The proof is coming in for multiple universes. The one I now occupy is truly different from my native one.
I had written a five page report for school but couldnat find a paperclip in the desk in my room, nor even after a surrept.i.tious search in Momas desk. So I found Mom instead.
aCan you loan me a paperclip?a She chuckled. aLoan you one, Timmy?a Suddenly she frowned. aI just gave you a handful last month. Have you shot them all up already?a Shot? I stared at her blankly. How does one shoot paperclips?
She wiped her hands. aDid you even bother to look?a She studied me with a calculating grin. aIf I find more than two in your desk, Iall make you wash the back windows for me.a I had searched my desk thoroughly and felt confident. aAnd if you donat?a But she was marching upstairs to my room. I followed on her heels. She darted straight to my desk and opened the wide middle drawer. aHah!a she exclaimed triumphantly, holding up a bunch of bent wire that I had noticed but a.s.sumed to be some toy that might once have interested me. She grinned. aIam going for the rags and the spray.a aB-but a"a aIam serious, Tim. You didnat even look! You will do those windows before tomorrow night, you hear me?a aYesam.a She shoved the ma.s.s of wire into my hand and sailed back downstairs. I poked it with a forefinger and discovered that, yes, it consisted of several individual pieces, made of about Number 20 iron wire, each separate piece shaped into two concentric oval loops, one smaller than the other. I took a piece, played with it a moment and saw how it could indeed clip a few pieces of paper together.
A paperclip in my old universe was typically a half-inch circular helix of perhaps Number 22 steel rolled into three or four turns. You simply stuck your papers between adjacent turns. You could even segregate them into separate stacks, one less than the number of turns in the helix. These new a" to me a" paperclips could only hold one stack each. Perhaps cheaper was their advantage. Certainly they were made of cheaper wire. When I bent the inner loop up sharply, it did not even offer to spring back. Hmm. And if I bent one paperclip just so, it could be used to shoot an undeformed paperclip across the room. Ah, yes!
I took one of the curious things downstairs and asked Mom, aAre these the only kind of paperclips in the house?a She c.o.c.ked an eyebrow at me. aYour father might have some larger ones.a aThatas what I need!a I a.s.serted.
She heaved a sigh, but left the kitchen for her bedroom, returning in a moment with another piece of wire. aI hope this will do, Timmy. He only has a few of them.a aThanks, Mom!a I took it upstairs. It was identical to the first except about half-again larger, made of maybe Number 18 wire.
I sat down on the bed, feeling cold. I had been blithely sailing along, sure of my footing, almost contemptuously confident of my circ.u.mstances. This was a blow. What else would be different?
Then I realized I had already noticed another difference a" that is, noticed without registering it. I had seen bathtubs in my fatheras house, at Ritchieas, at Phyllisas, at Gradenas and at Mealyas. All of them had the drain located directly under the faucet and the k.n.o.bs, instead of at the opposite end of the tub, despite the fact that fresh water entering the tub must fall first into fouled water! In my own universe drains were at the other end so that fresh water would scour out the foul. However did these people arrive at the wrong arrangement?
The third difference I noticed was in myself. I wanted to neaten up another report, a lengthy one in which I found myself unable to accept the claimed n.o.ble purity of Christopher Columbus. I asked Mom, aCan I use your typewriter?a She looked up at me from her perusal of The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post, noted the swath of papers in my hand and warned, aOf course, Timmy, but you know that once you start something I want you to finish it.a aOh, Iall finish it,a I a.s.serted, staring at her in wonder. Why shouldnat I?
She smiled indulgently. aI just opened a fresh ream of paper in the top drawer.a aOh. Thanks, Mom!a I took my seat before the machine. It had grown! But I ratcheted in a sheet of paper, set my margins and tab stops and began to type. The keyboard was larger than it should have been and at first I had consciously to reach farther for Y and B. I missed the Enter key terribly at first, but to reach up and throw the carriage return lever soon became automatic, and the little bell dinging as I approached the right margin was even pleasant. This was a manual machine, of course, and I had to pound the h.e.l.l out of the keys, but after all I had taught myself to type on this same old Underwood when I was 16 or 17, and a"
So how could I possibly know the touch system at twelve?
