"Well I guess I better-"
"Miss Martin."
"Yes."
"Miss Martin I don't want you to feel uncomfortable."
"I'm really fine Mr. Smith. I have to get used to the silence. And sound of I guess animals out in the dark."
"Thank you for washing the dishes."
"Goodnight, Mr. Smith."
"Goodnight, Miss Martin. Sleep tight/'
Smith crossing legs. Taking in a deep breath of air. Quietly stirring up to the book cabinet. Ladling out a glass of brandy. Back to the chair. Cross the legs. Taste the tobacco leaves and the sweet stinging grape. Miss Martin's door closes. Hear her light switch on. Bonni-face tomorrow on the train. Some terrible tale. Disaster on the high seas. Blows on the back of the neck suffered abroad. Escape to the land of opportunity. I met Bonni-f ace. First one night in a suburb of the university town. Where he resided with his pregnant wife with large beautiful teeth in a big beautiful mouth. We had spinach and poached egg. Toast and tea. His landlords were gentle people who showered their tenant with turf fires, much hot water for baths and first use of the daily newspaper. Bonniface was a stickler for justice and fair play. And he raised his rent accordingly as the landlords heaped presents and services upon him. I tripped down the front stairs that first evening and was laid out on the couch in the landlords' parlour. Coming to, I viewed the strange smiling face of Bonniface looking down. God forgive those incorrigibly strange of spirit.
George Smith. Chin on chest. Eyes sad. Night chilly. Low moon making shadows in the trees. Hoot of owls. Out here the black snakes. And the tan and red and poisonous land. Ready to slide over the pillow and wrap round the neck. Come up from under the house. Miss Martin to bed without a qualm. In that licking lashing fire flame. Miss Tomson. That great lollypop of a girl. Bite her, wherever she is, with a friendly pair of steak hardened jaws.
Smith locking latches on doors and windows. Turning off the faint music on the vast radio. The light out under Miss Martin's door. Sitting on the edge of the bunk, unlace the shoes, tug off the black socks. Miss Martin won't mind if I sleep without a garment. Be up before her in the morning. Thrill her with the smell of coffee. Tomorrow newborn. Leave today behind. And my footprints in blood. From Owl Street to this cabin far away.
Running
Without underwear
Hiding without
Shame.
Rich
Without reason
Rotten without
Rhyme.
The country darkness. The quiet azure peace. Smith putting his head on the pillow of lavender scented linen. Shutting the eyes. An elbow up over the ears. Digging the ankle and toes down slowly to the bottom to feel it free of animals. Miss Martin knows now in her own bed I only wanted company. Longer lived than shenanigans. Although when the smoke ring settled over that part of her it became a desperate moment. The look in her eyes when she looked, so silent and still. All the cash registers of the world ringing at once.
Eyelids down. Heart gently ticking over. Night marauders moving over leaves. Dream of a snowy tundra. Over which a man approaches speaking one hundred and five languages. He said the last five were nearly impossible to master. Then a nun ice skated by. ShirL Taken up the religious life. Miss Tomson stood, a big stately bitch. And said as she held out each ripe breast, you want a nice delicious peach buster. And laughed, her great white teeth breaking out just like sun after rain. I said hush they'll hear. She said when will we ever be on farting terms together Smith. My name echoed all over the valley. Turning into screams. A bang of a door. The pound of bare feet across the floor.
"Mr. Smith, O God, Mr. Smith."
Smith rearing up out of a dream of many hands of personal oppressors pulling on the hair as one attempted to dig up stakes to take off for the tundra. Miss Martin center cabin floor, wrapped and twisting in the trailing bedspread, shoulders atremble staring down round her in the dimness.
"Mr. Smith it dropped off the ceiling. Right on me. I felt it. A spider. It's stuck to the bedspread. O God get it away. Big horrible thing."
Fieldmarshal Smith up out of the covers. Naked to the rescue. Spider a great hairy thick legged thing on the floor. Big as a hand. Rearing back on the hind legs. Two front claws held up.
"Kill it for God's sake Mr. Smith kill it."
"I'll get a shovel."
"Don't leave me here with it."
"Easy now, Miss Martin."
"O God God."
"Throw the bedspread over it."
"I've nothing on."
"You must. It's our only hope."
