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From: cmndrj@usa.net.NOSPAM (Commander Jameson)
Subject: Rep. by req.: Me and Martha Jane by S.J.R. (mF, teen, rom) part 10
From: sjr <73233.1411@CompuServe.COM>
**** WARNING **** WARNING **** WARNING ****
THIS DOCUMENT IS A SEXUALLY GRAPHIC STORY ABOUT AN INTENSE SEXUAL,
EMOTIONAL AND INTELLECTUAL RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN A TEENAGE GIRL AND
A YOUNG BOY AND THE COURSE OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP OVER A PERIOD OF
10 YEARS. IT IS A DRAMATIZATION ABOUT REAL PEOPLE AND THEIR CON-
FLICT WITH SOCIAL EXPECTATIONS. IF THIS SUBJECTS OFFENDS YOU OR IF
SEXUAL LANGUAGE UPSETS YOU, OR IF YOU DON'T WANT THIS MATERIAL SEEN
BY UNDER-18 OR OTHERWISE UNQUALIFIED PERSONS, DELETE THIS DOCUMENT.
THIS DOCUMENT IS COPYRIGHTED 1994, 1996 BY SJR. SO--HEY, YOU CAN
COPY IT BUT YOU CAN'T CHANGE IT OR SELL IT UNLESS I SAY SO.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
PART 10A:
Martha said over the phone, "I think it's about time you came to New
York, if you still want to."
"Why this sudden change of mind?" I asked.
"Sudden? I've been thinking about it for months. I figured you
could handle the shock of New York by now."
I chided her, "Listen, that typewriter you sent me -- I promise to
use it 'till I wear it out, but...it's a very expensive present. I can't
let you pay for it. I owe you."
She said she'd purchased it in New York at a low price that I could
never match in Memphis. She said that, if I really wanted, I could make
up for the cost of the typewriter. "I tried to save some party money for
your visit, but it's impossible. You have enough on your own to make it
a real vacation instead of a trek. And you can pay me back for your
present by treating me too, now and then."
"Deal."
"And promise me, Steven...while you're here...be my friend."
I had no idea what she was getting at. Lack of space in her pad?
Too much activity, too many things to see? "Okay," I said.
"Don't say okay, if you don't mean it."
"Okay."
Getting to New York required planning, and some tricky politics with
Tony. At first he refused to allow me to spend my money on the trip.
He grumbled, "If that friend of yours wants to see you so much, why don't
she come home and visit her own folks, and you -- with her own money?"
Despondent, I called Martha a few days later and explained the problem.
She was disappointed. "I see you two still have problems getting
along," she said over the phone. "I wish I'd known about that. But
don't get into total warfare with him. From what you're saying, I think
you really need to be away from those problems for a while. Don't worry,
Steven, just be patient. We'll find a way."
I was so angered at Tony's refusal to let me at my own money that I
sat at my desk one evening and wrote a long list of the many things I
hated about him, citing a detailed history of his "criminal" acts against
me. It was a scathing document that I hid in my desk.
Unfortunately, I was dumb enough to not destroy it after venting my
spleen. My mother found my invective while cleaning my room.
One day when I came home from school she entered my room wearing a
darkly reproachful look and sat with me on my bed. We had our very first
-- and last -- long, intimate chat together.
She urged me to be more understanding of Tony. He didn't really hate
me. He grew up in a large and very poor Italian family in a poverty zone
in Memphis and literally had to fight his brothers and sisters for food.
He worked long and hard, he moved us out of the housing project, and he
sacrificed his own needs to pay my tuition at Christian Brothers instead
of sending me to a public school with inferior academic and social
standards.
Then she told me the truth about my own father, Steven senior. When
he was in training in 1943 in Tucson, Arizona, he lived with another
woman. He wrote home saying that he wanted a divorce and that he didn't
want to have anything to do with me. When I was 18 months old my Mom and
Daddy Joe brought me to Tucson. They urged my dad to live up to his res-
ponsibilities and to wait at least until the War was over to see if he
still wanted to dissolve the marriage. They reminded him that as a
Catholic he was morally bound to try to work things out. My father
relented. He came back to Memphis on his way to the European front and
made Mom pregnant with my sister. Months later, he wrote a letter the
night before his fatal bombing mission, saying that he feared he was
going to die because he had been volunteering for too many dangerous
assignments in order to complete his tour more quickly. He realized that
his behavior had been a death wish; he did not want to return to raise
his son and daughter.
As she told me this I sat rigid and silent. After she left me alone
in my room, I wept. The model on whom I had based my own resistance
against my stepdad had been destroyed forever. And so had the trust I'd
placed in relatives who had spoken so highly of Steven senior. But this
did little to reconcile with me with Tony. I disliked him as much as I
ever did, especially after his refusal to allow me to visit Martha.
A few days later at breakfast, after Tony left for work, Mom perked
up and said, "Guess what? Tony's gonna let you spend a week in New
York. But you have to promise not to spend every dime you've saved."
I stared at her, surprised and happy and confused. "But why did
he change his mind?"