Where do you learn to touch type? I had always thought the skill must reside mainly in the ganglia that are local to arm and hand muscles, as has been proven in the case of talented pianists, because you can hardly reach 60 words-per-minute if the brain has to direct each letter individually. A good typist thinks of the word, not the letters, and his hands seem to translate for him. True, I had begun slowly and cautiously, but before I finished the first page, I was up to 30 or 40 WPM easily. One part of my mind considered this. Could it simply be a matter of confidence? If the central processor tells the ganglia, aI know d.a.m.ned well you can do it because youave done it before,a do they then buckle down and learn it without further hesitation? If someone could figure out how to instill such perfect confidence, learning physical skills might get a lot faster.
The ten hand-written pages were shrinking to six at the typewriter, even double-s.p.a.ced. Inserting the last sheet of paper, I noticed Mamma arrive beside me and scoop up the output pile. Uh-oh! I couldnat believe I hadnat expected her to notice! In the kitchen it must have sounded like a machine-gun in her bedroom. It was strange only that it took her so long to check.
Her eyes dropped to mine. Her voice had a breathy quality. aTimmy, where in the world did you learn to type like this?a Right here, was the truth a" in another universe! Did Ritchieas folks own a typewriter? I couldnat for the life of me remember, nor even what they did for a living. But the truth would hardly serve.
aIave been practicing at Ritchieas.a aAt Ritchieas? What does a steelworker need with a typewriter?a aItas an old one. This one is much smoother.a aAnd this English is a I spot one or two typos. Here you have HTE when you meant THE, and here you typed of when you meant or. But by and large aa Her finger found a spot. aaWishful benevolent hypotheses!a You knew how to spell that?a She picked up my notebook paper. aThis is your handwriting, isnat it?a aAh, yes.a aWhere did you copy this, son? Who is it that claims Columbus tried to enslave the Caribbean natives?a aHe did enslave them, Mom.a aHe aa She looked up into the distance. aHe named them Indians because he thought he had reached India.a aAnd even thinking them representatives of a known and revered nation, allowed his brothers to make slaves of them.a She looked at me and shook her head. aWithout Columbus we wouldnat be here. Why run him down?a aBecause of what Santayana said. If you donat know the past, youare bound to repeat it. All of the past! Columbus was a man with a manas limits, not a saint. What he did afterwards is important, too.a aHow did you learn about it?a aI read things besides my textbooks.a aIn the school library?a I dimly remembered that Mamma had briefly served on the local school board. Do you suppose it had an explicit policy of sugarcoating the stuff furnished to kids? I answered, aIn the town library.a Surely a good European encyclopedia, such as Britannica, wouldnat sugar-coat Columbus! Woops! Didnat Sears-Roebuck buy the Britannica in the Twenties? Where would I find the truth about Columbus in 1947? I could mention Der grosse Brockhaus, except how would I explain my knowledge of German?
But she didnat pursue that. She returned to the first page. aYou mean to hand this in for History?a aYes, maaam.a aItall cause trouble, son.a aItas another A.a She sighed and left me alone. At dinner she looked at me strangely. Later in the evening I saw Dad and her with their heads together, often glancing at me.
Using her typewriter had been a stupid stunt. The internal old man was highly displeased with me, though he had failed to object at the time.
But touch-typing could be remembered before you learned it! In Korea I had learned to play chords and not-too-intricate arpeggios on a guitar. I shaped my left hand to chord a G. Obviously the hand was too small to reach across all six strings. On a ukulele, now a
Chapter 3: Planning to Escape.
aGail Nance.a aHere!a aRobert Miller.a aHere!a Miss Pierce, the English teacher, was calling the roll at start of cla.s.s. She was a predictable elderly woman who ordinarily did everything by the book. I donat know if the book specified how to do roll call, but Miss Pierce liked to call the names alphabetically descending one day and ascending the next. Today she was going backwards.
aCarmen Lutz.a aHere!a aHarvey Loringer.a aThere!a That was worth a few t.i.tters. Every few days some boy, always a boy, would essay that minor example of wit or rebellion. Reliably a few girls would reward it with giggles a" which I now saw as an interesting reflection on female motivation.
aTimothy Kimball.a I had an inspiration. aEverywhere!a I shouted.