Spider retreating back into a dappled ray of moonlight as George approached holding up the bedspread. Miss Martin huddled bending, arms over breasts and pubes in the shadows. Smith, private parts jangling, in this present rodeo. Rolling up the spider in the cloth. Sneaking a gentlemanly look at the figure of Miss Martin. Taking this insectivore to the door. Throwing the lot out into the night. Miss Martin shyly trembling by the telephone. Smith locking the screen.
"This is most awkward Miss Martin."
"Mr. Smith I'm terrified to go back into that bedroom."
George advancing upon Miss Martin. As she stood naked and alone. In need of comfort. Shook out of her wits by the hairy ten legged crawling creature. Feet bottoms dusty. If the phone rings now, one rip and it's out of the house altogether. Bump bump bump, hearts thumping. Droplet of sweat on the brow. Comes dripping off the tip of the nose. Lick it in between the lips. Touch of a hand on Miss Martin's shoulder. This is no mop closet.
Tears in Miss Martin's eyes. Better than terror. Flap of wings somewhere out in the trees. And she puts her arms around George Smith. And her head and hair on his chest. His arms around her shoulders.
"I don't know what to do George."
Smith mumchance, picking up Miss Martin. Carrying her across the room to the bunk. Lay her there. Unless one strains irrevocably with this display of strength. Long tiring day. One short circuit after another in Dynamo House. Provide for that spider and its heirs in my will. Her spine. Mouth. Teeth. Her hair. Which while in Golf Street she rinsed in blond tint. To cloak the mouse brown. After all the months of repression. Of tight lipped orders. Type this type that. Send this send that. Now take this. Tickle. And taste. As you said you cried. When I stood on top of the hill and the white river flowed by.
"George."
Smith, one ear on Miss Martin's breast. Her lips and mouth on the back of his neck. She raised her legs in the air, curling up her toes like fists. Shook them. Display of abandoned agility. Thank you spider.
"George."
Soft pressure on the face. Miss Martin I have something to tell you. It's brief. Just to say. Hello. Soft between your legs. Narrow niceness round your waist. Little belly over your crinkling hairs. You'll never forgive me because I can't remember your name. Got crushed out of my mind in the excitement. Get my mouth on yours and shut us both up. Among the molars. All the internal beauty. Nature gives love without warning. As well as this ass. O my God as I put it in you Miss Martin, the battle of control over. The upper lip curling, trembling, doing anything. Arms squeezing feeling tearing. Locked round it. You so graciously are. Strange to hear you groan, twist and gyrate, can hardly hold you on the bunk. You morsel. I might say so long tempting. Sniff under this arm. Honest sweat of fear. Green lawns. Where tennis is played. Remarkable backhanded volleys. After the match the losers' jamboree. For one tight minute I felt it would not fit. I pushed. Miss Martin pushed. We pushed together. In. With one long chested groan. All so friendly. Hold her by the wrists. She says a lovely pain. O my God Miss Martin, any minute now. Give me back that breast that elusive nipple. Give me that ear. Tart taste. And your hair, you wore it up and down. And folded round. Stuck with bobby pins. Came to Golf Street, in grey, in green, across the plenty troublesome months. A godsend. Up out of the subway, through the narrow financial gloomy streets. As the other thousands sit down to desks, light lights, shuffle the papers, fill the files, take the particulars and
it was all so much easier years ago to take the fish out of the sea and sell it so much a fresh pound. Till a hundred college graduates stepped between. To freeze the poor fish while they mark up a profit for the boss. And in the door you came of 604 while I got up drafty off the wretched couch. Must ask you to hold my legs sometime out the air shaft window to peek at the sky. I'm going to explode, Miss Martin. Right into you. Tremble and clutch with more behind me in life now than there is in front. Dear God do you have any old friends who sing operas. Or who travel the seas ban-jaxed. Or go to their head doctor on Wednesdays, Herr Shrinker I was smashed off the tit at ten. Presto, bravo, Herr Patient. You mean Herr Shrinker I have had an insight. You said it, Herr Patient. Why do you laugh and chuckle so, Herr Shrinker. Ha ha, Herr Patient, you are too inquisitive, but perhaps I am amused by your little stories. Miss Martin you rear up so, dying ember light on your torso. How could I have ever realised what you were each long office day, tired over deals, trembling over contracts, cowering from letters. World like a lot of falling steps. Everything going into you, great cascade of white river while you stood that day the bottom of the hill the nasty old gossip women wailing and wracked. These two breasts your secrets. Pinker than I ever thought. Sharper and tilted Lily white. Sixty miles back to town. Four thousand to the north pole. Shirl will sue me. Bonniface will make me skip in fear. And you will tell me to do my own typing. Mr. Stone will lurk to catch me sneaking out the service entrance of Merry Mansions. All too unlovely for words. I charged at you Miss Martin, weapon raised. I was amazed. Having measured it recently. Now bigger than ever recorded. A fountain for a white river. Sprinkled like stars. Vanishing away when the morning comes. Leaving the litde light left.
