“Try—” she said, “Please try—” she only said, “Because we can do something awfully nice—” She said, “Know it?” She murmured low, “Close your eyes—”
When had he vibrated more? He closed his eyes, as ordered. He thought of his father. Of Peppy. Of Rusty Joe. Of Jill. Of Yvonne. Of Hetty. Hetty. Exquisitely gentle fingers were unbuttoning his shirt—Tiger—
“Ponce,” She said, her voice a dream. What would she do next? He only stood there, letting her. He would die there, what did it matter? He saw a well, a deep, dark well. He was waiting, vibrating—He thought of The Reader’s Digest—
“Open your eyes ” she ordered in that caressing voice, a million years later. Somehow, Ponce did that.
She was naked, utterly, before him, breathtakingly beautiful—Her form—Her divine form—Her dressing gown on the floor—He was wild at the sight of her. There was red hair. Music was playing Tristan and Isolde. Could it be? Red hair. It was all he remembered. He fell over.. . .
Tiger was unaware of it, but his nocturnal penetration of the playing fields of Sawyersville High School had not gone unnoticed. The observer was none other than Chief John Poldaski, whose car Tiger thought he had seen outside the pool room, just a short while ago. And in fact, he had. For the Chief was a cunning one, he had left it parked there deliberately, as a ruse, while he drove up to the High School in Sam Roto’s car, on a special mission, all his own: surveillance and investigation, based on a hunch. Which was—There might be something worth seeing around that high school, at night, if you stuck around long maid to be connected to. And how she moved. A little sweetheart. True. She gasped his name. The thrusting, eager, warm young form, under him, putting its life into him, renewing him, pulling him back from the brink. For there was the brink, and over into it he had to gaze, well he knew. He thought of John. He would have to go back to him. Get that notepad and pencil off him. He thought of that. He hadn’t thought of that. He gazed and gazed. There was the brink. There, his life had become fixed, at that point, what else could be done? There was nothing else to be done. It had all begun—How had it begun? What a process. There were these processes. Did he have to? Was it true? He knew he had to. Nothing else would do. She was whispering to him, whispering the sweetest things to him. Once the process had begun—Soon they would reach the highest peaks of ecstasy, and she would scream. There was absolutely nothing to be done—He remembered the first time she had given that scream—It had a life all its own—It wasn’t all that long ago—And took hold of his own —It had undoubtedly been the most thrilling moment of her young life for her, he knew, wonderfully supple maid, for she had been a virgin, one of the few—What could he do? Do? When it was time to. He hadn’t hurt her, he had been exquisitely gentle with her—He remembered it. What could he do? Fate played it this way, and had beckoned her, touching her, guiding her to him in that hall, today. It had. Or she wouldn’t be here, now, he knew. The process was extraordinary beyond any and all comprehension, and he knew he never could hope to begin to achieve a penetration of it. The threshold itself was as far beyond his reach as the origin of the universe. He was a part of it. That he knew. Only a part of it. Well he knew. He remembered his mother, once his only universe. Now there was Looby Loo. He knew what there was to do. In a sense, in a very real sense, she was his mother now. And always would be. And what was he? Escalation was this way. She loved him deeply, without reservations, that was clearly the thing. Perhaps it was all that mattered, finally. The only thing. When he held her, when he penetrated her, she was the universe to him. The process was more than a dream. In a dream his mother was calling him, when he turned, it was Looby Loo. Where was Jane? Out of her had come Jane. That sweetheart Jane. Janie. Jane. His little Jane. He thought of Jeannie’s mother. That was the thing. The hardest thing. He tried veering away from it, but it wouldn’t do. There was absolutely nothing he could do. The forces, the processes, the complexes, and fate moved and converged this way. In this way. What else could he do? It had begun. If there was anything else at all he could do—gladly, he would do. This, he knew. He knew—
“/ love you so much so much so much Tiger—OH—”
The young thing was mounting the highest reaches, he knew, Heaven was not far, he was supremely aware. Her voice was a column of fire, next to him. She rocked, she rolled, her knees were high in the air. This was life, the undying source of it, as far as we were concerned, no doubt of it. The wet edges of life pulled and pulled him, ever in. He was pulled in. The depths. Where had he been? Divinely, she caressed him. He caressed her. Held her. He caressed her hair. She had the nicest dark hair. Where was there a sweeter young girl? Could there be? His hands caressed her face, her mouth was part of his, she smelled so sweet, love sweet. They were drenched. The USA was sweet, sweet, what a treat, despite everything, crime, corruption, so many things, teaching machines, all those things, Old Corn pone, everything, Vietnam, everything, when they came, in the night, the moonlight, there was the moonlight, we opened up, we cut them down, my God they fell down, and down, down, thousands down, well placetį machine guns, what guns, they were guns—He knew. True. Wasn’t it true? What other place would do? What place was true blue? No place. He knew. For the complexes —all the processesylhete was a cherry tree his father used to graft brancnes to. Branches. What was the world full of? He knew it. He felt sorry for those Vietnamese, but what branch of civilization did they want to be part of? That was the issue, he knew, and everything else was a sad, tragic, dirty, bloody ancillary of it What about India? The misery, the poverty, the disaster of those vast hopeless masses was staggering, beyond all comprehension. Who could comprehend it? Help them? Who had helped us? That was the key issue. Well he knew it. He knew it. We had done it. They must do it. This sweet place would do what it could, naturally, however at times clumsily. We
Pretty Maids All in a Row 365 drifted back—Betty Smith was talking to him—talking so softly to him—was she tucking him in? What a beautiful day it was. Ponce could only see clear blue. Rusty Joe burst into the room—
“Hey! You going to school today?”
Ponce turned from the window and surveyed him. Peppy had already scurried under the bed. Rusty Joe was
diving after her, but wouldn’t have a chance of reaching
her. Ponce grinned. He’d be lucky to even see her!
“How come she always runs away from me?” The boy
asked, on his hands and knees, trying hard to see.
“Don’t ask me,” Ponce said.
“You gonna get up?”
“Sure I am.”
“Mom’s been calling you.”
“She has?”-
“Is there school today?”
That one stopped Ponce, and he began remembering things. That was a good point. Tiger, he remembered, said there would be. What was Rusty Joe asking that for? Ponce guessed he must have heard a lot. And guessed the rest.
“Sure there is,” he replied to the lad.
“Well I’m glad!” the lad shot back.
Ponce grinned and moved out of the bed.
“Hey! You have different tops and bottoms on!” The lad said.
Ponce examined himself, and sure enough it was true, strangely enough. He wondered how that had come about Now Rusty Joe would have something to broadcast to Mom about. Standing there, before the mirror now, Ponce had to grin. Though it puzzled him no end. He almost looked like a clown—salmon-colored tops and green bottoms. He shook his head. The boy started to laugh.
“You sure look funny, Ponce!” He shouted out.