In Tall Cotton

by Charles G. Hulse

  “I’ll say ‘phew.’ More than that, little lady. You stink. Come on.” I grabbed her under the arms and swung her up the stairs in front of me to the bathroom. I kicked the door open and let out a cry of surprise. Roy was standing there naked at the sink shaving. “Oh, sorry … I’ll get her out. I didn’t know there was anybody … I just woke up.” I was back in the hall, thankful that he hadn’t turned around. I couldn’t go on subjecting Becky to naked men. And he was one naked man I most certainly didn’t want to see myself.

  “It’s all right,” he called. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  I bent down in front of Becky and started unpinning the revolting diaper—folding it over on its contents with practiced hands, as I wiped her with the small uncontaminated corners. I still wasn’t awake. The events of last night filled my mind and I found myself calling out to Roy even though I’d vowed not to talk to him unless absolutely necessary. “Where is everybody? The house is so quiet.”

  “Dell’s gone off with Woody and Milly to take Junior up to the new hospital. They left almost at daylight.” He appeared in the doorway with a towel wrapped around his waist. “Looks like Junior’s havin’ trouble. Milly said he’d had a bad night.”

  “Bad night? How bad?” I kept my eyes on Becky.

  “Seems she couldn’t break the fever. She’as up with him all night.”

  “Oh God. Well, I hope it’s just a … If I could get in. Becky’s got to be cleaned up.”

  “Go right ahead. All yours.” He did a sort of little dance step and bow as he motioned us into the steamy room.

  “Thanks.” I lifted Becky into the old tub, high up on clawed feet and turned the water on, drowning out further conversation. I busied myself with dumping out the diaper into the toilet and rinsing it in the sink before putting it into the covered bucket with the others.

  Becky was a picture out of a Johnson Baby Powder ad when we got down to the kitchen. So pink, adorable and sparkling that the idea of a dirty diaper was unthinkable.

  “Look at that dream!” Sister exclaimed. “She’s almost as pretty as you were. Here. Give her to me, Tots. Isn’t she something?”

  “You should have seen her a little while ago. A dream was the last thing she was.” I headed for the ice-box to get her milk. “Ah, er … Uncle Roy says they’ve all gone off to the hospital with Junior. Did they say anything to you?”

  “No. I wasn’t up yet. Don’t forget, honey, I’m a night girl. Except last night I conked out early. Being up before eight is not my usual habit.”

  “Well, you have no idea when they’ll be back? Or what they thought was wrong with Junior?”

  “Roy just told me that they were going up to the hospital where they could have tests and things done if they needed them and that’s all I know.” She was bouncing Becky on her knees. “But don’t worry, honey. It can’t be anything very bad. Junior is a real hunk of man. He’ll be all right.”

  “I guess so.” I fixed Becky’s goop and took her from Sister and started feeding her.

  “We’d all know a bit more about what’s going on if Momma only had a phone here,” Sister said, pouring herself more coffee. “I’m going out of my mind—why, when I was coming down here, there was no way to let them know. I just jumped on a bus and come … came. Couldn’t even let Momma know.” She studied her coffee cup intently. “It was a quick decision.” She let out a hoot of laughter. “That sounds like I was run out of town.”

  “We were surprised to find you here. Thrilled, but Aunt Dell’s last letter said you were working in Phoenix and we didn’t expect to get to see you.”

  “Oh, you know how plans change. Or get changed for you. Soon as I get this little problem straightened out …” Her voice was vague. “Look at yours. Your plans. What come over Woody? Wasn’t everything going good up there in … in …”

  “Clovis.”

  “Yeah. Clovis. He had a good job.”

  “You’ve known Dad longer than I have.” I gave her a knowing look and we both laughed. “You know how he is. Blows up and that’s that.”

  “That’s my Uncle Woody, all right. I’m surprised that Milly kept him tamed for this long.”

