Summer of '42

by Herman Raucher

  “It is I.” He struggled with the thought of bad grammar at a time like that, wondering if it shouldn’t have been “me” and not “I.” Pronouns had never been his strong point. Especially when they were proper pronouns or possessives or other things along those similar lines.

  “Come in. The door’s open.”

  The door was indeed open. She hadn’t lied. Fortified by that knowledge, Hermie went in. Again, there was the photograph of the handsome soldier, smiling at Hermie. Or was he laughing? Her voice fluttered out on a butterfly’s vapor trail. “I’ll be with you in a minute. Why don’t you sit down?”

  “I certainly will.” That sounded wrong. “Shall,” he then said. That seemed worse. So he just sat down on the sofa and tried not to sweat, remembering his words to Benjie on that very same subject a hundred years ago at the movie house. Still, he could smell the goddamn Mum coming out of every armpit, and he knew he was using up his protection rapidly. Again he considered running. Maybe, if she hadn’t really seen him, she might think it was some other boy who’d run away. And the next time he’d see her on the beach he’d explain to her that his division had been called up. But hadn’t she asked, “Is that you, Hermie?” And hadn’t he said, “It is I”? And hadn’t that been where all the trouble started in the first place? A magnet pulled him to his feet because there was a sudden music in the room.

  She was standing there. No, she was walking toward him. No, she was floating, carrying a tray with coffeepot and cups, entering the room like Ali Baba on the magic carpet. He had to blink his eyes to get her feet down to the floor where they belonged and the Mum under his arms was so hot that it sent up sputters of steam through which he could barely make out her incredible face. He was on fire, a five-alarmer. Somebody save the children.

  “I think it’s cooler than last time.” She was, of course, referring to the coffee.

  “I hear it’s going to rain.” He, of course, was referring to the weather.

  She dropped it mercifully and set the tray down gently. “Yes,” she said. It was the way people said “yes” when they had no idea what you were talking about. “Please sit down.” It occurred to him that he had already done that, but if it would make her happy— He sat down again. On his metal mirror. He could feel it bend. If it had snapped, he could have applied for a Purple Heart owing to heavy shrapnel in the ass while carrying out a dangerous assignment. He could tell that the mirror hadn’t broken. It was only severely bent. He sat an inch higher than he ever had sat before. She was talking again. “Did you enjoy the film the other night?”

  “Yes.” Now he was doing it. And that was rude. So he went a little further, just to break the ice. “I like John Loder.”

  “Oh? Which one was John Loder?”

  “The other one.”

  “Oh.” That was just like her “yes.”

  “John Loder’s always the other one. Unless when it’s Ralph Bellamy. When it’s Ralph Bellamy…it’s not John Loder.” He was being brilliant again. “Anyway, that’s how it works. If it isn’t one, it’s the other. Or else it’s Herbert Marshall, who you can tell by his limp. He has a wooden leg. Not many people know that. It’s not common knowledge.” He knew that she had every right to assume that he was insane. He watched her pour the coffee and waited for her to tell him to get the hell out of her house because he was nuttier than a fucking fruitcake.

  “I thought your date was very attractive.” She sat down and crossed her legs, and he went out of his mind at the sight of them.

  “She was all right.” He didn’t really care to talk about Aggie when those knees were pointed at his, from not five inches away and gaining.

  “Is she a steady girlfriend?”

  “Not of mine.”

  “Oh. Just casual.”

  “Yes.” He wanted to get off the subject of Aggie, once and for all and forever. “Anyway, I don’t expect I’ll be seeing her again.” Finis.

  “Did you have a fight?” She just wouldn’t put it down.

  “She doesn’t talk. How can we fight?”

  “You don’t mean she’s a…mute?”

  “I don’t know.” And he didn’t. He hadn’t really heard her speak at all. He began to feel revulsed. He’d been feeling up a deaf mute. No wonder she had no nipple. And what else was wrong with her that he couldn’t even begin to guess at?

  “Oh,” she said. So far she had said two “ohs” and one “yes,” and they were all indications that she didn’t know what to make of him.

