing. Not a thing. What good would this do, knowing what he had missed? It didn’t matter though. The golden day would come! Ponce was throbbing, starting to sweat now. He could smell his dream. Without a doubt, her fragrance was in that bed, with him, and smothering him. He didn’t mind, it could smother him. Ponce fought. He closed his eyes. He forced himself to lie still, though his whole body hammered away. He saw her there. He could almost feel her, under him, there. Ponce sweated. His clenched fist pounded the bed.
His hand was dying to meet, to stroke, to stroke and stroke, his red hot. He fought. The fragrance of roses filled the room. He kissed her. . . . Ponce, in a state of supreme anguish now, fought and fought. . . .
Tiger didn’t get back home all that late that night, despite all. It must have been around twelve or a quarter to twelve, not much later than that. He felt pretty good. The world and life seemed not only tolerable again, but fresh, even somewhat challenging, once again. Like they used to be all the time, Tiger mused, or practically all the time. Once upon a time. He mused and mused. Long ago. How long ago? When, though? He roamed around the house. He didn’t feel like going to sleep right away. Not right away. Still poignantly aware of the presence and fragrance of the unique Rochelle, he walked through the house looking for something to nibble on—an apple, anything at all to nibble on. An apple, in fact, would do. And he found one. A big red one. He took a big bite out of it. Absolutely delicious. Was it Italy Betty said grew apples even bigger than this? She had been there. He would like to have seen them. She had raved about them, and only was sorry she hadn’t brought back at least one for him. He remembered. He grinned. He certainly was fond of her. An apple always brought her to mind for him. He stood there in the kitchen eating away at that apple and looking out into the night through the big kitchen window. He hadn't put the light on in there, it was a pretty clear night and wasn’t necessary. There was a moon somewhere, though he couldn’t see it Not from there. He liked to stand there sometimes in the darkness especially on such a night and look out that kitchen window. Anytime, in fact, he had been out late at night, on the prowl, checking up on his athletes, such things. Rochelle had remarked on the moon. From there, they had seen it, not too long ago, suddenly emerge out of the clouds as the night cleared. Now Tiger could see how it lit up the back yard so softly, and the woods beyond the back yard, for Tiger’s house was situated in that pan of town which gave an unobstructed view of them. It was some view, alright. They stretched for miles, part of the hills. It was a great part of town, and Tiger loved it. As a kid, he had often played in those woods, though he had lived in another part of the town. He moved here not long after he got married, when his teaching career began. He had been lucky enough to buy this great little house. He loved it, as did Looby Loo. It was perfect. All they wanted, and perfect. He remembered a moon like this in Korea. One such night, looking out, he suddenly saw what seemed like the whole Chinese army pouring out of the hills. In the moonlight, which had broken through. His Company had been overrun. Their sector of the front smashed. It was the end. How had he survived? Everything? To this day, he couldn’t understand. Was it luck, purely, that handled such things? What was he supposed to do with that medal—upstairs? At any rate, he thought that’s where it was. Somewhere, upstairs. He had lost track of the thing. He stayed there quite a while, looking out that window, until he had completely eaten the apple, and thrown the core away. Then, giving the fabulous scene one last look, and thinking once again of Rochelle, that unique and wonderful girl, and Betty Smith, thrown in, he left the room, and headed upstairs. He thought of Jane. It was too late probably to go into her room and tuck her in and say good night to that cutest kid. He headed for his den. Looby Loo probably would be asleep, or pretty nearly asleep, certainly. The door to their room was slightly ajar, and as he walked past he heard his wife’s voice murmuring to him, out of the night.