Crash of laughter. Teacheras glare. aVery clever, Timmy. See me after cla.s.s.a But I was a hero. All the girls were smiling at me, even some of the boys, though not Harvey. I felt proud of myself too. At last I had managed to do something genuinely soph.o.m.oric.
When everyone else had filed from the room, I moved to a front row seat and waited. Miss Pierce stopped shuffling papers into her folder, looked up at me and said to my surprise, aI cannot approve your review of Edna St. Vincent Millay.a aApprove it?a aI mean, I canat give it the A-plus it deserves on compositional grounds.a I thought about that. aYou objected to its content, then.a aWell, youare right of course; some of her later poetry is quite gloomy. I certainly donat mark off just for stating an opinion. You reported her economy of words, her imagery and power most acceptably. You are becoming a perceptive writer yourself, Timmy.a aThen what did you disapprove?a aNot just I. Mr. Schiffman is particularly concerned. A-plus papers are supposed to be read to the cla.s.s, you know, as examples. He is adamant that this one not be.a aWhatas wrong with it, Miss Pierce?a I asked more firmly.
She took a paper from the back of her folder. I saw the flash of my name in the upper corner. aThis quotation.a She read it aloud: aMy candle burns at both ends; aIt will not last the night; aBut ah, my foes, and oh, my friends a"
aIt gives a lovely light!a I frowned. aItas an exact quote, fully doc.u.mented.a aIt wasnat in your textbook.a aWell, no.a I arched a brow. aAre we restricted to our schoolbooks then?a She didnat answer that. aTimmy, Iam instructed to give you an A-minus on this.a aFor what error?a aInappropriate content.a aInappropriate to who?a aSeventh graders. Itas a message they donat need to hear. And you should say, aTo whom.aa I took a breath, stood up and tucked my books under my arm. aThatas only one of Millayas unconventional poems. What do you think of her prescription for sleep postponed to the end of life or her hints at lesbianism?a She shook her head vigorously. aIam positive Mr. Schiffman wouldnat like any of that either.a aThen perhaps he should remove her stuff from the textbook.a aOh, no! Sheas a great American poetess!a aOh, yes!a I grinned sarcastically. aNever better than: aSafe upon the solid rock aThe ugly houses stand.
aCome and see my shining palace, aBuilt upon the sand.a Her eyes widened. aThat a thatas aa aImprovident? Irresponsible? Maybe. Itas about goals. Iave always thought of it as a bellwether.a aA a what?a aHow a person feels about that little poem says a lot about his personality.a Her eyes had rounded, but suddenly she smiled crookedly. aYouave always thought of it as a bellwether, eh? Who told you to say that, Timmy?a Beside the dictionary on the corner of her desk was a Christian bible. I pointed to it. aG.o.d or the devil, take your pick.a I knew that disputing the A-minus was pointless. Her stare followed me as I turned out of the room.
English was my last cla.s.s for the day. I thought over Schiffmanas argument as I strolled down the exit hall, already almost empty. Should one never suggest to seventh graders that the straightest line, while always the shortest, might not always be the most satisfactory distance between two points? My old man chuckled. That was a conclusion most of them had long since reached!
Two concrete lions flanked the main door of the school. A girl was half-sitting, half-leaning on one when I exited the building: Carol Ann Wittersheim, cla.s.smate and neighbor, renowned for bird-like shyness, now catching my eye with uncharacteristic pluck. She still played with dolls, it was said, despite the fact that she was taller than most of the guys and had t.i.ts more noticeable than those of any other girl in cla.s.s. Though she was ripe, her face and usual demeanor were those of an innocent child. The naturally thick and dark ringlets that dangled from her head had always fascinated me, but otherwise I had ignored her for the most part.
aHi, Timmy,a she cooed.
