Then, at the shop he had enough time to check the mail, collect the notes left by two customers who wanted their chairs, and another who asked that her sofa be picked up. A quick check told Sam he had only enough work for two days, even if he did some of the stuff that had been lying around for months. No matter, he'd get it all done then spend time really cleaning the place out. He was half way through Mary's letter again when the phone rang. He stared at it. He knew it would not be her. --Yes.
--Don't yes me, you son of a bitch, love's grand!
--Hey! Lou, don't break my balls.
--I stopped by earlier. I have to talk to you.
--Come on, Lou, don't jerk me off, you always had the answers. Now you have to talk to me? You can only have one of my balls, you know that, left or right, which?
--Are you going to be there, I'll come down, maybe around eight-thirty?
--Sure, Lou, I'm sorry for your troubles.
--What troubles?
--He who lives by an erection...
--...dies with each orgasm. Ain't it the truth? Later.
--Later.
Later, by forty minutes, Sam stood in the doorway of Santini Moving and Storage, and had just turned away from the activity involving the burning car when he was chondrificated. Mary? In the dusk? Standing on the corner. Alone? Waiting for someone? He forced the doefever to pass. --Mary!
--Sam!
Disbelieving the reality, in the day's near-failed light, as in a dream, she drifted into the doorway with him. Tenuously, they touched hands, unsaid a thousand words, understood a heartful of explanations. With an almost imperceptible movement, she responded moving closer to him.
For Sam, it was the apperception of the omniscient moment in the park while reading her letter that he knew--he knew--he would see her there at that very time that caused the moment of shock. Delighted? Absolutely. But how did he know? Did he wish for it so much reality lost its distinguishability? Perhaps. But at that second, he didn't care. Really. He was prepared to raise the art of total presence to a new science, where he combined the mystical erudition of the orient and psychoalterantchemicals to perform in standard time yet record in extreme slow motion. Not one dot of a sensation, not one fraction of a fragmented motion, not one bit of a beat escaped the videotape of his mind. Quite deliberately, their arms went the same about each other, one at the waist, one at the neck, so smoothly, so slowly as if they greeted so all their lives. Gentle it was to draw out of the gesture all of its sensuality. They stood so for long moments as stare descended deeply into stare seeing only the blur of passion's ebullition. Bliss, exquisite piercing bliss, slivered out in a heated hiss for disenunciated appellations of love ending as lips covered lips, the flush of sweetness flooding the senses; racing blood pulsepounding heart, head, vital other places. The wet of her kiss, the put of her hand, the push of her body crashed into his senses which were sending out reserves to meet the heat of his kiss, the command of his hand, the shaded solicitation. Deep they did of each other. Not to stop. Not to stop. Not to stop. She did, not to faint on the spot.
--My dearest, how did you know?
--I knew.
--You knew?
--I was prepared to wait all night. I have so much to tell you. Kiss me again!
--I have so much to tell you... We mustn't... People will see us. I'm sorry. I can't keep my hands off of you.
--Mary, I want to hold you again.
--Stay...there. Please...! God! Oh! God! So this is what it's like? We have a few moments only...my mother...
--There is so much to tell you! Where to start! Let's not do it this way, better, let's run away!
--Yes! Do it! Let's be together always!
--Come! Then!
Mary, I want to kiss you. Kiss me.
Sam, I want to kiss you. Kiss me.
The instant was the same for both as they stepped toward the other. This time his arms captured her waist, hers his neck. The instant, filled with fear they would lose this moment, too, inspired them to clutch hard at each other. The instant was anchored in one swift, conspicuous meeting of their eyes followed by lips searching out lips. Each found the delicious moistness of the other painting their ardor, each pressing the harder into the other, the peripheral consummation dissatisfying, frustrating; the mounting tension demanding complete release.
Bewildered, not understanding how it happened, Sam found his tongue tracing her lips with the confounding sensation that there was a direct connection, as an electrical current, that stimulated the head of his penis. So swift the engorgement of his organ, to near-bursting, it was excitingly painful.