  “I’m not so sure it was Mom who tamed him.” That just popped out and I looked up quickly at Sister to see if she’d found it a strange thing to say. She was stirring her coffee with a far-away look in her eye. It was a strange thought—a new thought that wasn’t all that new somehow. It had been lurking around in my head for a long time. It was just something that hadn’t been spoken, been brought out in the open. Sister wasn’t paying any attention, nor why should she? She couldn’t be aware of what Dad had been doing the past few years—what he was dreaming—what his hopes were for Junior. And now Junior was sick. Proving that dreams are pretty fragile things—particularly if you’re depending on somebody else to realize them for you. But if he were banking on Junior being that star, the international name in sports, that rocket that would soar and make Dad somebody, why had he pulled the rug out from under himself? From under his own dreams? Perhaps it’s better not to dream. Then disappointment won’t demolish you. Was being able to say “I’m not taking that kinda shit” worth shattering all your hopes? Surely in life you can take just a tiny weeny bit of shit without losing your manhood or your self-respect. How healthy is your self-respect if you give in to every whim, every flash of temper, just drifting with the wind with no thought of your future or anybody else’s? Was it manly to give up the struggles for a better life and sneak back home with your tail between your legs to the known, the sure thing, the cronies at the Court House in Galena. Those ne’er-do-wells were constant. You could depend on them. They’d be there, feet up on the ledge of the big brick building, telling each other the same made-up tired stories until they dropped dead of boredom never having had a dream worth a fart. That light I’d seen shining in Dad’s eyes had gone out. The stardust he hoped would sprinkle on him from his son’s—no, dammit, sons—success and fame wasn’t worth waiting for. Why risk defeat. Why not accept it right off the bat and go home to the good ole boy horseshit and bury yourself in it. What gave Dad the right to decide our lives? He’d managed to ruin his own young life and was now dead set on ruining ours and what remained of his own. If he chose to disown his dreams, who said he could wrench ours from us?

  “Watch it, honey!” Sister said and grabbed at Becky’s dish which was about to slip to the floor. “Where’d you go off to?”

  I shook my head. “Don’t know. Daydreaming, I guess.” I sat up straight and finished feeding my charge.

  “Well, I can’t daydream. I’ve got to get dressed and do my daily phoning. How can people live without a phone? I ask you. I have to do it early to catch George at home. If I don’t, the secretary listens in and I don’t want that.” I wasn’t following what she was saying. “Don’t look so dumb, dummy. George. George Griggs. That up and comin’ young lawyer. My brother-in-law. Your very own cousin. Married to my ever-lovin’ sister Mavis.”

  “I know, I know,” I laughed as she ruffled my hair. “But where do you go?”

  “To place the call? The Del Rey Hotel. Right there on the main square.” She headed for the door. “I’m in like that with the bartender there,” she said grinning and crossing her index finger over the next one. She obviously had an affinity for bartenders. “It’s the only lively place in this one-horse town.”

  “But how come you have to call every day …” I called after her as I heard her footsteps going up the stairs.

  “Long story,” she called back. “Tell you all about it later.” After I’d done the dishes, made the beds—Aunt Dell’s and Roy’s was neatly pulled together, thank God, I didn’t want to go into their room—I dressed Becky in a sunsuit and took her outside for a walk. She was getting steadier on her feet all the time. She’d dart ahead of me and I’d have to dash up behind her and place her back on the sidewalk as she started heading for the street as though pulled by a magnet.

  We made our erratic way d
own the street, around the corner and down the next four or five blocks that led to the pretty little square we’d passed when we arrived yesterday. Yesterday? Only yesterday? Here Becky and I were, walking along as though we’d known this little town all our lives. There was a small park in the center of the square with carefully clipped shrubbery and freshly mown lawn around an ornately carved stone fountain as its centerpiece. The water trickling from tier to tier sounded cool. Becky ran round and round the fountain, splashing her hands in the water, squealing with joy. I had to pick her up kicking and screaming when workmen appeared to string up lights around the fountain and up through the palm trees that formed a border around the edges of the square. I found out that the lights were in preparation for a three-day fiesta to begin that evening, commemorating St. Augustine’s Day. St. Augustine was the first city founded by the Spanish in the New World in 1565 and was celebrated wherever descendants of the Spanish lived. There’d be music, dancing, stalls of Mexican food, games of chance, penny-pitches and everything like a carnival—“But only a little one,” the electrician told me.

