“What happened to her?” I asked.
“She married a local baseball player. They have a minor league team in Rocky Mount.”
“So you married someone else.”
“Local Jewish gal. We were hitched for twenty-five years, before the cancer got her. Good woman. Class. Social consciousness, compassion for the poor, the oppressed.”
I tried to imagine her. All I could picture was a woman with a rag tied round her head.
“You’re really against prejudice, huh?” I said.
“Of course. Aren’t you?”
“I guess. I got a friend whose dad is in the KKK. He doesn’t like it ’cause my pop is friends with Snead.”
Gladstein arched that quivering eyebrow. “Your dad’s a friend of Snead’s? Well well, what a world. I wouldn’t have pegged your father as a liberal.”
“I don’t think he calls himself that. He voted for Johnson, and I think for Kennedy. He’s a Democrat,” I said. I wanted Gladstein to like Pop. I figured a report on his voting record might do it.
Gladstein nodded and looked away, full of heavy musings I couldn’t possibly understand.
Finally he tapped the Myra letters on the counter.
“All right, to the matter at hand. You’ve kissed Myra, so what next?”
“Well, now I have to rescue her.”
“From what?”
“From being grounded. Her parents don’t want her going with me.”
Gladstein folded his arms. His chest rose and fell with his breathing.
“Have you felt her breasts?”
“No sir,” I said awkwardly. That a grown man should speak of breasts to a child in El Dorado Hills was unheard-of. Only foulmouthed brats spoke of breasts. I hadn’t given Myra’s breasts a moment’s thought. I wasn’t even sure she had any.
“Well,” Gladstein said.
There was a shrug in his voice: a sigh for the fatuousness of romantic boyhood. “To each his own, I suppose. But I should think you’d want to touch her breasts. Certainly I would have at your age.”
“Did you touch Miss North Carolina’s breasts?” I asked.
Gladstein roared with laughter. “The mountains of North Carolina, hey, Witcher? Asheville on the left, Boone on the right!” He hacked out a laugh and slapped his thigh.
My face was hot as a furnace.
“Listen, Witcher. She has the ring, and that means she is in your power. Whatever you want her to do, she will do. Look at me, Witcher, you’re looking away.”
I obeyed.
He handed over Myra’s letters. “Don’t forget these,” he said. “And here, take this.” He pulled a golden bracelet from the drawer and dangled it before my eyes.
“What is it?”
“It’s for her. Take it, it’s junk. Otherwise I’ll throw it away.”
“No, don’t throw it away.”
I pocketed the bracelet, dazzled by his bottomless stock of trifles.
“Listen, do you want to see her breasts or not?”
“I do,” I said.
“Then you must think of them constantly. Make it a prayer. Do not let her nipples out of your mind. Smell them, taste them. Picture her blossoming young tits. Myra’s breasts are yours, Witcher.”
“Yes sir,” I said.
Gladstein’s baggy eyes released me. I left the shop.
18
THE NEXT NIGHT, the night I had arranged for Myra’s rescuing, Snead paid a call at our house.
My heart sank as his truck pulled up. When I sent my final instructions to Myra I hadn’t reckoned on his being at the house. I had told her I would come to her yard at midnight, or shortly thereafter. I was to hoot three times like an owl, and she would climb out the den window.
Around ten I went to my room and pretended to go to bed.
It was a cool night and the fans were off and I turned out the light and listened to Snead and Pop and Mom under my window. They had a cooler out there and I would occasionally hear the soft pressurized sigh of a beer can jabbed by an opener. The guitar-playing didn’t last very long that night, there was conversation instead. More and more the music was simply an excuse for Snead and Pop to get together.
Their voices kept lulling me, and several times I was close to falling asleep. Around eleven I heard my mother say good night. She folded up her lounge chair and came inside.
Usually at midnight Snead would head home, but sometimes he stayed as late as two or three in the morning. The thought made me tense with anxiety. I heard the sound of cigarette lighters thumbed open, the scraping of flints, the clicking of lids, hands rummaging through the slushy ice in the bottom of the cooler for the coldest beers, the springy metal of a lounge chair whenever one of the men shifted in his seat. Each time I heard a noise I hoped it meant Snead was rising to leave.
“Go, Snead, go,” I prayed.
Stan was out somewhere with Anya, and I was alone in the room.
The men’s voices were murmuring, late-night voices, indistinct; and then I realized they were talking about Gladstein. Several times I heard his name. Snead said something about Jefferson Ward and they started laughing.
“Good God,” my father said, and they laughed some more.
Their voices grew lower and I strained to hear. I felt defensive for Gladstein, sorry he was so out of place in the world.
Pop made a remark and Snead laughed, and then he began to croon a blues song.
He broke off. “What did you say?” he responded to one of Snead’s murmurs.
“Man wants me to come out and see him. In Jefferson Ward.”
“You gonna go?”
“I ain’t gonna go calling on no white man in Jefferson Ward.”
That set off another round of guffaws.
“That would leave his place ripe for the picking, Snead. The store all by itself.”
Snead snorted. After a while he said, “I gotta go.”