"Martha Jane called me and we had a talk about how seeing New York
would be good for you. She asked if she could talk to Tony about it, and
I said yes. So..." she concluded, breaking into laughter for the first
time in many months, "your old girlfriend sweet-talked him into it!"
I thanked her. I was not crazy about the idea that I was unable to
negotiate with Tony on my own, but I thanked her. I actually gave her a
quick hug. And when Tony came home that night, I gave him a somewhat
more subdued thanks that included a perfunctory handshake. But these
gestures were the maximum that I was willing to concede to either of my
parents.
I spent the rest of that summer planning the trip and working at my
three jobs to stash away more travel money. Finally, on Friday, August
16, my folks drove me to Memphis Municipal Airport to meet my flight to
New York. Accustomed to hiding my feelings, I concealed my nearly un-
bearable excitement and anticipation behind a mask of calm and reticence
as my luggage was tagged and loaded at the ticket counter.
I had not expected the departure committee that met us at the
airport. In those days, an airplane trip to New York was as exotic an
event for my family as a trans-Atlantic cruise. Aunt Frances, Uncle
Johnny, Mama Rose, Josephine Louise, several aunts and uncles, a dozen
cousins and other kin from both the Ricci and Lobianco families had come
to see me off, occupying an entire section of the waiting room.
Aunt Frances had no conception of airline travel. As everyone chat-
tered and waited, Aunt Frances sat dabbing at her eyes with a hankie as
tears ran down her face. When asked why was crying, she pointed out the
window at one of the airliners parked near the terminal building.
She sobbed, "Your daddy was killed in one of those!"
Uncle Johnny swore quietly, "Hell, Frances," and spent most of his
time comforting her.
My stepdad said, "You don't look very excited about goin', Speedy."
My mother laughed and told him, "I know he doesn't look all that
excited, but I bet he is. Look at him; whenever he looks like he's not
thinkin' about anything, it means his mind is goin' a mile a minute."
Soon it was time to embark. At the boarding gate I had so many rela-
tives to kiss and hug that Josephine Louise had to remind everyone, "Stop
all this kissing or he'll miss his plane!"
I kissed Aunt Frances, who was still crying. The last person I
hugged and kissed was Josephine Louise. She whispered into my ear, "Be
careful. And don't lose your virtue in the big bad city!" I grinned at
her and thought: if she only knew! Waving a last goodbye, I slung my
borrowed flight bag over my shoulder and headed for the plane, with Aunt
Frances wailing pitifully behind me and Uncle Johnny grumbling, "Shit,
Frances. Cut it out."
I found my window seat, removed and folded the suit jacket I wore,
and loosened my tie. As the prop-driven plane roared off the ground I
wondered how my father felt when his B-17 climbed into the air. But most
of my thoughts were about Martha. Should I let her see me wearing my
glasses? I thought not. I removed them and hid them in my spectacle
wallet. I worried about the few brownish adolescent pimples that I'd
tried for two weeks to eradicate. Maybe she wouldn't notice. After a
while the pilot announced that we were cruising at a few hundred miles
per hour. Hell, I thought, couldn't we go faster?
Three long hours later, I was confronted with the unimaginable
bustle of LaGuardia Airport. I walked out of the airplane and into a
huge, crowded, pandemonious arrival area. I craned my neck in all
directions searching for Martha. How would I ever find her in a crowd
like this? I considered putting on my glasses, but I didn't want Martha
to see them.
She was standing on the ledge of one of the panoramic viewing win-
dows, her head several inches above the crowd. When I spotted her she'd
just caught sight of me and was beaming at me and waving both arms. When
our eyes met she yelled "Steven! Stay there!" She hopped to the floor,
disappearing into a roiling ocean of heads and shoulders and elbows.
Then she was rushing toward me with outstretched arms. Her auburn
hair was pinned back, her face clear and stretched into a wide, happy
smile. She wore a white, starched, open-collared blouse, a dark red
pleated skirt, and matching heels. She looked as fresh and clean as new
snow. And her hazel eyes, bright, electric, eager and happy, had me in
a state of instant nuclear meltdown. Almost knocking me down, she hugged
me fiercely and squealed, "I'm so happy to *see* you!"
My eyes moistened.
Breaking our furious clinch with a cheerful grunt, she held me at
arms length and looked me over. "None of that, young man! That's no way
to start a vacation -- save all that until you find yourself on your way
back to dreary ol' Memphis! Stop, now, let me see you. Stand still.
*LOOK* at you! And look at those shoulders! Steven, you're gorgeous!"
Regaining my composure, I placed my hands around her slim, belted
waist. I said, "A few hours a week at Liberty Cash Grocery Number 23 was
all it took."
"Well!" she said, robustly pulling me against her, "You forget all
about that. You're on vacation, hon." She gave me a loud smooch on one
cheek. "No delivery bikes here. Just noise and buildings and --" she
chuckled -- "trash and muggers. Oh, my, look at you! I can't get over
this!"
She hustled me into the baggage area. "This is the New York art of
waiting for your luggage," she announced sarcastically. "No matter what
you do or where you go in New York, expect a waiting line." After
claiming my two suitcases she rushed me outside so we could take our
place in a long, snaking line of people at the taxi stand. "And this is
the art," she announced, "of waiting for a taxi back to town."
