Mr. Christian’s room was at the far end of the hall, so she was not overly anxious about his being disturbed—and the idea of giving herself to the Mexican gardener right under his nose was not without a certain excitement itself; in fact, in one sense, that was more or less the whole point.
Promptly at midnight Emmanuel arrived, entering across the roof and through Candy’s window as they had planned. Candy lay stretched on the bed, the veritable picture of provocation, her blond hair spread like golden flames across the silken rose-lit pillow, and the black shimmering nightgown clinging to her body which lay with a slight reptilian curve, lush at the breast and thigh, lithe and willowy along the waist and limbs.
The gardener stared in amazement; it was too much like a movie or a folktale for him to fully believe, as the lovely girl stretched out her arms, half closed-eyed, whispering:
“Darling, I knew you would come.”
He was dressed as he had been earlier in the day; and still wearing his sneakers, he made no noise as he crossed the carpeted floor to the bed and took the girl in his arms.
“Undress quickly, my darling,” Candy breathed, “and don’t make a sound.” She put a finger to her lips and made her eyes wide to emphasize the necessity of this.
Emmanuel was in the bed in a trice, embracing her feverishly, and snatching her gown at once up to her shoulders.
“Oh, you do need me so!” the closed-eyed girl murmured, as yet not feeling much of anything except the certainty of having to fit this abstraction to the case. But when the gardener’s hand closed on her pelvis and into the damp, she stiffened slightly: she was quite prepared to undergo pain for him . . . but pleasure—she was not sure how that could be a part of the general picture. So she seized his hand and contented herself for the moment with the giving of her left breast, to which his mouth was fastened in desperate sucking.
“Oh my baby, my baby,” she whispered, stroking his head; but the hot insulting hardness of him between her legs was distracting, and somehow destroyed the magic of her breast sacrifice. She closed her eyes again and called upon Professor Mephesto’s words; ‘The needs of man are so many . . . and so aching.’ “Oh how you ache for me, my darling!” She flung both arms around his neck, as he found her tiny clitoris and pummeled it with his calloused fingers, causing her to cry out and stiffen once more in his arms; but, now she fought down the desire to seize his hand, thinking how this was the price of loveliness and the key to the beautiful thrilling privilege of giving fully—and so the gardener would have entered her then, with a terrible thrust to the hilt, so to speak . . . had not a padded scurrying sounded at that moment in the hall.
“Good Grief,” cried Candy, in a very odd voice, “it’s Daddy!” pushing her hands violently against the gardener’s chest. “It’s Daddy!”
And true enough, the door burst open at that instant and Mr. Christian appeared, looking like some kind of giant insane lobster-man. At the sight of them he reeled, his face going purple, then hatefully black, as he crashed sideways against the wall, smashed back by the sheer impact of the spectacle itself. It was not as though he couldn’t believe his eyes, for it was a scene that had formed a part of many many of his most lively and hideous dreams—dreams which began with Candy being ravished, first by Mephesto, then by foreigners, then by Negroes, then gorillas, then bulldogs, then donkeys, horses, mules, kangaroos, elephants, rhinos, and finally, in the grand finale, by all of them at once, grouped around different parts of her, though it was (in the finale) she who was the aggressor, she who was voraciously ravishing them, frantically forcing the bunched and spurting organs into every orifice—vagina, anus, mouth, ears, nose, etc. He had even dreamed once that she asked him if it were true that there was a small uncovered opening in the pupil of the eye, because if it were, she had said, she would have room there (during the finale) for a miniscule organ, like that of a praying mantis to enter her as well! So that now, actually confronted by the scene, one would think he was not unprepared, yet as dreams of death do not prepare a young man for the firing squad, but perhaps only build to the terrible intensity of it, so Mr. Christian appeared now to be actually strangling with shock.
“. . . urg . . . ack . . . chchch,” were the sounds he produced for the first moment as he clawed at the air in front of him; then he came toward them like a man on stilts, picking up a chair and raising it stiffly over his head.