A barrage of thoughts and sensations in each:
Sam:
My God! What's happening? What a thrilling experience! Can this really be true, that I'm holding Mary in my arms, that I'm kissing her, that she's kissing me back? Lord! I have such a hard-on! Embarrassing? No, no need. Not after this afternoon. She knew it was hard then, and seemed to like it, not mind it. Why should we try to conceal it now? Feels like it's going to bust. It's up against her bone down there. She knows it. Pushing back against it. Dry hump. That's what we're doing, dry humping. Good thing it's gotten dark or for sure we'd be spotted in this doorway. What a place to be. We should go someplace. Where? If I had a car we could run off to a motel, up Boston Post Road, or someplace. Feel that! Her hand on your neck, pulling you in tight to her lips. She wants me as bad as I want her. God! What's happening! My tongue! Down! In! Between her teeth, into her mouth, touching hers! Flicking about. Oh! God! Oh! God! Oh! God! She’s sucking it! Like she's ready to suck it out by the roots! Holding it in her mouth so tight! My God! I've never known anything like this before! I think I'm going to explode. Is this really me? Am I going to wake up with a wet dream? How alive! How exciting! I would do anything not to ever have this end! Imagine if we were alone, in a room, where we could do this, and do this, and do this as long as we wanted, then when we couldn't stand it any more, we would go all the way and make mad, passionate love again and again. Oh! God! Stop! Stop! You're going to drive yourself crazy! Where are all these feelings coming from? I don't care! Just don't have them stop! Those sensations running up and down my legs, through my penis, filling my chest. I feel so light-headed! Hey! Look! That’s me! Here I am standing on the sidewalk looking in this doorway watching me holding and kissing Mary, thrusting and rubbing your swollen cock into her, and she rolling her hips around into you, moving her head back and forth trying to burrow deeper into your mouth. I can see the aura between the both of you of extreme sexual agitation. So much so, I would say, that another five seconds of this activity, and you'll both be tearing the clothes off each other, and fucking there and then. The law? Say what? --Mary, Mary! I love you! Stop, we must stop or I'll die on the spot! Oh! Jesus! I was almost...I was right on the verge...I almost came!
Mary:
This man loves me. I know it! How I adore him! I would do anything for him! How he grasps me so tightly, yet so gently, yet I need to feel him more violently still! Press my lips! Yes! Press them hard! Bruise them to let me remember the reality of this dream. Kiss me harder! Bite me! Anything! Anything but let me feel the more of you! Sweet Jesus! The feel of his tongue. I want it in me. How easy! To suck it in, and hold it tight filling me completely with desire to possess in me him, in him me! And, yes, the hardness again at my bump at my vee. His penis. Erect. Excited. Wanting. Needing. Prodding. Urging. I can't help the grinding, the churning back at him. How I want to feel that hugeness inside me. What must that be like? Oh! I don't care! I don't care for anything except to respond to this summons from my heart and soul. It seems to stem from eons past, beyond my control, my understanding. As if the importance of this act is beyond us as persons, that we are merely designates performing a designated task for which we are rewarded with no small measure of enjoyment. It is what male and female do. Preferably with some attraction. Preferably with feeling. Preferably with love. What a warm and comfortable sensation to be held so physically and emot
ionally close at the same time. How dare I not seek out the explosion in my brain that will occur in that instant when his love-filled penis enters me fully for the first time? How different will it be when his in and out and in and out heat me to burning hot and ignites my overfilled pit of passion until an exploding orgasm floods through me? No holding back. Total release. Ecstasy. Madness. And how cheap a price to give my soul for more...
--Sam, I love you! Oh! Don't stop! Press close--down there--some more...!
She's talking about my hard-on! She wants me not to stop dry humping her! --No! Stop!
--Are you so bothered? I can feel how hot and straining hard it is.
--I'll bust wide open...
--Sam...darling...give me your hand... please... Sweet Mother Mary my vagina feels so full and heavy. Pulsing. Flooded. My nipples are so hard they hurt! My thing is straining back at his, and rubbing it makes me feel so funny...
What is it? She's taking my hand. God! I feel like I'll split my seams... She's bringing it to her...there! She's pushing my hand, my fingers into her! Rubbing her hard...her hand against mine, mine against her...against her...yes! I feel it...! I feel it!