"We're not in the city yet?" I asked, overpowered by the sight of so
many people and so many cars and so much noise and movement.
"You're in Queens, Steven. Queens is populated by cousins. Everyone
who lives in New York has a cousin in Queens." While we waited, she
pointed at everything and explained what was going on. I stood gaping.
As we climbed inside a taxi she cautioned me, "Grab anything you can,
and hold on tight!" Before I knew it, doors slammed shut around us and I
was compressed against the back seat as our taxi screeched away with
neck-wrenching speed and soared down the exit drive. "This is a New York
City taxi," she explained, lurching about in the seat beside me. "Hold
onto that strap over the door before you fly through a window. The first
thing a New York taxi driver learns is to maintain a certain state of
rage that helps cut through traffic."
We zoomed through so many exits and around so many curves that I lost
all sense of direction. Soon, far ahead of us, I saw a long line of
massive skyscrapers that stretched for miles across the horizon. The
city. Manhattan. I stared at it. I listened to it. I gasped.
Martha was pointing. "That's the Chrysler Building, the slender one
with the art deco, scallop-like stuff on top. And that's the Empire
State Building, the one with the tall antenna. And all that along the
end, on the left, is Wall Street...And you see that dark brown steeple
straight ahead? The one that's in the middle of that big cluster of
buildings, directly ahead of us? That's St. Patrick's."
My eyes and brain reeled. The city and the careening taxi was one
thing, but Martha was yet another. Her profile and her softly parted
lipsticked lips captivated me. After she pointed out the skyline she
relaxed into the seat and smiled warmly at me. With a supreme effort, I
talked myself out of leaping onto her. She asked, "Wanna go grocery
shopping with me? I had no idea what to get for food, so I waited until
you got here. All I have in my frig is some cottage cheese that died."
I stared at her.
She said, "You changed. And yet you didn't."
"You changed," I said, mesmerized. "For the better."
She laughed. "Wait until you find out what a total neurotic New York
has made me. When we get home I'll take you to the supermarket. You'll
get your first lesson in coping with multiple nervous breakdowns."
The taxi crossed the East River at the 59th Street Bridge, zigzagged
for several more blocks, then screeched to a stop in front of her apart-
ment building, which indeed looked like a one hundred year old tenement.
It was on a clean but old and congested block of East 87th. Martha paid
the driver and told him to keep the change. As we rushed to gather our
luggage on the sidewalk, she spouted a constant stream of instructions
and explanations.
"You MUST learn to tip while you're here," she said, grabbing a suit-
case. "Tipping is part art, part inexact science. It all depends on
whether you liked the service. If you do, you give a good tip. If not,
be stingy. Either way, you get a drop-dead look, no matter how much you
tip. If you don't tip at all you might get shot, but at the very least
you'll hear cursing in many exotic languages. Here are the keys to this
place...I made copies for you. There's the main key to the front door,
the mail box key, two keys for the two locks on my apartment door, and a
key to the laundry room. If you lose any one of these keys, you're dead;
no one will help you and it's impossible for anyone except a professional
burglar to break in through a window. Here's the entrance, now, and of
course there's never any room in here, and here's the mailboxes. Here's
the intercom -- a real luxury in an old building like this. You never,
NEVER buzz anyone in, unless they identify themselves over the intercom;
when we get upstairs I'll show you how the buzzer works. This is the
first floor, and I live up there on three. There's no elevator, you have
to be an Olympic climber to get up these stairs. Be Careful, now! Don't
bang your luggage against the walls! I know there's no room for your
elbows, but there's never any spare room anywhere in New York, and every
noise you make is recorded in detail by the tenants, and they remember it
for MONTHS! This is the second floor, this is where Ronnie has her
apartment in number 2C, but she won't be home until later tonight and she
wants to meet you. Don't let her frighten you, she's just another,
typical, hard-pressed, totally insane New Yorker. The guy next to her
looks really nice and is very quiet, but Ronnie insists he's a mass
murderer on weekends. Now, here's the third floor, and we make a hard
right, all the way to the end of the hall -- god, this suitcase is heavy,
what'd you pack in here? -- and this is my gorgeous penthouse apartment,
right here, number 3C, right above Ronnie's place. And here's the key
for the bottom lock...there, and here's the key for the top lock... and,
if you don't mind the awful squeak in the door... here's my humble cave."
We shoved my luggage inside and she closed the door behind us. We
were both out of breath.
I asked, "Why are we rushing all the time?"
"Everybody rushes in New York."
"But why?"
"Nobody knows." She stepped into the middle of the tiny living room.
"This is the living room. The toilet's over there, that's a closet over
there. The bedroom is the same size as the living room, which means no
room, period. This is the -- ahem -- dining alcove, Steven. Isn't that
marvelous? I have my own dining alcove, just barely enough for one table
and two people. And that's the kitchen, and that atrocity over there
with the plastic drape across the front of it is the shower." She took a
deep breath and paused with her hands on her hips. "Whew! There! The
full tour. The place is so small, you don't even have to walk around to
see it all."