To glow
And grow
Inside
You
Thank
You
Spider.
9
DISTANT hilltops spreading a canopy of new green across the rolling land A spiral of smoke from George Smith's cabin in the woods. The white twisting Worrisome River singing on this Saturday morning. And the long lonesome wail of the steam engine coming up from the coast carrying a passenger for deposit at Cinder Vaiage.
Breakfast cooking in the cabin. Smith stretched stark on the bunk, hands folded under head, elbows sucking up. Birds achirp. Miss Martin wearing one of Smith's sweaters and her pair of black high heels as she clicked in and out of the kitchen cooking for the lonesome tiger lightly napping.
Canned ham grilled brown. Matzos. Big mugs of tea. Miss Martin smiling down at the lengthwise Smith and with a light finger flicking up his gentle pecker. No hebrew he. She sat chewing. Smith renewing. This quiet morning in the country. Her brown hair down. Long thighs and remarkable muscles around the knees.
Minutes by full of peace. Of all the fresh untired sounds out of the woods. Open up the ears wide. The eyes. Even dare think. That Miss Martin is forever part of me. Sits there eating. Watch the swallowing down her throat. She said one or two strange things while she lay sleeping. About a mysterious phone call to a place of worship. A cultured voice which suggested it would place sufficient explosive on the premises to blow it sky high next Tuesday midnight. The prelate to go with it. And Miss Martin sat up and I gently pushed her back down. Must have worries on her mind. Then she slept quietly snoring in my arms.
Smith finishing breakfast. Stood up and pounded his chest. Coughed. Padded to the bathroom. Standing in the tub under the chilling shower. Marching back to the living room. Pulling the towel zigzag over the back. One display of vitality after another. Miss Martin shyly peeking from the kitchen. Comes in. Smith lifting her sweater. Nuzzling face between two white pears. Give Miss Martin a friendly morning embrace. Happy in the cabin. Great to be alive. Till the wail of the steam train on the other side of the Worrisome River headed for Cinder Town.
Brief moments of unfettered solitude left. Smith and Miss Martin entwined. Opening up her mouth to say there's the train. And Smith whispered last night you said sleeping the prelate would be blown. Sky high.
"Did I."
"You did."
Smith flexing the knees. Picking up Miss Martin carrying her to the bunk. Train pounding up the valley. Ten minutes more to town. Ten years between Miss Martin and me. Takes one back to high school. Fastened to her young body. Jesuits walked around. All the other kids were there. One tall faced thin ecclesiastic cleric said what is your name. Where do you live. I felt located. He was the prefect of discipline, hatchet faced and feared. Coming out of nowhere to grab you defenceless by the collar. Twisting. I wanted to say, hey watch the garotte. But he had a system of torture called jug. To walk round and round in circles for hours. Miss Martin pressing against your belly would have been forbidden. Lectures on sex. Every Friday. Boys today we discuss the process of generation. White haired and ancient this prelate was easily given to tears. As he said there is a fleshy shaft from which two spongy balls hang. There were terrible whispers. You old clot. Marriage was the holy joining together of two people. Without use of the rubber covering of the organ. Boys as you sit there now before me. In the sight of God. Don't dare use rubbers. I'm not. The shaft is sacred this prelate shouted. Standing here before you today boys, remember that thought. These young beautiful innocent girls who come each year on the school boat ride. Are of the purest and whitest. Dare you look or feel up their innocent dresses. Dare you. Or think impurely. The wretchedness the writhing the Lord God will smash down on your heads. Everyone in the class looked around at me. As the prelate shouted evil companions. They are the ones dear boys. Miss Martin. Wish you did not dream of dynamiting the prelate. As this one shook his fist right at me over the heads of my class mates, screaming shaft. Fleshy shaft. The smart alec behind me whispering between my shoulder blades, that he was on his way home to pull his right out of its socket and didn't give a sacred fart what the Lord God smashed down. While he was pulling. All that seventeen years ago Miss Martin. We had class nights with apple pie and soda pop. And swam in the swimming pool. The bushy sight of our language instructor for months in black and now in nothing. I was voted having the