«I’m sorry,» she said, the blood dripping down her thighs, «I didn’t think it would be so soon.»
«That’s all right,» said Ulric, «what’s a little blood between bouts?»
I went with him to the lavatory, pausing a moment on the way to be presented to his brother’s girl.
She was pretty far gone. I held out my mitt to shake hands and in reaching for it she accidentally made a pass for my prick. That made everybody feel a little easier.
«A great work-out,» said Ulric, washing himself assiduously. «Do you think I might take another crack at it? I mean, there’s no particular harm getting a little blood on the end of your cock, is there? I feel as though I’d like to have another go at it, what say?»
«It’s good for the health,» I said cheerily. «Wish I could swap places with you.»»
«I wouldn’t be averse to that at all,» said he, sliding his tongue lecherously over his lower lip. «Do you think you can manage it?»
«Not to-night,» I said. «I’m going now. I’ve got to be fresh and spruce to morrow.»
«Are you going to take Mara with you?»
«I sure am. Tell her to come in here a minute, will you?»
When Mara opened the door I was powdering my cock. We fell into a clutch at once.
«What about trying it in the tub?»
I turned the warm water on and threw in a bar of soap. I soaped her crotch with tingling fingers. By this time my prick was like an electric eel. The warm water felt delicious. I was chewing her lips, her ears, her hair. Her eyes sparkled as if she had been struck by a fistful of stars. Every part of her was smooth and satiny and her breasts were ready to burst. We got out and, letting her straddle me, I sat on the edge of the tub. We were dripping wet. I reached for a towel with one hand and dried her a bit down the front. We lay down on the bath mat and she slung her legs around my neck. I moved her around like one of those legless toys which illustrate the principle of gravity.
Two nights later I was in a depressed mood. I was lying on the couch in the dark, my thoughts shifting rapidly from Mara to the bloody, futile telegraph life. Maude had come over to say something to me and I had made the mistake of running my hand carelessly up her dress as she stood there complaining about something or other. She had walked off insulted. I hadn’t been thinking about fucking her—I just did it naturally, like you’d stroke a cat. When she was awake you couldn’t touch her that way. She never took a fuck on the wing, as it were. She thought fucking had something to do with love: carnal love, perhaps. A lot of water had passed under the bridge since the days when I first knew her, when I used to twirl her around on the end of my cock sitting on the piano stool. Now she acted like a cook preparing a difficult menu. She would make up her mind deliberately, letting me know in her sly, repressed way that the time had come for it. Maybe that’s what she had come for a moment ago, though it was certainly odd the way she begged for it. Anyway I didn’t give a fuck whether she wanted it or not. Suddenly, though, thinking of Stanley’s words, I began to have a yen for her. «Get in your last licks,» I kept saying to myself. Well, maybe I’d go up and tackle her in her pseudo-sleep. Spivak came to mind. He was watching me like a hawk the last few days. My hatred for the telegraph life was concentrated in my hatred for him. He was the bloody cosmococcus in person. Must polish him off somehow before they fire me. I kept thinking how I could lure him to a dark wharf and have some obliging friend push him overboard. I thought of Stanley. Stanley would relish a job like that….
How long was he going to keep me on tenterhooks? I wondered. And what form would it take, this abrupt deliverance? I could see Mara coining to meet me at the station. We’d start a new life together, righto! What sort of life I didn’t dare think. Maybe Kronski would raise another three hundred dollars. And those millionaires she talked about, they ought to be good for something. I began thinking in thousands—a thousand for her old man, a thousand for travelling expenses, a thousand to tide us over for a few months. Once in Texas, or some God-forsaken place like that, I’d have more confidence. I’d stop off at newspaper offices with her—she always made a good impression—and I’d ask permission to write a little sketch. I’d walk in on business men and show them how to write their ads. In hotel lobbies I’d be sure to meet up with a friendly soul, some one who would give me a break. The country was so big, so many lonely people, so many generous souls ready to give, if only they met the right individual. I would be sincere and forthright. Say we get to Mississippi, some old ramshackle hotel. A man walks up to me out of the darkness and asks me how I feel. A guy just aching for a little chat. I’d introduce him to Mara. We’d saunter out arm in arm and stroll about in the moonlight, the trees strangled with lianas, the magnolias rotting on the floor of the earth, the air humid, sultry, making things rot—and men too. To him I’d be a fresh breeze from the North. I’d be honest, sincere, almost humble. Would put my cards on the table immediately. There you are, man, there’s the situation. I love this place. I want to stay here all my life. That would scare him off a little, because you don’t start talking that way to a Southerner straight off. What’s Your game? Then I’d speak up again, soft and distant, like a clarinet with a wet sponge plugging the bell. I’d give him a little melody out of the cold North, a sort of chill factory whistle on a frosty morning. Mister man, I don’t like the cold. No sir! I want to do some honest work,. anything to keep alive. Can I talk straight? You won’t think I’m cracked, will you? It’s lonely up there in the North. Yes sir, we go blue with fright and loneliness. Live in little rooms, eat with knives and forks, carry watches, liver pills, bread crumbs, sausages. Don’t know where we’re at up there, honest, Mister. We’re frightened to death we’ll say something, something real. Don’t sleep…. not really. Thrash around all night praying for the world to end. We don’t believe in anything: we hate everybody, we poison one another. Everything so tight and solid, everything riveted with cruel hot irons. Don’t make a thing with our hands. Sell. Buy and sell. Buy and sell, that’s all, Mister….
I could visualize the old gentleman distinctly as he stood under a droopy tree mopping his feverish brow. He wouldn’t run away from me, like others had. I wouldn’t let him! I’d hold him spellbound—the whole night long, if I felt like it. Make him give us a cool wing in the big house near the bayou. The darkie would appear with a tray, serving mint juleps. We would be adopted. «This is your home, son; stay as long as you like.» No desire to play tricks on a man like that. No, if a man treated me that way I’d be faithful to him, to the bitter end….
It was all so real I felt I had to tell Mara about it right away. I went to the kitchen and began a letter. «Dear Mara—All our problems are solved….» I went on as though it were all clear and definitive. Mara looked different to me now. I saw myself standing under the big trees talking to her in a way that surprised me. We were walking arm in arm through the thick growths, conversing like human beings. There was a big yellow moon out and the dogs were yapping at our heels. It seemed to me we were married and the blood ran deep and still between us. She would be craving a pair of swans for the little lake in back of the house. No money talk, no Neon lights, no chop suey. How wonderful just to breathe naturally, to never hurry, never get anywhere, never do anything important— except live! She thought so too. She had changed, Mara. Her body had grown fuller, heavier; she moved slowly, talked calmly, became silent for long periods, all so real and natural like. Should she wander off by herself I felt certain she would come back unchanged, smelling sweeter, moving more sure-footedly…
«Do you get it, Mara? Do you see how it will be?» There I was, putting it all down so honestly, almost weeping with the sheer wonder of it, when I heard Maude paddling slip-slop through the hall. I gathered the sheets together and folded them. I put my fist over them and waited for her to say something.
«Who are you writing to?» she asked—just as direct and sure as that.
«To some one I know,» I answered calmly.
«A woman, I suppose?»
«Yes, a woman. A girl, to be more exact.» I said