"Well," I uttered, my brain swarming with instructions and informa-
tion. "It is small. But it's cute. I hope I don't get in your way."
"You will," she said, heading straightaway for a small cupboard door
in the kitchen wall, "there's no avoiding it. But we're used to each
other, so it won't matter. Now...here's a couple of paper shopping bags
from Macy's. Protect these shopping bags with your life! You cannot
SURVIVE in Manhattan without good shopping bags, and what Manhattan is
mainly about is not the enjoyment of life, it's about surviving. Most of
the bags you get are so shoddy they fall to pieces immediately. There's
no more heartrending sight than a New Yorker stuck on the street in the
rain with a ripped shopping bag, standing there sobbing while their whole
life gets strewn on the sidewalk. Oh -- Steven, aren't you going to give
your Mom a call?"
I shrugged. "Whenever we get to it."
"What?" she said, scowling at me. "Hon, what do you mean? You
aren't going to call home?"
"They never worry about me."
"Of course they do. Call her. The phone's over there."
Halfheartedly, I dialed my Mom in Memphis. While I talked, Martha
gathered and folded a couple of shopping bags, frowning at me now and
then. When I finally hung up, she said, "Steven, what a tacky way to
treat your folks. You know, they didn't have to let you visit me."
"Okay, I called them and said thanks again, and...there."
"Well, I see we're going to have a little talk about this...Oh, for-
get it, you handle it the way you want to. We have to get going anyway,
so...here, take these --" she handed me two shopping bags and gave me a
quick kiss on the cheek -- "and here are my keys, and here's my purse...
and let's go before the Friday rush hits the market."
The supermarket was five blocks away on Third Avenue. I had diffi-
culty keeping up with her as she strode quickly down the street. I asked
again, "Why are we in such a hurry?" She answered, "Because. You get
trampled if you don't stay ahead of traffic." I said, "But there isn't
any traffic," and she laughed and said, "Don't worry -- the minute you
slow down, they catch up with you."
The supermarket was well stocked but unbearably cramped. The few
shoppers who were there spent most of their time trying to avoid colli-
sions with each other. Like an experienced bird dog, Martha wheeled our
cart quickly from aisle to narrow aisle and introduced me to packaged
foods I'd never seen in Memphis -- all of it stacked around us from floor
to ceiling with hardly a spare inch of open space anywhere.
"Always check the eggs," she cautioned as she opened an egg carton.
"Check every single one of them. The stockboys handle them as if they
thought eggs were made of stainless steel." She found two broken eggs
in that carton and went through four others before she was satisfied.
Then she rushed into the short cashier's line, then we rushed out of the
store, and rushed back to her block, rushed up the stairs, rushed into
her apartment, and rushed to put away the groceries.
"There!" she proclaimed at last. "Now we can relax!"
We stood in the tiny kitchen, with me surveying the tiny room quickly
to see where everything was placed.
"Well," she sighed with a tired little smile. "What do you think of
it?"
I gazed at her. She gazed at me. There she stood, five-foot-five,
sophisticated, grownup and lovely. The average teenager who once felt
ugly next to her older sister now made Evelyn look dumpy. I gathered
the courage to ask, "Can I kiss you hello?"
"Do," she said.
I touched her waist and bent to give her a shy, tentative kiss.
Suddenly we embraced. I kissed her -- actually kissed her, full-mouthed
and deeply -- a shattering development, considering that Martha and I had
romantically kissed in that way on only two occasions during our entire
relationship.
At the end of it she pulled away from me. "We've never acted this
way before."
"I know."
Her eyes were eager, but somewhere behind her gaze I thought I saw
apprehension, misgiving. Then she took my hand and led me from the
kitchen. "Follow me."
Within a few minutes we were naked in the small, dimly lit bedroom,
standing and holding each other tightly. I skimmed my lips along her
smooth shoulders and she pulled away and looked at me and ran her hands
slowly over every part of me.
"Look at you," she breathed. "Look at how you grew. So smooth and
firm. You're beautiful, Steven."
"Sorry I didn't grow taller."
"I don't care about that. Look. Look at this beautiful cock. It's
so right. Just the right size and shape. And so hard."
I had often visualized our reunion as prolonged and tender, a
heavenly chorus lolling in the background as we tenderly relearned each
other. But now, overwhelmed, I immediately urged her toward the bed.
Quickly she reclined and opened her legs. I lay on her and she raised
her knees to accept me. I kissed her again, hotly, as my blind cock
found her portal and slowly entered, parting her ready and welcoming
outer lips, flexing in her, feeling the warm tight depth of her. She
sighed and looked up at me. Her cunt hugged me. I pulled out a little
and then we both sighed again as I slowly reentered. She was tight and
slick and had already started contracting. She wrapped her legs around
mine. I entered more deeply. Immediately, my mind burst with amazement
and pleasure at the astounding results of the past two years of my
physical development: my cock was incredibly firm, filling her totally,
and for the first time I felt my tip nudge against the softly nubby,
squirming mouth of her womb. Electrified, my balls readily began a
familiar, irresistible churning.
Below me, I saw in her eyes the same sense of surprise at the new
sensations.