“Naw, don’t go.”
“I gotta get up in the morning.”
“Come on, stay awhile.”
“Naw, I can’t.”
“Go, go, go,” I prayed.
Ten minutes passed. Why can’t people leave when they say they’re going to?
Finally the metal of the lounge chair creaked as Snead urged his bulk upwards. The voices retreated to the edge of the yard. I heard a door slam and an engine rev. Snead’s truck pulled away.
Even though it was after midnight I still couldn’t leave. I had to wait for Pop to gather the things from the yard and come down the hall and go to the bathroom. I needed to see the dark at the crack of my door before I could take off.
Finally I tiptoed down the hall and slipped out the front door.
By the time I got to the Joyners’ yard it was almost one in the morning. A sleepy bark came from around the side of the Kellner house and quickly I whispered Rusty’s name.
I crouched by the cars in the driveway (the Joyners’ blue Chevrolet Impala, Gaylord’s cherry-red Mustang convertible gleaming in the porch light) and Rusty approached, growling low in his throat. But it was okay: as soon as I held out my hand the menace melted away and he slavishly began to lick my fingers. His tail was swinging like a metronome. I let him lap me for a while and then we trotted together around the side of the house.
I stood behind a magnolia tree and eyeballed the darkened den window.
“Myra!” I shouted in a whisper.
Nothing happened.
I hooted three times into cupped hands, sounding unnaturally like a hooting Witcher. I could imagine Mr. Joyner waking up and reaching for his gun.
Nothing happened. I hooted again, but I needed to clear my throat; it came out too raspy.
Then I saw a motion at the window. The screen was raised, a bundle flew out.
Rusty’s ears perked up.
A skinny limb thrust over the sill, and another, and Myra leapt to the ground. She snatched the bundle and ran athletically through the dark to greet me behind the fragrant magnolia. We were all excited by ou
r daring, bonded by our transgression, and passionately we kissed.
We headed to the front yard. A car came down Lewis Street and we ducked behind Gaylord’s Mustang until it was past. Myra was gripping me breathlessly, holding on for dear life. I was already thinking about her breasts.
After the car went by, we jogged to my house, staying close to the side of the road so we could hide in case other cars came. Rusty ran ahead, looking back deliriously, ecstatic over the unexpected late-night adventure. When we got to the yard I sent Myra to my bedroom window and went back to shoo him off. I stomped my foot and tossed a stick past his head. His tail drooped, he stared in bewilderment. I hated being mean to the dog, but I was afraid his presence would provide a clue to Myra’s whereabouts once the family realized she was missing. Rusty tended to follow Myra wherever she went.
It didn’t matter, my exertions proved futile. He whined indignantly and went to Myra. She was against the house, twisting her head to watch me.
“Why are you doing that to Rusty?” Myra said.
“I don’t want him to stay, he’ll give you away.”
“But he’s here all the time. Nobody will think anything.”
“Maybe,” I said.
I knelt beside her, feeling all emotional. I moved my lips towards her and we started making out. While we were kissing, my hand went creeping towards her breasts and I pulled it away.
“I didn’t think you were coming. I was in the den with my bundle, I must have waited an hour.”
“Snead was here. Him and Pop were in the front yard and I had to wait ’til he left.”
“Why does your dad like him so much?”
“Why shouldn’t he?”
She didn’t answer and I said, “Pop isn’t prejudiced, he isn’t like people around here. He isn’t like Mr. Pudding.”
Myra nodded, as if in favor of the idea.
“What did you bring in the bundle?” I asked.
“PJs, my toothbrush, Band-Aids, aspirin.”
We kissed again, only this time I couldn’t control myself. I placed my hand on her blouse, above her tiny right breast, feeling the slightest rise.
Myra pushed me away.
“What are you doing?”
“Touching you.”
“Well, don’t.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Do you want me to go home?” she said archly.
I leaned my head against the house, hurt. Then I remembered something. I hitched up and felt inside my pocket and came out with the bracelet Gladstein had donated to my cause.
“Here,” I said.
“What is it?”
“It’s yours.”
Myra caught her breath. The golden bracelet gleamed in the faint moonlight.
“Oh, Jack,” she said.
She slid it over her skinny arm and held it aloft. We sat for a while, listening to the glowing sounds of the warm night: crickets and frogs, faraway automobiles, dogs barking at shadows on the streets.
“I’ve been wearing your ring,” she confessed, “I put it on at night and sleep with it, and in the morning I take it off.”
“So you’re my steady girl?”
“Yes!” she cried.
We kissed again, and I dangled my errant hand in the air to keep it away from her breast. It was making its own decisions.
By and by we heard the sound of an engine from the direction of Clark Lane and broke out of our kiss. Parallel beams shot past the house. There was a deceleration and the car came to a halt out front. It was Anya’s GTO.
Myra began to panic and I shushed her.
“It’s my brother,” I said.
“Oh God, your brother.”
“It’s okay, he’s on our side,” I said.
“If Gaylord finds out—”
We kept watching. Stan was driving, and now he flung open the driver’s door while Anya climbed from the passenger side and went around to take the wheel. Beside the car they sullenly kissed.