  Hermie figured it was time to become charming. He sipped the coffee and let her see that he was thinking about it, gauging the temperature like some kind of fucking expert. “Ummmmm,” he said. “The coffee is exquisite.”

  That got her. She smiled at his poetic grasp of language. “Why, thank you.”

  “How long have you had it?”

  “Actually, I just made it.”

  “Well, I’ll try not to drink too much and you can have it tomorrow.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, but—”

  “I wouldn’t think of it.” He hadn’t put any sugar or any cream in his coffee, but he still stirred it as though hoping to churn it into butter.

  She smiled and sipped her coffee like the Queen of England. And she began to kind of kick her top leg rhythmically. Hermie had heard that women could cross their legs like that, and by moving them rhythmically, they could masturbate. That’s why he got a little panicky. If she was masturbating, it was a little too close for comfort. The Mum under his arms was bubbling like a witch’s brew. She uncrossed her knees and then put the other one on top. Fantastic. She could masturbate with either foot. Ambidextrous. Of course, she’d pretend she wasn’t doing it and would go right on talking as though nothing were happening. “The other boy with you, Hermie—was he a friend?”

  For a moment he thought it was her knee that was talking, and he talked back at it. “Yes.”

  She saw him looking at her knee and grew a bit uneasy and uncrossed her legs and tucked them both modestly beneath her skirt. She was giving her thing a little rest and a little air. If she had had an orgasm, she could sure keep it a secret. “Is he a good friend? Hermie? Hermie?” She even went so far as to snap her fingers under his nose to bring him around.

  He looked up because the voice was coming from her mouth. She was some kind of a goddamned ventriloquist. Hermie’s own voice sounded to him as though it were coming from around a corner. He looked, but there was no one there. It had been nothing but his own voice saying, “Yes. He’s a military acquaintance.”

  “Ahhh.” She was impressed. She liked fighting men. Obviously. Why else Pete’s photograph?

  “Yes, he’ll be going into the Marines soon. His brother is a full colonel in combat. In the Pacific.” Lies, lies.

  “Oh, my.”

  “He comes from a whole family of fighting men.” Dentists.

  “The two of you seem to have a great deal in common.”

  “I think so.” He was watching how she sipped her coffee. Her lips were moist and had to part to let the coffee in. The way her lips parted and let the coffee in and then pursed up and closed when she had as much as she could take—it was one of the sexiest sights he’d ever seen. Oh, that he were a cup between those lips, and they’d make love in little sips. A poem, by Hermie. Jesus Christ and Lord love a duck.

  “I hope it wasn’t inconvenient for you to have to come by like this.”

  “It’s okay.” I’ll come by and heave a sigh, and touch your thigh, and then I’ll die. Another poem, same guy. If she didn’t stop sucking on that coffee cup, there was no telling how long he could last without grabbing her and screwing her the way John Loder should have screwed Miriam Hopkins. Miriam Hopkins?

  She was standing. It made her knees disappear and not a moment too soon. She’d never know how close she’d just come to being forcefully entered, by a guest. She must have thought he was a bit of an oddball because suddenly she was pushing things along. “Hermie, I don’t think it’ll
take too much of your time.”

  “It’s okay. My Uncle Charlie is coming for lunch.” That made about as much sense as anything else he’d said so far.

  She was walking into the other room, and he had somehow risen and was following her behind. It wigwagged, and music came out of it. Harmonicas and chorales and a couple fiddles. He’d have followed that behind anywhere. Waterloo. Brazil. As it was, he followed it into her bedroom. “It’s mostly those boxes.” The behind talked. Then it spun away, and her face finished up. “Clothing. They have to go up in the attic.” The arm was pointing to a square panel that was set flush into the ceiling.

  “And where are these heavy objects?” He was dazed. The two of them were standing less than a foot from her bed, a bed so sweetly covered with a sprightly patterned spread. A fair wind from Java and they’d be on it together. Come in, Java. Do you read me, Java? She seemed very confused, perhaps at something he just said. And she pointed to the ten corrugated cardboard boxes that not even a blind man could miss. “They’re right there. Hermie? Are you all right?”