She whispered, "God, Steven."
I panted, "I don't think I'll last long."
"I won't either," she gasped. Watching each other, we both slowed and
started cumming. Her lips parted and her eyes fogged and she stiffened.
Seconds later I simmered and then gushed profusely and warmly inside her
as her contractions swathed the underside of my throbbing shaft. I
thought: yes! This is how it should feel. We both came for a long time
with her cunt happily convulsing and my cock riding slickly in the hot
cum that filled her, and I groaned roughly and heard her whimper. When
it ended I nestled my face into her neck. We lay resting for a long
while.
PART 10B:
I lay on my side with Martha spooned behind me. Gazing out the small
window that overlooked East 87th Street, I gradually returned to earth.
I was startled at how quickly and completely and mindlessly I had fucked
and climaxed. In trying to recall each detail of the past few moments, I
felt I'd lost all control and all awareness; I remembered little of it.
Martha slid a hand down my arm and up again, as if learning anew the
textures her fingers found there.
She breathed, "I missed cumming like that."
"I'm surprised I remembered what to do," I whispered.
"I hate to say this, but...there's no rest for the weary..."
"Oh, no. What next?"
"We have to grab a little snack. Some of that weird tea we bought at
the store should perk us up. Then I'll show you where to put your
clothes and things, and we'll dress and meet Ronnie at the Stage Deli
when she gets off work. We'd better shower -- Ronnie has radar in her
nose and can smell sex a mile away."
Quickly we went about our chores, with Martha going over the schedule
for the weekend and the week ahead. She could not get the entire week
off; she had meetings Monday, Tuesday and Thursday. But she would leave
the office early, by four o'clock. I'd be on my own those three days
until she returned. She told me about her neighbors in the four-story
building so that I'd know who they were and so they wouldn't think I'd
broken into the building if they saw me in the stairway. Then there was
a mind-boggling series of details about her part of town and how to get
around the city. She gave me subway and bus maps, a tourist guide, and a
couple of magazines about New York. She had tickets for "West Side
Story" on Monday Night, reservations for Ronnie and us on another night,
tickets for an off-Broadway play, tickets for a lecture at Columbia...
"And I want to show you places where you can shop for clothes," she
told me as she readied towels and cosmetics for her shower. "And I want
to take you to the United Nations, and to Columbia to meet some of the
people I work with, and the Museum of Modern Art, and Fire Island. The
Museum's a favorite hangout. And Fire Island...well, that'll be very,
very special. And then there's a beatnik joint in the East Village..."
After she completed her toilet in the tiny bathroom, I joined her in
the cramped shower stall in the kitchen. Under the thin warm spray we
stood toe to toe, nipple to nipple, with no room to spare. As if study-
ing a lab specimen, she quickly scanned the face and body she had not
seen in two years. She ran her fingers through my hair. "You have
yellow highlights," she mused. "It looks very good on you. But while
you're here I'll have to teach you how to get the right kind of haircut.
Whoever cuts your hair in Memphis has no idea what they're doing." She
scowled at a mark on my lower cheek. "What's this scar?"
I told her it was a boil that had been lanced a few months ago.
"Wonderful," she muttered dryly. "Any doctor who lances a facial
boil that way would be better off in a butcher shop. Don't ever let
anyone do that to you again."
She held my face and kissed my nose. "You've been having a hard time
down there, haven't you? But you're still you..." She draped her arms
around my shoulders. "If only every guy in New York were so easy to get
along with." She kissed my nose again. She looked at me. I looked at
her. Again, slowly, she kissed my nose. Her hands cradled my face. Her
eyes narrowed as her face tilted and inched closer to mine again. With
water splashing and gurgling around us, we kissed, our lips writhing with
a lovingly gentle hunger.
Abruptly she pulled away. She closed her eyes, leaning against me
with her forehead pressed to my wet chest and her hands loosely atop my
shoulders. She took a deep breath.
"Steven," she said, "I'm not used to this."
"I'm not either," I said, and I stroked her temple and kissed her ear.
She began briskly swabbing my chest. "We *must* control ourselves,
now. We have a lot to do and I want us bright-eyed and bushy-tailed so
you can meet Ronnie."
She looked at me again and seemed ready to say something. Instead,
she planted a loud smack on my forehead and continued bathing. We
finished our shower, Martha growing quiet and subdued, as if preoccu-
pied. We dried and dressed. Just before five, we left for midtown
Manhattan to meet Ronnie at the Stage Deli.
The food at the restaurant was a revelation. I chomped into the corn
beef sandwich as if my life depended on that one dish.
"Good?" she asked, amused.
"Delicious!" I growled, my mouth stuffed.
She flicked her cigarette's tip on the corner of her ash tray. "Bet
you never had corned beef like that in Memphis."
"Memphis?" I asked. "They serve corned beef out of a can."
"Don't eat yourself into a coma. We still haven't ordered the
cheesecake, and Ronnie will be here any minute."
Overcome with gustatory delight, I pushed my plate away so I could
pause and catch my breath. Unconsciously, I reached into my shirt pocket
and withdrew a cigarette, which I lit without even thinking about it.