“Daddy!” cried Candy in real alarm, but it was too late, for he swung the chair down at Emmanuel, who was leaping from the bed; it missed him and shattered against the bedpost. But he still retained a leg of the chair, and this, as a club, was a more formidable weapon than the chair itself, as he came relentlessly forward after the gardener, managing at last to speak through his grating teeth:
“You . . . You . . . You . . . COMMUNIST!”
He swung repeatedly at the gardener’s head, making little cries of repulsion, as might a woman in having to kill a snake with a stick, and hitting instead in his blind fury the bedroom wall, again and again; but there was no escape for the gardener. Yet he was not prepared to die, and whimpering like a trapped animal he dived for his pile of clothes, near the bed . . . for it was among them that he had left his trowel, which he managed to recover in a scuttling frenzy and to raise on high—as Mr. Christian lunged in for the kill—and then, before making his getaway, to plunge it with a cry more of fear than of triumph, right down through the top of Mr. Christian’s black, splitting headache.
5
“OH DADDY, DADDY, poor Daddy,” Candy was saying at his bedside in the Municipal Hospital a day later. By virtue of one of the most extraordinary wounds ever received or administered in Racine County, Mr. Christian was not dead, but had suffered a partial lobotomy when the trowel had entered his cranium. Now, he was half sitting in bed, his head swathed in a great hulking bandage, an expression of complete repose on his face.
“Now, don’t worry, kitten, he’s going to be all right,” Candy’s Uncle Jack assured the girl, standing close beside her, stroking her shoulder comfortingly, “he’s going to be all right.”
Candy squeezed his hand in her own, as though it were he who needed comforting, “Oh yes, Uncle Jack,” she agreed softly, “I know that he is.”
Uncle Jack Christian was her father’s twin brother. They looked exactly alike, though Jack somehow seemed much younger, more alive to the feelings and needs of her own generation—at least, that was what Candy had often told herself, and her father, too. Before his marriage, he and Candy had been pals, and they continued to be very close, and when together engaged in a good deal of innocent, pawing affection—rather to the annoyance of Mr. Christian—though they did not see much of each other now because Candy’s father took such strong objection to his brother’s vivacious wife, Livia, and considered her a bad influence on Candy.
“Now, why don’t we go have some tea with your Aunt Livia?” Uncle Jack suggested. “Or perhaps you’d prefer a drink—I know I could use one.”
Like Professor Mephesto, Uncle Jack was one of Candy’s heroes, too.
“Yes, I could use a drink,” she said gravely.
Aunt Livia was waiting for them in the car. She was so lovely and sophisticated that she had always intimidated Candy, whom she treated either like a child of three, or at other times, like a woman of the world, as she talked lightly of adultery, homosexuality and other things which Candy’s father would never dream of mentioning, not in a million years.
“How is he?” she said, twinkling.
“Well, he took a pretty nasty knock, of course,” said Uncle Jack seriously, after he had held the door open for Candy and then seated himself beside his wife.
“Knock?” said Aunt Livia, looking all around in surprise, “I thought it was a gouge, or something like that. After all, isn’t a trowel a—”
Uncle Jack cleared his throat (he was his brother’s brother all right, even so). “Yes, well, he’s much better now; he’s resting.”
“That’s nice,” said Aun
t Livia, quite sincerely. Then she began to laugh. “Knock! You poor idiot! What you don’t know about the English language—” and she laughed so hard that she finally began to cough.
“Well, really, Liv,” Uncle Jack protested, “I should think that some things—”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Aunt Livia, waving him desist. “Live and learn.” Then she was distracted. “My God, look at that pregnant woman on the corner there—she’s going to have that baby before the light changes! Good God, did you ever see anything like that? If I look another moment I shall vomit all over us!”
She turned around to Candy, who was in the back seat.
“How are you, my dear?” she asked, as though she hadn’t noticed her before. “You aren’t pregnant, I hope?”
“N-O spells no,” said Candy with as much dignity as she could master. She didn’t like to be with Aunt Livia when she was in one of her ‘clever moods,’ as Uncle Jack called them. And she felt that Uncle Jack was especially misunderstood at those times. In many ways, Candy regretted the marriage as much as her father did. On the other hand, Aunt Livia could be perfectly charming, and often was.
“Well, I must say, you’re certainly looking lovely, Candy,” she went on, appraising the girl closely.