--Oh! Sam! I'm coming...! I'm coming! ...Oh! ...Oh! How exquisite...
Feel her shake! Shivering. Straining. Urging so forcefully against me! God! She's having an orgasm! She's coming! Right now! How it excites me! How it incites me. Uncontrollably rough he grabs at her love bump.
Oh! More! More! Don't stop, Sam! I wish I could feel you inside me. Oh! God! Is that ever good! I think...I think I'm going to pass out...
If she so much as brushes against my hard-on I'm going to come, too. I can feel her shaking all over. She's pulling me down to her lips again. I know I'll come...I know it! How sweet those lips. How pleasurable to kiss them. I can feel the orgasm draining her. What cruel and miserable bastard of a god would keep such pleasure from us for so long a time? Perhaps to better enjoy the road remaining.
Frozen, as if the world pushed a pause button, they remained holding each other, feeling only the others' heartbeat, sensing her ebbing ecstasy.
--Sam, you know I love you. How you did that so suddenly to me.
--I love you, Mary. I don't know what we're going to do, but when we do it, it's going to be terrific.
--Don't argue! We don't have much time. Turn toward the door.
--I could never get it out of my pants the way it is now. It would kill me. Some other time. People passing by. And she lives right near by! You can't expose her to that. But Christ! Do I need it. Feels like they've turned into bocce balls! Besides, I've got something vital, very important to tell you about our parents. Your parents, my parents. About their business arrangement. I just found out about it last night. There wasn't a second to tell you about it this afternoon, but we must make time for you to hear it all, all of it.
--Tell me! What's it about?
--We don't have time now, unless we can meet later...?
--After last night? ...my father. He won't let me out of his sight.
--When do we see each other again?
--We must be careful. Louisa's coming to the house tonight. I'll arrange with her to tell you. ...are you sure you don't want me to...you know...do something...? Oh! God! Seems that's all I'm saying, but there! My mother! On the other corner! Looking for me! I must leave!
--Here! I want you to have this!
--What is it?
--From me to you. A token. I love you, Mary Dolorosso.
Little box. Wrapped, violets covered paper. Lavender ribbon. Sam! How sweet! How wonderful! How marvelous! No one! Ever! Before! In! My! Whole! World! --I love you, Sam Scopia.
She left. Sam gradually became aware he was the proud transporter of an excruciating case of lover's nuts. If the condition could be measured, he would bet the sack he could set a world record. He could barely walk six steps, stiff and wide-legged, without stopping. He rested for long moments on the benches on Morris Park Avenue, reaching down now and then to cradle tenderly the lovejuice overfilled orbs, then forced himself to march to the shop to meet Lou, which he really didn't want to do because he knew he couldn't hide his condition, and Lou would razz him about it for years to come. Oh! That word: Come. No doubt, a painful undertaking. Love's double-edged sword at work.
CHAPTER 23
NIGHT: ULIGINOUS, VISCOUS blackness frothed Sam's perceptions as he approached the funeral parlor, which actually was an abandoned grocery store that served otherwise as a social club for the nearby community. But, at times as these, it was pressed into needful service where the family was huge and resources small, such as Lincoln Jackson's. Yards of loose-folded crepe covered the windows, and a small-watted blue bulb in a nubby shade was all that signaled the use to which the space was put. The partially open front door let out a slip of a shaft of valiant, orangey candle flame light which made pathetic yardage, but not before it was noticed by Sam who was directed to it by a reticent cab driver.
--The Jackson Family, he said to the black unseen against the black as Sam made his approach, my friend's son is laid out.
The voice, only the voice it was, came guttural and deep, worn bare and hollow from centuries of vengeful, angered screams but tempered still by reason: --Best you be not as you be doing. A white, unbloodied face be not welcome two years close.
--I'm sorry. Lincoln Jackson has all. His family, his relatives, his friends. I need him as much as he needs me. He has his son now forever. Grief sees grief, all else unseeing. Grief knows grief, naught else is my call. Grief beats grief; I bring him mine the sooner to fall it. I'll go, if you say.