I smile politely. ah.e.l.lo, Carol Ann.a I started past her but she fell in beside me as we tripped down the steps. I looked around in surprise. She was grinning.
aWhatas so funny?a I asked.
aaEverywhere!aa She laughed uproariously.
aAh. Did you enjoy that?a aWe all did, Timmy.a aIam glad you liked it.a aDid Miss Pierce give you detention?a aNot exactly. She wanted me to know that I was inappropriate.a aaInappropriate,aa she repeated as if tasting the word. She laughed again. aI guess you were, but she said it right the first time. You were clever. Oh, Timmy, you are so smart!a Apparently she meant no sarcasm. When I studied her, she blushed.
aThank you, Carol Ann,a I said gravely.
She smiled brightly at me, blushed again and looked away.
We pushed through the rear gate, left the school grounds and embarked on the path through the weeds that was a ashortcuta to our neighborhood. It meandered through a thick stand of birch and in fact was longer than the route on paved sidewalks. Its advantage of course was privacy from the adult world. An adult would be concerned about trespa.s.s: this was private property that was likely under the plough five years ago, judging by brush hardly more than waist high. But a kid cares nothing for such issues. Truly the whole world is his oyster, so long as the adults arenat looking.
Inexplicably she kept close to me. aWere you waiting for me, Carol Ann?a aYes.a She blushed once more, eyes lowered.
I grinned wryly. aTo find out what our pierced lady wanted to do to me?a aaOur pierced a"aa She giggled but said, aNo.a aWhy, then?a She took a deep breath. aTo tell you a not to feel bad. Youare still the smartest boy in the school.a Now her face was bright red. She clasped her hands before her, shoulders becoming more rounded, but continued to march along beside me. The old man reminded the distracted boy that this very nubile female would be worthy of close attention even if she hadnat waited to comfort him!
We were about a hundred yards from the first birches. I said, aRace you to the woods!a and leapt ahead but purposefully held myself in. Shortly she pa.s.sed me but fell back abreast. Our breathing was hardly affected when we reached the darkness under the trees. Ah, the advantages of youth!
aYou couldave beaten me,a I pointed out.
aDid you a want me to?a she inquired in sincere curiosity.
aI wanted to see if you would.a She looked puzzled for only a moment before blushing once more, a curious phenomenon on her face: reddening only momentarily, the color fading as quickly is it came.
I chuckled. aThatas the fourth time, Carol Ann.a aWhat is?a aThat youave blushed. Youare not ashamed of your feelings, are you?a I was treated to the fifth blush. She looked away without answering, hands again clasped before her.
I said, aIam sorry. I never realized how sweet you are.a aSweet? Do you really aa Her voice trailed off. Now her flush endured.
aIave always loved your ringlets,a I told her sincerely.
Her eyes lit. aOh, have you?a aSure. Iad love to twist them around my finger.a The old man had another destination in mind!
aYou would?a she breathed, staring into my eyes. aDo you really think Iam sweet?a aWhen a girl cares about a boyas feelings a Hardly anything is sweeter than that!a aI do care, Timmy.a Now her blush faded, which surprised me.
aSince when?a I asked.
aSince aa The blush returned and her eyes dropped. aI overheard you with Sara last weekend.a Her voice became little more than a whisper. aThatas when I realized just how smart you are.a I took her hand. aCome on.a We strolled single-file down the narrow path to a gra.s.sy clearing farther in the woods, now shaded from the lowering sun though the air remained warm. aSit on this log with me and tell me what you heard.a I took her books, added my geography tome and made her a smoother seat than the wrinkled bark on the log. We sat side by side, not quite touching.
aPlease donat get mad at me, Timmy. I couldnat help hearing you.a aReally? When was it?a aSat.u.r.day afternoon. I went to the field.a aAlone?a I asked with a grin and raised eyebrows. Among the neighborhood teenagers and near-teenagers, agoing to the fielda was the euphemism for having s.e.x, especially in late summer and fall when fields of chest-high weeds, densely packed but easily crumpled by rolling bodies, shielded the rollers from distant observers.