"What are you doing?" Martha asked, taken aback. "Steven. I don't
believe it. When did you start that?"
"I dunno. Long time ago."
She frowned reprovingly, then she smirked. "Well, I'm not going to
sit here with a cigarette in my hand and preach, but I see you're still
full of surprises. I hope you don't chain-smoke. Ronnie does now and
then, and I can't stand it."
"I have it under control," I lied.
"Do something for me."
"What?"
"See that sign, the big blue menu sign they have posted on that big
mirror over there? By the restroom door on the other side of the room?"
"Yeah."
"Tell me what it says."
I squinted at the sign. I could tell from my side of the room that
the hand-lettered writing was oversized, but I couldn't decipher the
first item in the list. "I think it says, uh...stew. Oyster stew."
"Why aren't you wearing your glasses?" she asked, her face hardening
with mild impatience.
I looked at her. "How'd you know I wore glasses? Did my mother tell
on me?"
"In your suitcase you had a case with your glasses in it. Why aren't
you wearing them?"
"Well...they're just reading glasses."
She took a fast puff off her cigarette and exhaled quickly, leveling
her eyes at me. "The lenses are too thick to be reading glasses. And
you squint at everything, even when we're just walking down the street.
Why don't you wear your glasses?"
"Oh..." I started casually. Her insistence was unsettling. I wished
she hadn't seen them in my luggage. Absently, I groped at a pimple on
the side of my face.
"Steven, don't do that. Leave your face alone." She flicked her
ashes again. Then she gave an axasperated little laugh and shook her
head. "Oh, listen to me nag. I'm sorry, Steven, don't let me nag at you
like that. But this is so unlike you."
"I know," I said, shifting uneasily in my seat.
"Steven...are you lying to me about those glasses? Was that a tiny,
itsy-bitsy, teeny white lie?"
"Yes."
"Please don't do that." Her eyes looked past me and she straightened
in her seat and smiled. "Hold onto your hat. Here comes Ronnie."
Ronnie, entering hurriedly in a gray business suit and carrying a
purse and a pharmacy shopping bag on one arm, appeared with a loud click-
ing of high heels and headed for the chair between Martha and me. "Oh,
good!" she said breathlessly, "A chair! Oh, god! Feet, just a few more
steps, you can make it. Hello, people, hellohellohello. Oh, please,
please let me sit! Let me SIT!" She hastily flung her suit jacket over
the back of the chair and sat slowly, with a prolonged wince. "Aaaaaaah!
Oh, god! Don't look under the table, Martha. It's just me, slipping my
shoes off." She was a young brunette, about Martha's size and age, her
medium-length, black hair combed back in loose, fluffy waves. "And this
-- this MUST be Steven."
"Ronnie," Martha said, "meet Steven."
"Steven. Yes." She smiled broadly and shyly. "Yesyesyes." She
bent toward me earnestly and placed her hand on my arm. Small-mouthed
and with a slender, somewhat pointed nose, she had soft, large, sapphire-
blue eyes. "Not to worry, Steven, I'm recovering from a week at work
that I would like to forget for the rest of my life. Ignore. Do what
you were doing."
Martha said, "Steven, if you haven't guessed, this is Ronnie."
"Hi, Steven. Ronnie. It's genetic, nothing helps. Oh, Where's that
waiter I always get in here, what's his name? Marco? Is he around? I
need coffee desperately."
Ronnie waved a waiter to our table. She ordered coffee. "Black,"
she said. "And that white wine and vermouth thing you guys make here,
know what I mean, Marco? Just fill the glass with ice cold wine, and
then *lean* near the glass, you know? With your lips just a few inches
away? And whisper 'Vermouth'. Whisper, now. And a hot pastrami with
cole slaw. Remember: coffee. Black. If it's left over from this morn-
ing, even better. And remember, just whisper the vermouth. Please don't
make lemonade out of it. I need the total, mind-altering effect of the
juice of one glass of pure white wine with a mere suggestion of ver-
mouth. In fact, toots, don't even whisper vermouth, just look at the
wine and *hint*. Y'know? Thanks, Marco. You're a doll."
We chatted. Ronnie chain-smoked and did most of the talking. Martha
asked Ronnie about Ronnie's date with a guy named Harvey, whom Ronnie met
at a party recently. "Harvey? Right. I need Harvey like I need breast
cancer. What a jerk. He takes me to this AWFUL movie with Pat Boone,
something called 'Bernadine' or whatever . Steven, can you imagine Pat
Boone and a bunch of forty year old phonies playing people your age? Oh,
Steven, please, don't get upset, I'm not talking about years, I'm talking
about a case of arrested mental development. And this silly plot about a
sugar-sweet telephone operator? Come on. And Harvey RAVES about it --
'Better than Gone With the Wind!' he says. Then he gets the idea I'm
having such a great time, and he's such an attractive moose, he wants to
go someplace where we can be alo-o-one. Hey, won't he even let me finish
my popcorn? Come on, he says, we're two adults. I said, no, Harv, we're
NOT two adults. We're one adult named Ronnie, and one JERK!"