“Thank you,” said Candy, flushing deeply.
“Have any of the boys gotten into those little white pants of yours yet?” Aunt Livia asked, as though she were speaking of the weather.
“Really, Liv,” said Uncle Jack, coughing, “this hardly seems the appro—”
“But, isn’t she lovely?” his wife persisted, turning to Jack Christian, “a ripe little piece she’s getting to be, I’d say. It seems to me that’s the first question that would occur to anyone! Though I suppose you haven’t noticed! Well, perhaps you wouldn’t!” she added, and began to laugh again, sustaining it for a moment while the other two looked out the window uneasily. “Oh God, haven’t we come far enough,” she went on then in a change of mood, “let’s have a drink.”
“Right,” said Jack Christian, “I could use one. How about you, Can?”
“‘Can’?” echoed his wife, laughing wildly again. “That isn’t all she could use either—is it, ‘Can’?”
“Now, Liv,” objected Uncle Jack, “I’m sure we don’t know what you mean by that, and—well, here we are at Halfway House,” he turned in then at a large broad drive leading up to a luxury roadhouse, “and now for a drink, eh girls?” he added cheerfully.
“Right,” said Liv, “out of these wet pants and into a dry martini! Eh, ‘Can’?” And she gave the blushing girl a suggestive wink.
“Liv’s in one of her moods,” Uncle Jack explained to Candy as he helped her out of the car.
“I’ll say!” said Candy.
“I’m in the mood for cock and plenty of it!” cried Liv gaily. “About ten pounds, please, thick and fast!”
“Now, Liv, this won’t do,” said Uncle Jack firmly, as, with a gracious sweep, he bade them through the wide portals of Halfway House.
They were a handsome party and, to all appearances, as wholesome a representation of middle-class innocence as had even been in Halfway House; the maître d’hôtel came forward with a flourish and secured them a choice table.
“What about a bite to eat, as well, girls?” asked Uncle Jack, genially looking over the menu while the waiter hovered at hand.
“Yes, a bit of giant Male Organ—piping hot!” quipped Liv, scrutinizing the menu with a frown.
“Now, Liv,” said Uncle Jack, laying down his menu gently, “you will go too far.”
“Who’s talking about ‘go’?” demanded Liv. “The girls want to come! Am I right, Can?”
Candy blushed crimson, and Uncle Jack sighed and shrugged a look of bemused patience at the waiter, who, though fidgeting about, managed to smile uneasily.
“Oh bother,” said Liv, flinging down her menu, “I’ll just have a drink. Drink now, organ later!”
“Right,” said Jack, “three martinis, please. Rather dry.”
“Well,” he continued when the waiter had left, looking casually about the crowded room, “nice gathering today at Halfway House. Have you been here before, Candy? Rather cleverly appointed, I think, for this sort of thing, eh? Do you like it at all?”
“Oh yes,” the girl began, “I think it’s—”
“Sometimes I think I can almost come by just looking at something!” exclaimed Liv in sudden good spirits. “That knife and spoon, for instance. Why, I’ve only to give my clit a tiny flick right now and I’d be sopping!”
“I wish you wouldn’t, Liv,” said Uncle Jack, speaking plainly.
“Well, it isn’t too likely, is it?” asked his wife, looking at him in wonder. “I mean how on earth could I? Oh, I suppose I could pretend to drop something in my lap, and then—”
“I mean to say,” said Uncle Jack deliberately, “that I wish you wouldn’t talk in that way—”
“I’m going to keep a little clothespin on my clit and then I can pinch it if I want!” said Liv, and she burst out laughing. “Did you ever think of doing that, Can?”
“N-O,” said Candy, “spells no!” It annoyed and confused her for Aunt Livia to talk this way, and she sympathized greatly with her Uncle Jack’s having to endure it. Fortunately the awkward tension was broken at that moment by the appearance of a well-dressed elderly couple entering the door.
“I say,” said Uncle Jack, brightening suddenly, “isn’t that Mr. and Mrs. Edward Kingsley who’ve just come in—yes, of course it is! I wonder if they wouldn’t join us for a drink,” and so saying he rose and caught the matronly lady’s eye, and they exchanged hearty salutations.