She blushed, though matching my grin. aI lie on my back and watch the clouds and, well, daydream.a aThatas what you were doing Sat.u.r.day afternoon?a aUh-huh. I dream aa She hesitated, drew breath and continued, athe world belongs to me.a aYou want to own the world?a aNot really. But if it was mine n.o.body could make me clean the house. I hate to clean house!a aSat.u.r.day afternoon, was it?a aYes. Some people came along and made themselves a place right next to me. I peeped through the weeds. It was Ritchie, Sara and you.a I probably should have blushed, considering what she had likely seen and heard. So I went on the offensive. aInstead of saying h.e.l.lo, you stayed and spied on us, did you?a aPlease, Timmy, donat think that! I couldnat say h.e.l.lo: Ritchie had already pulled Saraas panties off. And I couldnat run away; youad hear me. I didnat know what to do.a aSo what did you do?a aNothing. Turned my back. But I still heard you.a aWhat did you hear?a Her face flamed. aYou know!a Indeed I did know. Sara had insisted that both boys f.u.c.k her, one after the other. I had agreed; it was implied when she issued us the invitation, and after a lifetime of unrequited dreams I wanted the closure afforded by a real experience. Already aroused but unsatisfied by Ritchie, she had come soon after I put in, leaving me the freedom to withdraw and decorate her belly a" which had aroused anger.
I said to Carol Ann, aAnd that convinced you of my intelligence?a aWhat you told her a when she swore at you for a wetting her stomach.a Carol Ann lowered her head.
I chuckled. aYou donat agree with Sara that it feels better internally?a aI donat care how it feels; I agree with you.a Her voice hardened and finally her eyes met mine. aItas nowhere near worth the chance of getting pregnant.a Indeed I had said something similar. Sara had responded revealingly, sneering, aA boy shouldnat care about that,a before turning to Ritchie with a sense of finality. Her previously unappreciated wantonness let me understand at last the cause of her two yearlong visits to the aunt in Idaho that I recalled in later school years.
To Carol Ann I said, aYou thought that was smart, did you?a aYes, I did.a Her chin rose fractionally. aMy mama told me that a real man, like my daddy, plans for the future. You were so much smarter than Sara and Ritchie that a that I aa The flush was gone. She stared earnestly into my eyes and licked her lips.
aYou love your daddy,a I commented.
aI did. He didnat come back from the war.a aIam sorry.a Thinking of Alice, I added, aA lot of daddies didnat,a and slipped my arm around her.
She leaned against me, blushing again.
I said, aFinish your sentence.a aMy sentence?a aIam so much smarter than Sara and Ritchie that a what?a Her redness deepened. In a low voice she averred, aYouall think Iam loony.a aTry me.a aWhen I thought about it aa aGo on.a Her chin rose again and she stared, no longer blushing, into my eyes. aI went all soft inside.a Was that a s.e.xual indicator? Iave heard the like from females, usually when they contemplate holding a newborn under their b.r.e.a.s.t.s, though never before admitted by one at the thought of my brilliance. But aall soft insidea was certainly suggestive of female receptiveness, whether for a babe or the cause of it!
How should I play this? Here was an attractive and nubile female, breast pressing into my side, waiting breathlessly for my response to a declaration of feeling for me. The boy wanted to grab that t.i.t. The old man wanted to think about it.
aCarol Ann aa I began. Her face was just before mine. The boy won partially. I leaned forward and kissed her.
Her arms went around me and she returned the kiss. My tongue touched her lips, which fluttered, then parted. Her eyes closed and her tongue met mine.
aOh, Timmy,a she murmured when our faces parted. aOh, Timmy!a aCarol Ann, you are a sweetheart.a aOh, Timmy!a Her expression, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with love, suddenly changed to one of consternation. aOh, Tim!a Her tone was anguished. aHere it is Thursday. And this is my last week at Candlespot!a I blinked at her, unable to recall her fate in the seventh grade. I had hardly noticed her the first time around. aAre you moving?a aTo St. Louis. My mother has a new job. We have to go.a aIam sorry to hear that,a I said with more truth than otherwise.
Her eyes glittered. aMaybe you and I could a could aa I smiled encouragingly. aMaybe we can.a aOh, Timmy! Could you meet me at a"a A raucous voice interrupted her.
aLove birds! Boy, what a pair: Timmy, the smart-a.s.s and Carol Ann, the sourpuss!a It was two of them: the atherea-boy, Harvey Loringer, and Mule Simpson, the biggest guy in our cla.s.s. They stood where the path continued, leering at us.
aThe sourpuss?a I asked Carol Ann quietly.