At dessert time, Ronnie warned me that it was illegal to remain in
New York without having a huge slice of the deli's homemade cheesecake.
The three of us indulged in servings of the cloying stuff, thick with
sour cream and cream cheese on a bed of crunchy vanilla-wafer crust.
Martha ate sparingly, finishing only half her slice, while Ronnie and I
groaned with each bite. I finished Martha's helping after my own.
By that time, Ronnie's fourth wine had begun its work. "Get Steven
an egg cream, Martha!", Ronnie squealed. "Steven, you'll LOVE this. Egg
creams! I can't even LOOK at them, I get one after another until I burp
foam!" As I enjoyed an egg cream, Ronnie watched merrily and started
giggling at everything in sight.
"Ronnie," Martha enjoined her delicately, "maybe you should have egg
creams instead of those wine things."
"Martha, don't get me started. They're addictive and fattening.
Steven -- Steven, look at this woman. My friend Martha. I'd KILL for
the dates she turns down! And she turns down everybody, for godssake!
Can you believe this? She has all the gifts, and dates only twice a
year. Look. Isn't she gorgeous? A Georgia peach, right? Or a Tenn-
essee peach, or whatever. And so-o-o sweet and smart. I'm so glad I met
her, but every time I look at her I say this little prayer: 'God? Why
all to her, and so little to me?'"
After we had been there nearly three hours, Ronnie went to the rest-
room for the second time. While she was gone, Martha began gathering
Ronnie's things and called for the waiter to empty the ash tray, which
Ronnie had twice filled with crushed Pall Malls.
"Steven," Martha said quietly, "Ronnie isn't always like this. I
think this guy Harvey pushed some buttons. I wish she'd never met him.
I'm sorry I brought him up."
"Maybe she's had too many Harvey's, instead of too many gins."
"That's very insightful, Steven. You happen to be correct." She
threw a concerned glance toward the lady's room. "Please help me get her
out of here when she comes back. Don't force it; she hates to be ordered
around. But it's time she had a nice long nap."
After another half hour, Ronnie caught the gist of Martha's many
hints and asked us to walk her home. On the sidewalk she tottered on her
high heels before leaning on Martha for support. After a couple of
blocks, she leaned on me.
"Steven," Ronnie said, patting my back, "you're a nice guy, y'know?
Nice. Quiet. Refined. All that easygoing, down home politeness...and
all that..." She yawned, and leaned her head on my shoulder. "Oh,
Steven. Martha. I'm afraid I'm tipsy. Helluva way to meet somebody,
huh?" She giggled. "I promise, you met me at what is euphemistically
called a 'bad moment'." Again she leaned her head on my shoulder, with
one arm around my waist and the other around Martha as we walked down
East 87th. "Mmmmm, Martha... no wonder you two are such buddies. He has
such a nice feel to him, doesn't he? Like, you wouldn't know it to look
at him, but he just seems to...fit. Something warm and comfy cozy and...
so easy to lean on, y'know?"
I blushed. Martha watched warily to ensure that Ronnie didn't
stumble and bring all of us to the ground. I gave Martha a wink, to let
her know I felt I could manage. Even as she lurched against my shoulder,
Ronnie had a lightness about her physically that matched her delicate
laugh and voice. Her complements had me wondering how much she knew
about me and Martha. Half a block later, Ronnie fell silent and seemed
to drift off with her head on my shoulder.
"Hey, you," Martha prompted Ronnie dryly as we stopped at the stairs
leading to the front door of her building. "Do we have to carry you up
the stairs?"
Ronnie blinked awake, blushing. "Omigod. I was having such a nice
nap."
Opening the door with her own key, Ronnie apologized and said she
hoped she hadn't embarrassed me. "Martha, you were right about Steven.
He's such a honey. So patient." She said she could make it upstairs on
her own. After a small battle with the tightly-sprung main door, she
started upstairs with her high-heels in one hand. We watched as she
dragged herself up to the second floor, then we went back outside.
"It's early," Martha said. "Wanna take a walk? I'll show you the
East River. C'mon, we can talk."
Martha told me that Harvey was one of a long line of disastrous dates
for Ronnie. I asked why Ronnie seemed to think of herself as un-
attractive and told her I thought Ronnie was pretty. Martha said Ronnie
had always felt unattractive. A few years earlier, Ronnie lived with a
heavy drinker who battered her, and the longer they stayed together the
worse the man treated her. That relationship was followed by a similar,
though less violent, one. Ronnie blamed herself, feeling things would
have been different if she had been more attractive and sexually
appealing.
"I've tried again and again to tell her that her focus is only on her
imagined shortcomings, and that she deserves better," Martha said, as we
strolled downtown to the East 70's and then along a promenade beside the
East River. The night was clear and starry. A strong breeze ruffled our
hair as we walked along the whispering river, the muffled roar of the
city blocked by buildings bounding the promenade.
Martha asked about Memphis, sending us both into a long reminiscence
of how we had grown up. We recalled the housing project and the people
she'd known and how they had changed or dropped out of sight. She
mentioned her memories and her longings and how her work had replaced
what had been missing in her early years.