--Come, deeper but mellower the reverberating boom of the barrel-chested black, I can get you to the mother. Silent, wordless, as if Sam closed his eyes and walked he took the path that sensed to him to be correct, though he was honing on the short, heavy anguished breath and scuff of the rolling, heaving bark of a black man up ahead that took him through a door, up a short flight of stairs, into a candlelit room, complete with bier and lavendered black, and slickrun tearmarked faces, some sad, and some sadder than life.
--Pizzazz Jackson? Guideblack underlined in reverence and turned himself into crepe.
--Yes? Casting up her gaze, it caught at the white specter of a face hovering untethered before her.
--Your husband's been special to me, Ms. Jackson. I'm Sam Scopia, and I'm terribly sorry for your troubles. Low, sad he swallowed his words even as he felt the prickling caterpillar at his neck calling attention to the thick and rabid air of menacement infused by dozens of sparking eyeball whites plastered on his ghostly, whitewashed face.
--Sam, look what they did to my boy. She reached up to take his hand in both of hers. Her movement did little to dispel the thickened atmosphere, but there brought with it the sadness soaked in centuries of stunning ignorance for the inability of human wisdom to surmount the inhuman instinct of predators. Life, to a man, was a fast jab with no price to pay for the pleasure, and a fare-thee-well so what values a soul, or a generation of them? Nothing. But not so the generator; the producer; the eat-for, sleep-for, heat-for womanmother. Life to her is not come cheap, no mere landlord she. Yet the vision remains to reverse the infinitely impossible reversal of letting the value be set by the maker of the value. It to be and be, her gesture affirmed.
His tears acknowledged that. Overwhelmed by the mountainrange of pain he felt in the room, he understood slightly what had compelled him to do the chance: That the rank emotion brought on by his easy definition as the causal object redirected some small portion of the ache to hate. Ah! How the agonies of St. Anthony must have started this way.
--Sam, speak to them. See they don't see my other children in the same light. I glad you come. The boy’s father needs to see you much more. She held his hand still with one of hers, the other drifting up to wipe one tearrun cheek with her fingertips, and the other with the back of them, the mothershand skillfully guiding him back to the usher.
No eye upon him to watch him go as he came; but
led down and around and up and through and into sick and dampair of a cellar to a door; then a room flooded with the crippled zebralight of a flopping blackribboned screen. A laundrybag of a human form claimed the embrace of a crotchety throne, a pile of cotton atop his crown.
--A high, muckey-muk Mooslim majestic Arab you look like, Lincoln Jackson. I came to pay my respects.
Long fingers dangled down dead from limp wrists overhanging the arms. One finger moving, finally. --Told of your flowers. Thank you. That enough for my son. Give your respects to me. I need them. First, I curse you, Sam.
A tiny gasp, unheard he hoped. What had he done? To deserve such judgment?
--For their being only one of you, and none before ever. And what when we're gone? Do you understand?
--No.
--Tell me, Sam Scopia, is compassion a weakness?
--No.
--See? Only you know that. I double swear at you. If you didn't know that, and let me know you knew that, I would never have known any different about this world in my heart. But when I see that bit of hope in you it takes away the completeness, the perfection of the virulence of my hate, and swears there should have been more of it to go around in my lifetime for all of us. Like a drop of color stains an ocean of water, I understand that essence in you could change the world, that it could have been different. Look at me now. Lincoln Jackson unwrapped lanolined towel after towel from about his head and face and neck, the action caught in the strobelight of the television. Don't come to my funeral, Sam, I don't want you there.
As if the black man reached up to pull him closer until he was a hand away from his face, Sam was drawn toward the corruption clapped on his face, head, neck. Patches of festering, red, boiling vesiculars. --The fuck happened to you!
The incongruous grin: born of a subtle understanding; worn as an incorrigible's punishment. --Doan matta. He waved away the indictment.
The flush of it hit Sam. He was responsible. But how? Surmiseability. You fucking, no-good Do-Gooder! The money you gave him! If you let him work for the money, perhaps he would've felt obligated if only because of his own invested time to contributing to the family tragedy. As it must have been, the forty dollars was a lit fuse to the keg of dynamite. --You bought booze.
A Matter of Love in da Bronx Page 28