She shrank away from me, whispering, aHeas called me that since I wouldnat kiss him at May Day. Oh, Timmy! What can we do?a I stood up and walked towards them. Mule was tall, heavy and clumsy, a dull boy easily led. He stood slightly behind his friend and blinked at my approach. Harvey was my size and fast on the track. I had tangled with him the previous year, I recalled, and come off second-best.
aThe girl chooses, Harv,a I told him. aDidnat you ever hear that?a That wiped his grin. aWhatare you talking about?a By this time we were chest-to-chest. aI know you remember May Day.a He drew back, face flushing angrily. aThat silly b.i.t.c.h told?a My twelve-year-old reflexes were untrained, but the old man had not forgotten what he had learned so painfully in his twenties. I stood with left foot leading, my weight forward. The choice was between chin and sternum. Results in the former can be more impressive because of the common presumption, fostered by boxing rules, that a blow to the chin is the best way to knock out your opponent, which may be true when administered through a padded boxing glove. But I possessed a p.u.b.escent boyas tender knuckles, easily broken on a sharp mandible. My fist struck him in the center of the chest with all my weight behind it.
Whoosh! Harvey expelled a lung full of air and flopped abruptly onto his back in the gra.s.s. His hands closed on his chest while his eyes glared hugely up at me and his mouth gaped silently like a fish. Youthful chests are particularly vulnerable there. Such a blow paralyzes the diaphragm muscles briefly. To those unfamiliar with the effect it seems mortal.
I regarded Mule. aIs that your opinion of her too?a aUh, uh aa He blinked at me, darting a glance behind me at the girl. aN-no.a aGood.a I turned away from him. aLetas go, Carol Ann.a She s.n.a.t.c.hed up both sets of books and came to me confidently. As we started out of the clearing, Mule asked, aWh-what about him?a aHeall be all right in a minute. Just had the breath knocked out of him.a I added over my shoulder, aTell him to watch what name he calls my girl.a I took my books from Carol Ann and we marched along the path. She drew abreast when the path permitted it, looked into my face and asked, aAm I your girl, Timmy?a I smiled at her. aYou meant to comfort me when you thought Iad been punished, and I fought for your good name. Yeah, I think that makes you my girl, if you want to be.a aOh, yes, Timmy, yes!a We put down our books and kissed again until we heard approaching voices. This time I copped a feel, the more gratifying because of her thin bra.s.siere padded only by girl. Her nipples were distinctive little lumps.
aTimmy, can you meet me on the alley behind my house after supper?a aWouldnat you like to go to the movies instead?a aMovies! Weare leaving Sat.u.r.day morning. I have only two nights to aa aTo what?a aB-be your girl.a * * *
But she didnat show. I waited half an hour in the Indian-summer darkness, wondering at the lack of lights in her house, until a small boy came trotting up the alley. aHey, kid!a I called. aHereas a nickel if youall take a message to that door.a aWonat do no good.a aWhy not?a aThey moved out as soon as Carol Ann got home from school.a aThey did?a aYeah. Her uncle showed up with a truck.a So I went to see Phyllis instead, where my luck was better.
Somehow since my reversion I had managed to be out of the house whenever aAunta Clara came to visit, as she did every week or so. She wasnat really my aunt but an old friend of my parents who had doted on me since I could remember. She frequently brought me presents, although none this time.
aHi, lovely Timmy,a she gushed when I plonked my books on the kitchen table after school. Mom watched indulgently as Clara gave me a grand embrace accompanied by several kisses to my face.