  “Ah, I see. Here they are.” He was pulling himself together because no one else would.

  She smiled and tossed her hair, and a beautiful pink ear peeked out at him. He could have bitten it. “But I’m being very bad, Hermie. Perhaps you’d like to finish your coffee.”

  “I had enough. You can pour the rest back.” The ear was gone, back into the hair. It was playing hide-and-seek with his heart.

  “Well—” but she knew not to argue the point. There was a wooden ladder against the wall, and she moved to get it in those long willowy strides of hers. Like a tiger. He wanted to throw himself into the cage and be devoured by her. But he knew that it was out of the question.

  “Allow me,” he said. And he grabbed the ladder, practically knocking her aside and onto the bed, which wasn’t such a bad idea if he had a little more guts. Quickly, like a seasoned ladder opener, he opened the ladder and set it up exactly below the panel in the ceiling.

  “How would you like to do it?”

  Hermie shook off the double meaning of the question because, in his heart of hearts, he knew that only one meaning had been intended, so why ruin a beautiful friendship? He kept examining the ceiling while saying “Mmmmmmmmmmm” until his senses returned. Then he climbed the ladder until his head barely touched the panel. He reached up and pressed up on the panel, and it lifted easily and remained balanced in the air on his ten fingers. He flipped it slightly, sliding it to the side and out of the way. Then he climbed a few more rungs and peered over the lip of the opening.

  “What’s up there?” she called from below.

  “Dust.”

  “May I see?”

  “Sure.” Hermie climbed down, and she climbed up. In the process she automatically extended her hand to him so that he could support her in her ascent. It was the first time they touched. Her delicate hand went into his, and where he once had knuckles, he now had bells. Her hand was smaller than his, fitting in so easily that there was still room for the other. Surely she, too, had noticed how large a palm he had. Surely she realized that this was no child in the bedroom with her. Not with a palm as big as that. That was some big palm. As far as she knew, it could just as easily have been the palm of Mel Ott or some other big-palmed man. Hermie felt hugely good about the whole thing as he watched her climbing the ladder. Her shapely legs on tiptoe, like curled carvings, tensed just enough to reveal the finely defined calf muscles. More than that, from his fortuitous angle, Hermie could see more. Much, much more. He could see thighs. He had seen her thighs on the beach but never from such a due south vantage point. To really enjoy a swell pair of thighs, a fella had to get into a position where he could look straight up the length of them. It was the angle that counted, and he had an angle on her thighs that could not be improved upon by an earthworm with a telescope. He looked farther and harder, beyond the fabulous thighs. Higher. And he saw—panties. Probably rayon because of the war, but panties just the same. Pink panties with some kind of embroidered design that could drive cryptographers crazy with their hidden meanings. And the buttocks within the panties— The buttocks, Oscy. The ass! That, too, was marvelously tensed. There was never a better, more captivating couple of tensed buttocks in all history. It was a time for Hermie’s X-ray vision. He sent up the first few introductory beams, just to see how things were. And damned if the panties didn’t begin to melt away, away, away down South in the land of rayon.

  “Oh, there’s lots of room up here. We should have no trouble.”

  Hermie straightened up. It was as though she could see what he was up to. Funny place for an eye, eh, Lestrade? Yes, Holmes. His X-ray vision immediately cut out, the plug having been yanked from the socket by her voice. And the panties reappeared on the buttocks above the thighs, and Hermie felt immediately guilty for having indulged in such dirty thoughts about someone he had such high regard for, even though he’d gladly have given his life to climb the ladder behind her and screw her right there, eight feet above the earth. He gazed at the tan limbs so close at hand, barely inches away from his troubled mind, and a wave of loving sentiment swept over him, and he gave expression to his thoughts in a tender whisper to the dear legs. “Laughter becomes you.” The legs didn’t answer. Perhaps they were too moved to speak.

  The woman came down, Venus descending, ass first, and again she placed her hand into his to steady her. She could easily have said, “My, what a big palm.” Instead she said, “I guess the best thing would be for me to hand the boxes up to you one at a time, don’t you think? Hermie? Hermie?”