  I carried Becky across the busy street along the square and found myself in front of the Del Rey Hotel. It looked a bit dusty and run down, not like the glitteringly elegant Hotel Tucson in Phoenix, but then the whole square had a dusty, dog-eared look. All the buildings were run-down except the two churches facing each other at opposite ends of the square. One the Catholic Cathedral, the other more modest, the Episcopalian. They stood staring at each other across the park but there didn’t seem to be any competition or hostility between them. They lived in harmony. The Catholic one was decidedly more ornate and freshly white-washed for St. Augustine’s Day, but the Episcopalian one was impressive in its simpler solid architecture.

  We walked up and down in front of the hotel just in case Sister might come out, but after several minutes on the hotel sidewalk, we gave up and headed back down our own street for Aunt Dell’s house.

  The Model-A was just pulling up to the curb as we turned the corner. I called and waved, snatched up Becky and ran toward the car noticing immediately that there were only three people in it. Junior wasn’t with them.

  Mom answered my question before I had time to ask it. “They’re keeping him there for some tests,” she said, reaching automatically for Becky’s outstretched arms and calls of “Mama, mama, mama.”

  “Get us a beer open, Tots,” Dad said unceremoniously.

  “Oooh, lawsey, yes, honey!” Aunt Dell crooned. “Hurry. I don’t know how a body can get so thirsty. We was puttin’ away enough liquid last night to last a week. I guess it’s like Chinese food. Don’t stick to the ribs.” She winked and shoved me ahead of her up the walkway.

  Over sandwiches and salad it was explained that Mom had been right. There was nothing wrong with Junior’s heart. Organically, that is. But something was causing it to work doubly hard. The temperature remained up but not alarmingly. The headaches had been eased with pain-killers. He was not even assigned a room. He was stretched out on a table in the consulting room waiting for the results from the urine, blood, and mucus (from his inflamed nasal passages) tests which were being done now right there in the hospital. It was the most up-to-date medical center this side of Phoenix and Aunt Dell kept repeating the fact as though it’s newness would make everything right.

  They all went back at two o’clock, Aunt Dell insisting that she wanted to be with them and had nothing else to do. Sister returned just as they were getting in the car. She’d had lunch with the bartender at the Del Rey and hadn’t been able to get through to George. She’d have to go back to the hotel and try George again in the afternoon. She had talked to Mavis who sent us all her love and hoped that there was nothing seriously wrong with Junior.

  Becky was asleep, Sister back at the Del Rey, and I was soaking in the tub taking advantage of the empty house and empty hours. I was on my hands and knees, head under the taps lathering in shampoo from an elegant little bottle I’d found on the edge of the tub and couldn’t resist trying. I seemed to have overdone it somehow. I’d created enough foam to put out a burning airplane and no amount of rinsing could make the shampoo disappear. I was manufacturing suds. I turned both taps up full and stuck my head under the water. Perhaps I’d misread the label and it was some sort of shaving lather or bubble bath. I could feel that I was spraying suds all over the room at the same time I felt a hand on my bottom. I gave a shriek and bumped my head against the spigot and let out another shriek. I rinsed enough soap out of my eyes to see Roy grinning at me, stroking my buttocks from a position on his knees beside the tub. I rubbed my head where I’d banged it—another good-sized bump. Just why in hell did people do this sort of thing to me? I was going to get killed one day by some idiot grabbing me unexpectedly when my head was in a dangerous position. And just why in the hell did people think they could take these liberties with my body in the first place?

  “I think my head is bleeding.”

  There was a plastic basin on the floor which Roy picked up and dipped into the full tub and poured water over my head, rinsing all the foam off in one huge cascade. “There. Got the soap out of your eyes?” He splashed my face with water from the taps and turned them off.

  “You scared me. I was … I thought I was alone.” His hand was still moving between my legs, tickling me gently and giving me a hard on. How old did you have to be to tell a grown-up no? When did your body become your own? Respect your elders … Should be seen and not heard … Do as I say … Your father knows best. I wasn’t so sure of that last one. All that Dad knew was that Roy was a bronco-bustin’, steer-ropin’ son of a gun and a real he-man. A man’s man. Sixty-five pushups. There. See? Count ’em. A real man’s man. Not a man for boys. Put his hand on a kid’s ass? Are you nuts? Suck cock? Why Dad would beat the shit out of anybody who even hinted at such a possibility. Why, hell, Roy was his brother (in-law, same thing) and don’t forget it. What do you think this family is, buster, some kinda’ traveling freak show?