Until that day I had always accepted such familiarity like a little boy, complaining, aAw, Aunt Clara!a at her excesses of affection, but now the old man inside me relished the smell of the woman and the feel of her body. She was no taller than I, five two, a pretty, dainty creature with short cropped hair black as obsidian. She was only thirty years old, although she moved and spoke with a grace and dignity that seemed much older. I had a fond affection for her, and she obviously loved me.
aShe canat have children, Tom,a my mother once explained with a smile. aShe wants to s.n.a.t.c.h you away.a I would very much like to have been s.n.a.t.c.hed that afternoon, but Mom was intent on Claraas conversation. I hung about and peeked in on them from time to time, wanting another kiss from the pretty woman. Mom was seeking advice from Clara about the new vitamin cream skin treatments. Observing my interest, she shooed me away.
aThat boy suddenly knows too much,a I heard her say.
Clara chuckled. aNature teaches boys, too.a aYou think thatas it? No, Clara, itas different with Tim. Heas changed so much that a" Young man, get yourself out to play! You need the exercise.a Before she left Clara found me on the front porch.
aYou are worrying your mother,a she said as she palmed my cheek.
I answered flippantly, aIt comes with the territory.a aThe territory?a Oops, anachronistic slang again! aOf motherhood,a I explained She chuckled admiringly. aAn apt metaphor, Timmy. Indeed it is a kind of territory, one that I may not enter.a She pulled me to her gently.
Her soft cheek was against mine. I felt her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed to my chest.
aYou smell of honeysuckle,a I whispered and sucked on her earlobe, which was just the right height.
aTimmy, you shouldnat,a she protested but did not let go of me.
aIsnat this what you do with honeysuckle?a I asked in feigned innocence.
She shivered. aBut Iam much more than honeysuckle, Timmy.a She turned slightly and looked into my eyes.
aIave noticed,a I admitted, carelessly letting a hand fall to her breast. It was yieldingly soft. I imagined that I felt the nippleas quick response through blouse and bra.s.siere.
aWhat have you noticed?a she asked distantly, as if our conversation were only partly on her mind.
aWhat is your problem with fertility?a I asked brazenly, curious to find the limits of her tolerance. Did this woman actually have the hots for a twelve year-old?
But she answered promptly. aThe doctors say I have a retroverted uterus.a So had my second wife, who bore two children. I said softly, aDonat count on it as a contraceptive.a She took a deep breath and stood back enough to stare into my eyes. aTimmy, Iam beginning to understand your mother.a At that moment Mom appeared in the front door. We quickly separated. Clara said to her, aPat, did you realize this young man is precocious?a aHe certainly is!a aI mean, his condition is not exactly unheard-of. Well, I must be off. Give me a precocious kiss, Timmy.a We pecked each otheras lips under Momas c.o.c.ked eyebrow.
A curious meeting! Her eyes, regarding me while my hand squeezed her breast, had been speculative a" and more, they were alight with pleasure. At my sudden precocity? But then followed the matter-of-fact deprecation of my not unheard-of condition. Watching her trim figure march down the steps to her new Packard, I wondered what she was up to.
aBefore we go in,a my father said, his eye catching mine, amaybe we should agree on something: that Iall do all the talking unless I ask you a question.a I studied his earnest face. aDo you really think I might embarra.s.s you?a He sighed. aI donat know what to think, son.a aI wonat embarra.s.s you, Dad. I can see this from your perspective, too.a He shook his head. aIf youad been concerned about my perspective, this meeting wouldnat have been necessary.a aI donat think you understand the problem, sir.a aThen explain it to me.a His voice took on a sarcastic edge. aYou have 30 seconds.a aI warned you about it. Iave been bored out of my mind.a That got his attention. His eyebrows went up. aBored? School is supposed to be boring!a I grinned slightly. aAnd students have always striven to make it less so.a He sniffed, leaned forward and knocked on the door labeled, John Schiffman / Princ.i.p.al.
Iave learned through years of bitter experience to suspect the motives and sincerity of anyone whose desk was so perfectly clean as Schiffmanas. This was my third time in his office since my reversion, and so far I had yet to find, other than his elbows, so much as a speck of dust upon the gleaming surface of his desk. He sat with his hands steepled before him and watched us approach his immaculate divinity.
Dad introduced himself as Timmyas father. He and I drew up chairs before the desk. Dad was not one to give another the initial opening. He said, aI understand you have a problem with Timmy. How are his grades?a aExactly,a said the princ.i.p.al.
aI beg your pardon?a said Dad.