  “Yes? Yes?” Jack Benny again.

  “I’ll hand the boxes to you, okay?”

  “Okay.” He climbed the ladder until he was waist up in the attic, his heart over the edge where, if it burst, she wouldn’t be splattered. His hands reached down even though he couldn’t see. And soon there was a cardboard box in it. It wasn’t heavy. He lifted the box the rest of the way and set it down on the attic floor, careful not to let it make any noise lest she think it was too heavy for him.

  As the box came up to him, her voice was in it. “How you doing?”

  “Fine.” He shoved the box neatly across the attic floor. It was all a simple endeavor, and the boxes kept coming up at him one at a time, sometimes speaking, other times silent. But up there in the attic as he was, an image of her came to him that was both terrifying and awe-inspiring. And the thought almost knocked him, yea verily, from the ladder. The woman was below, out of sight. No one could see what she was doing. No one. She was on her own. There’d have been no sense in her trying to look up Hermie’s pants because all she’d have seen was maybe a knee or two. So, being logical, she didn’t waste any time on that kind of nonsense. Instead, consumed with a bestial passion and covered with a lid of secrecy, she flittingly caressed his leg, the left one because it was closer to the heart and therefore more sensitive. She caressed it, rubbed it, fluttered her gorgeous lips along the length of it, and, shit-oh-dear, even nipped at it. Even the Band-Aid on that leg came in for a few love bites. Hermie trembled at the thought of her touch, her lips, her mouth, her teeth—sharp, nipping, biting, licking.

  “Hermie? You all right?” The voice drifted up at him, concerned, alerted. It also came as a dreadful interruption because he could have sworn she was sucking on his Band-Aid. “Hermie, your legs are trembling. Hermie?”

  He snapped out of it. The fantasy left, and the love nipping ceased. And he was just another guy on a ladder with a hard-on, nothing more. His voice came out, hoarse and ragged. “I think the ladder isn’t too good.”

  “Should I hold it?”

  She was doing it again. Double meanings. Whatever could she mean? Was he being dense not to follow up? The fantasy returned as swiftly as it had left. This time settling in with greater fervor, more emotion, harder holding. Her hand was stroking his left thigh. He could feel her move in, her warm breath spreading kisses every which way. Should she hold it? He framed his answer, on
e which would give her every opportunity either to come through or to bug out. “If you like.”

  If she liked? Lord, did she like. The three buttons on his fly snapped open like the NBC chimes. “There,” she said. “I’m holding it. How is it now?”

  “Very nice.” Very nice? Fantastic would have been more like it. He felt himself all swollen like that bull he had once seen on that farm. Her small fingers couldn’t really get around on it. He could envision the expression of surprised pleasure on her face. She wasn’t dealing with just a kid. She could do chin-ups on that thing. She could hit a ball out of Ebbets Field and onto Bedford Avenue with it. She could hold off the Philistines with it, span the Hudson with it, lift the Normandie, dig up the Pyramids. She could—

  “Should I hold it tighter?” Should she hold it tighter? Should she hold it with two hands would have been a better question. It was taking on such monstrous proportions that if he suddenly turned to either side, he’d have brained her with it. The size of the palm is indicative of the size of the penis. Mathematics, baby. You’re learning.

  “Hermie? You’re really trembling. Hermie?” He didn’t care to hear that. He wanted silence. No talking in the balcony. Let’s have no more gabbing, folks.

  “Hermie, what’s wrong?” What’s wrong was that she was talking and ruining everything. That’s what was wrong.

  “Hermie?” Shrink, shrink. Farewell, King Kong. Hello, Eddie Arcaro.

  “Hermie, please answer me.” The dead don’t talk, lady. Save your breath.

  “Come down, Hermie. All the boxes are up there, so you can come down. Hermie?” I’m coming down, I’m coming down. Don’t nag me. I’m coming down.

  He came down, first sliding the panel back into place. He noticed how white her knuckles were from trying to steady the ladder for so long. He probably had been up in that attic for five hours, give or take a year. If he hadn’t so dramatically lost his erection, he’d still be up there, unable to squeeze down out of the attic.