biggest one at the secret ballot on the length of shafts. A disgraceful litde group of boys. Amused by my member. Which God help me I wanted to roll up that day so it wouldn't show at all. Never take it sadly out again. Till the darkness of last spidery night Miss Martin fooling with it said you have such a beautiful one. Held in her fingers. Said her father died. Building the bridge. She rides the train across to work. Her mother never had the money to move away from the bitter memory. Miss Martin you must have been a funny little girl father protected till you were six. Wham. A big girder. Best time of day to do it now, fresh as daisies. Just shut down the brain. Let instinct take over. And first thing this morning, Miss Martin out dusting crumbs off the table. Speeding to and fro in her high heels. Were my fellow prepsters and presiding prelates to see me now they would say he has turned out, that Smith, just as we thought he would, bringing the school name constantly into disrepute. With that shaft of his. And Shirl was impressed by such a splendid school. Till she married me and said the kids took so much out of her. Slaving to their litde wretched wants. Greedy litde heads spinning on a nipple as she said I want to live the way the rich live, go through life and hold my head up in the air being noticed and liked by everybody. This month of May. As age comes slowly and hardly notice it at all. Miss Martin makes such a fuss. Rolling her head. Brought breakfast. Time to meet the train. Bonniface. Will wait in the shade of the platform. And get a shock as I arrive. We'll stand there under cedar shingles. Just three. Miss Martin in black shining high heels. Grey dress, soft wool that clings. Bonniface perhaps without shoes. The train will pull out again. I will introduce Miss Martin to Bonniface. He will bow. And click. A thump perhaps without footwear. Miss Martin I am collapsing like a pack of cards. Filling you with white river. What do you see in me. Other than miraculous humility. You walked across this cabin floor this morning, .bare arse wagging. I jumped up and held it two handed tightly just as y
ou were slipping into the kitchen. And turned your face around again. Kissed you on the mouth. And kiss you now. And smell your sweet sweat and gamey breath. Under your hair around your arms. Lick your eyes. Tell the lids all these tales. How when I wanted to step out bravely into the world dressed in the best suit I had, speaking with the best voice I could and the school head master said he caught me in a lie. That I told all my fellow prepsters to lay the girls on the boat ride. To lift their dresses. To plug them as he claimed I had put it. You clerical lout. We sailed up the river. Between the steep cliffs my dear Miss Martin, God you are soft and full of warmth. How can it be such gay and painful summertime. The boat whistle blew. We strolled the decks. Sun glimmering on the water. Prefect of discipline head back to view indiscretion lightly this favoured day. The boat ride. Up the river to a park in the trees. Dance band. And all the proper little boys in sports jackets and flannels. And we swam and played ball, and jumped and ran and raced. I tried to star. For I met a girl that day. I had, true, told the school, who listened to me spellbound. To indeed plug these convent girls. None of whom could be plugged. I knew. Blessed creatures they were. Full of the Lord. And the mother of God. And the dream of hubby nine to five for forty years till dead in his tracks with a handsome policy. We passed a prison. Sitting on the shore. Grey and tight. Stone. And the prefect, Miss Martin, came by and said ha ha Smith, ha ha, that would be a place to keep you in line, ha ha. And I silently stiffly passed that remark by. Come to my funeral Miss Martin, be there. Please. And when they say wretched things about me, how I was fake, liar, and grew up out of all proportion to my prospects, shout back, say I was good-o humble and gentle. While they carry me away, music playing across my laundered lawn barbered round the sepulcher. They said why did I do it. Build a monstrous monument. Because I had no friends. No respect. Yet never went bald from worry. Nor breached white codes. Hashed up a few of the dark. And one or two white with my secretary. The ground I walk on she'll never worship. Born to know to whom to bow to whom to scrape. Much dumb demeanour everywhere. In that town full of faces erasing all the traces of what they feel. Just as well. Leads to a lot of embarrassment. A crackle of a twig. Lain here an hour. Missed the tram. Bonnif ace.