“Jack Christian!” said Mrs. Kingsley, coming over to him. “How delicious to see you!” and she allowed herself to be seated. “And Livia, too! How are you, my dear!”
Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley were extremely proper, if one may judge by appearances and deportment, and while Mr. Christian and Mr. Kingsley remained standing for the moment, waiting for additional chairs to be brought, they were introduced to Candy, and Mr. Christian was able to caution his wife in a whisper: “Best behavior, dear. You know what this account means to us!” But it would seem, for the moment at least, that Uncle Jack’s apprehensions on this point were unfounded, because Liv’s mood had changed quite abruptly; and after the two gentlemen were seated, and all had fresh drinks, conversation became pleasant and general, finally turning to art, and at last to the drama of stage and cinema.
“How very interesting!” Liv was saying after Mr. Kingsley had expressed his serious regret that so little of “real worth” was being done in the new medium of television. “For, as a matter of fact,” she continued, “a friend of mine is toying just now with a thing which could develop into something really top-drawer—if he can find the capital to back it. Perhaps you’d be interested in hearing a little about it, Mr. Kingsley.” She paused then to delve in her purse and extract a couple of folded sheets.
“Yes, certainly,” said Mr. Kingsley, clearing his throat, “I’m always happy to invest in a . . . a really good thing.”
“Yes,” said Liv, unfolding her papers, “well, I’ll just read a bit of this outline—it might be exactly what you’re looking for.” And so she proceeded to read from the paper, maintaining a very serious expression, and only raising her voice to make points of emphasis, or when it seemed that Uncle Jack wished to interrupt her:
“It’s called, They Met in the Park, and it’s the parallel stories of two young minds damaged by war. We fade in on a slow sweep-shot over the expansive grounds of the Los Angeles V.A. Hospital. As the camera moves forward in a wide-angle pan of the estate, the music is up in a montage-medley of service tunes—the ‘Marine Hymn,’ ‘Caissons Go Rolling Along,’ the ‘Air Corps Song,’ etc.—a sort of mosaic musicale which builds to a rousing crescendo of ‘Anchors Away’ sung by a choir of 200 eleven-year-old boys. As we approach the hospital, the dedication is narrated in a fine voice (perhaps Senator Dirksen�
��s)—something about sacrifice, endeavor, etc., on the part of the nurses and doctors of the Veterans’ Hospitals ‘throughout this great land of ours . . . this America.’ As the music fades to a muted and distant ‘Taps,’ the camera zeroes into a private ward (one of countless thousands—that’s the feeling here—but still a little something special about this ‘typical’ case). An air of solemnity prevails in the room. Two doctors are standing by the single bed. The senior doctor is looking at the patient’s chart, very thoughtfully. His younger colleague stands by, watching the other’s face with reverence and restrained anticipation. Finally, the senior doctor speaks, decisively: ‘Yes, Doctor, we’ll begin shock-therapy today!’
“The patient is suffering from battle-fatigue and has lost every faculty except the sense of smell. Each time he regains consciousness, he begins frantically running his fingers between his toes and then smelling them, trying to force them up his nose, etc. They always have to give him a sedative to keep him from disfiguring himself. By way of making it perfectly clear as to the momentous task involved in one of these thankless jobs, the beginning treatments are shown to fail, and the entire first half of the play (it runs for an hour—I had in mind the U.S. Steel Hour) is comprised of successive scenes in which the two doctors are standing by the patient’s bed, waiting to see how he will act when he again regains consciousness. Each time, one of them turns to the other and says, not without a touch of quiet anxiety, ‘He’s coming around, Doctor!’ The camera pans from the senior doctor’s face, to the younger’s, back to the senior’s, then down to the patient as he regains consciousness, opening his eyes, staring blankly for a moment before giving a savage grunt and starting wildly for his toes—whereupon, the elder doctor frowns darkly and says, ‘Doctor, give the patient a sedative!’ This identical two-minute scene is repeated fifteen times. Finally, the patient is pronounced well. (The pronouncement comes during the halfway commercial break and is not actually known to anyone who hasn’t read the script.)
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