Myra shielded her eyes. “We shouldn’t be watching this.”
After Anya coasted away I dashed to the yard and nabbed Stan.
“I have Myra with me! Open up the window so we can get in.”
He didn’t say a word. He went in the house, and a few seconds later the window was raised.
“Hey, little Joyner.” He gave her a wink.
Myra didn’t respond. I cupped my hand and she put her foot in it and Stan pulled her up. I tossed her bundle through the window and climbed in behind her.
The three of us stood in the dark room, baffled, amazed. Stan switched on the desk lamp.
Myra squinted at me. She squinted at Stan. She squinted at the bunk beds. Then she burst into tears.
I shushed her and lowered her to the bed. I put my arm around her.
My brother, for once, behaved chivalrously. He gave her one of his monogrammed handkerchiefs from the dresser drawer. Then he went to the kitchen and brought back a glass of water and some cookies. I thought that was right nice. I was surprised he did it.
Myra thanked him politely. She took a gulp of water and said, “I’m so scared.”
“Want me to take you home? Maybe we can sneak you back in the window.”
“What if they already know I’m gone?”
“Aren’t they asleep?”
“Daddy looks in on me when he goes to the bathroom. He might know by now.”
That made me kind of nervous.
“What are we going to do?” she said.
“I don’t know. There’s a deserted cabin on Baskin Road, I was thinking we could take you there.”
“To a deserted cabin? What if it’s got mice!”
She cried again, only this time a lot harder.
It was too much for my exhausted nerves. I looked at my brother. He was sitting backwards in the chair, with his chin against the back. He made a scornful sound through his nose. “What the hell did you sneak out of the house for? You expect a luxury hotel?”
“Shut up,” I told him.
Myra became dignified. She looked at me coolly, not bothering to answer. “I need to sleep,” she said.
She curled up in my bed. I sat beside her and patted her shoulder. Stan turned out the top light and climbed to the top bunk and went to sleep in his clothes.
I stayed next to her for a long time, unsure what I should do. Should I remain as a sentry? Curl up beside her? Finally I curled up beside her.
A snore came from the top bunk.
Myra rolled around to face me.
“I think I should go home in the morning,” she whispered.
“Okay,” I said.
“I won’t tell them where I was.”
“Won’t you get in trouble?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
After a while I said, “Will you still be my steady girl?”
She was quiet.
“I must be going crazy,” she said. “I like you. I really like you.”
“Even though I’m a Witcher,” I said.
“Oh no, you’re too good to be a Witcher.”
She fell asleep after that. Her leg twitched once or twice.
I stared at the declivity above, where my brother was sleeping. What did she mean I was too good to be a Witcher? Why did my victory have to be so unpleasantly qualified?
I had a suspicion there would be hell to pay.
19
IT WAS WAITING in the morning.
We heard a pounding at the door and my mother shouted, “What did you lock the door for? What are you doing in there?”
Myra’s face, all scrunched up, turned to look at me.
“Is Myra Joyner with you?”
I peeked out the bedroom window, the one that faced the front. The Joyners’ blue Impala was parked outside. Rusty was sitting on his haunches, grinning at the house.
“It’s your parents.”
Myra didn’t let a second pass. Just as she had efficiently obeyed Gaylord at the pool, now she leapt up, sn
atched her bundle from the desk, transferred the bracelet from wrist to pocket, and, with a neat, lovely swipe at her hair, swung open the bedroom door.
My mother and Mr. Joyner were in the doorway, with Pop hovering a few feet behind.
“Okay young missy, we’re going home right this minute,” Mr. Joyner said.
I stepped forward.
“I want you to know one thing, Mr. Joyner. It’s my fault. I talked Myra into it.”
“I don’t doubt that in the least. Come on, Myra.”
He pulled her into the hall. One of his eyebrows was arched upwards like a rocket ship about to fly towards the sky. For a few seconds he looked crazy—genteel Mr. Joyner looked crazy! His eyes were churning at me. He had a weird grin on his face. He kept darting glances, at me, at Pop, at Mom, at Stan, with a wild, trapped expression. It was as though he had just got his first glimpse of the minor demons of Hell. Never had I felt such contempt coming from an adult. I realized I was taking my prideful place in the Gallery of Witchers. No longer would the neighbors pity my low birth. I had grown into my fate. I was behaving as my blood had bound me.
Pop didn’t like the way Joyner was looking at me. He put his hand out and Joyner yanked away, as if a Witcher touch might prevent his escape from the abyss.
And then it was over, just like that. Myra didn’t even say good-bye. We heard the screen door slam (letting it slam was a deliberate insult) and we heard the Joyner car move off.
Rusty barked twice and stayed in the yard.
“Damn dog gave us away,” I said.
“He didn’t need the dog to find out where she was. He knew where she was the second he saw she was gone. And quit saying ‘damn.’” Mom was furious. “What’s been going on between you and Myra Joyner that I didn’t know about?”
“She’s my girlfriend,” I said.
Pop laughed triumphantly, unable to check himself. Mom gave him a livid frown and he wiped his mouth.
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