  So there you are. No matter how you slice it, the grown-ups had power over us. Dad had total and absolute power over his family. Whether it was deserved is beside the point. Roy had power over me. Over my body. And power corrupts. Corrupts young boys in this case. How far was I to be corrupted?

  “Oh, you never know when ole Roy’s goin’ to pop up.” He did. He lifted himself up onto his knees in one quick movement bringing his hard cock up past the rim of the bathtub. I’d never seen a grown man’s cock hard. The scout master’s I never actually saw. Roy’s looked enormous and dangerous somehow. Muscular as though it too might have been doing sixty-five pushups every day. I gasped. “Well, old Roy has really popped up.” He looked down at himself and then at my stricken face. “Don’t be scared. It won’t bite.”

  He had both hands on my buttocks now, lifting me around to face him as though I weighed nothing. His elbows were locked on the inside of the tub and as he leaned his head forward, he brought my crotch to his face as though he were lifting a long barbell—doing curls I think Junior calls it. He brought me to his mouth, took me inside it and then did the weight-lifting curls gently, sliding me in and out of his mouth by bending his elbows slightly. He wasn’t even moving his head, I was being moved into him. His fingers, cupped under my cheeks played along between them and up under my balls. Talk about being transported. I was suspended in mid-air in his hands, a weightless object, flying through space on wings, my whole being a mass of jangling, mind-boggling sensations. The body has its own demands, its own needs that have power over you, too. Particularly when aroused. I was aroused now and was overpowered by superior forces from every direction. I couldn’t have fought it if I’d wanted to. I was becoming a slave to Roy’s mouth. I surrendered but loathed those superior forces for making the surrender so abject. If I was being corrupted, it seemed to be a fairly complete job.

  Somehow he managed to spread my legs so that they stretched out and up over his shoulders, with the small of my back resting on the edge of the
bathtub while I supported myself with locked elbows and an iron grip on the far edge of the tub. I really was flying—my head back, back arched, my legs my wings, spread wide, upper thighs resting on his shoulders, supporting my weight while his mouth provided fuel and propulsion for my flight. This wasn’t boys playing with each other, this was pure sex, pure pleasure. This wasn’t experimenting—certainly not on Roy’s part—this was the real thing, this was experience speaking, serious experience speaking loud and clear.

  He knew what he was doing and I was loving it. It, not him. The sensations, not who was producing them. Stumbling attempts with other boys had been exciting, but we didn’t know what we were doing, we’d just been trying it out. We hadn’t been trained. We hadn’t been exposed to experts like Roy who could render us incapable of thought. Or speech. I couldn’t have said no now if my life depended on it. Roy’s sheer professionalism paralyzed the mind to everything except the body’s enjoyment.

  He didn’t have to ask me if I were in his power, he knew I was. He not only knew it by the way my body was reacting, but also he knew his … Well, his business. I snapped my head forward and looked down at him for the first time. Something about his looselipped avidity and total concentration on his task told me that he wasn’t using all his knowledge and experience just to please me—he was being transported too. This wasn’t a one-way street. Somehow I’d figured that so long as he was just giving me pleasure, it would lessen the inherent vileness in the act. The act between a man and an almost fifteen-year-old boy. He wasn’t making love to my body with his mouth and hands for my benefit only. He was doing it for himself. He was using my body for his own pleasure and anything I got out of it was incidental. He was using his tricks with practiced ease and timing—knowing what he was doing to me, the inexperienced one—introducing me to sinful practices and making me like them. For the inexperienced one, how far were these practices supposed to go? Were they just a one-time thing? Then over? Something to forget about? Or was the sensation to be so intense and satisfying that search for repeats would be inevitable? That was where the real danger lay. Surely it would be difficult not to search for a repeat of the kind of orgasm he was bringing me to now. He must have known that it was like nothing I’d ever known. Would there be others tomorrow? Would it wind up with me seeking him out?