"I could never explain to myself how I grew up to be so disciplined
and so proper," she said, "and yet there was such a wicked side to me.
So wicked. You're the only one who knows about that. Do you realize
that? Not even my few boyfriends knew about that. You're the only one
who knows that about me."
She had talked openly and frankly for over an hour. Now she stopped
and looked at me, saying plaintively, "Steven, you haven't told me any-
thing about yourself."
"Nothing to tell," I replied, looking out at the swift, gurgling
river.
She said flatly, "I won't accept that."
I shrugged, a gesture that made her frown. She gave a long sigh and
placed a hand on my arm and squeezed. "Steven, you spent almost three
hours with me and Ronnie and didn't say a thing. What's wrong?"
I dodged her question with an apologetic grin. "I was just trying to
get used to all this. Everything's so new, so different. And I'm...shy."
"No. There's a difference between being a shy young man and simply
hiding out. I saw it and felt it. You were tense and wouldn't even let
yourself laugh with Ronnie and me. I meet shy people your age all the
time...the ones who hide and hold back the way you do are the frightened
ones. The depressed and the angry."
I didn't respond. For one thing, I didn't even know where to begin.
All I could do was shrug, and wince, and shuffle my feet uncomfortably.
Martha straightened up and said firmly, "I'm not gonna let you get
away with that. Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"Let's go get some goodies."
We walked to a liquor store a few blocks away on East 86th. Inside
the store, Martha tapped into my interest in detail by giving me a quick
education in wines and the basic wine types and varieties. The change of
subject lightened my mood and made me feel, for the time being, that I'd
successfully avoided her interrogation of me. Martha was shocked to hear
that few members of my huge Italian family served wine at meals when
youngsters were present. I told her I didn't even know about Italian
foods like canoles or gnocchi; the menus posted on the doors of New York
restaurants we passed listed Italian dishes I never heard of. She told
me, "You're going to learn so much in New York. I can't wait to see your
reaction when we go to Little Italy." She suggested that, if I could
afford it, we could buy four representative wines and sample each during
the week ahead.
"Most of this stuff is never imported into Memphis. And on the way
home we can stop at this fabulous cheese place. An entire store filled
with cheese."
When I told her I liked the idea, she bent close to my ear and said
in a hushed whisper, "Give me the money for the wine, and wait outside. I
forgot, you're not old enough to be in here, but I don't think anyone
noticed yet. You look older in your coat and tie and they probably won't
even check, but we shouldn't push it."
While she made the purchase I waited outside, smoking a cigarette and
watching the human theater that passed on busy 86th Street. New Yorkers
impressed me as being energetic, assertive, streetwise -- totally differ-
ent from the languorous, dawdling people I knew in Memphis. Even the
teens I saw seemed to possess a savvy and a wordliness that I knew was
far ahead of me. Watching them, I felt like the consummate bumpkin,
pimpled, awkward, and slow-witted. And Martha, whom I'd always seen as
self-assured and knowledgeable, seemed to have caught up and merged with
the best of them. I wanted to shrink into a doorway and disappear.
Surely my ignorance and clumsiness and all my other failings must be
evident to everyone, including Martha.
On our way back to Martha's we stopped at the cheese shop.
"So how do you like this place?" Martha asked as we entered.
Before me was a wide room that looked like a solid yellow wall of
cheese. Cheese in wrappers, in boxes, on shelves and in roped chunks
hanging from the ceiling. My mouth fell open. "I never saw so much
cheese in my life!"
After leaving the store with a sack of cheeses I never dreamed
existed, I felt giddy and overwhelmed. I stayed close to Martha, fol-
lowing her steps and learning how to dodge oncoming traffic along the
sidewalk.
Beside me, Martha chuckled. "Steven, don't look so intimidated!
You'll get the hang of walking in New York. Just forge ahead."
I gulped. "It's not see easy to see where I'm going when my eyeballs
are falling out of my head."
She pulled me close to her and clasped my arm firmly. She said
earnestly as we hurried toward her block, "You have to get yourself out
of the 'Memphis mode' if you expect to be hanging around with me for the
next nine days. You have a lot to learn, hon, but I'll help. Starting
right now..."
PART 10C:
By ten-fifteen that night we returned to Martha's place and set the
tiny dining table with a bottle of wine, three cheeses, and two boxes of
imported crackers. We kicked off our shoes. Martha struggled with the
corkscrew while I fetched two glasses.
"Begin," she said.
Almost two hours later I was slurring my words and pacing the living
room with a cigarette in one hand and a wine glass in the other. I
wasn't drunk, but I was "loose" for the first time in my brief life.
Little did I suspect that a small amount of wine would extract from me
such a detailed two-year autobiography. Defenseless, and listening to my
own long, rambling sentences, I felt almost removed from myself, as if I
were some one sitting beside Martha, who remained perfectly sober and
attentive as she curled lazily on the sofa with her glass and crackers.
I told her everything, starting with the dumping of the Black Beauty; my
three jobs, undertaken solely to get me to New York while sacrificing
everything else; my isolation from my parents and my lack of friends, my
efforts and adventures on the delivery bike and the paper route; my with-
drawal from activities at school, my distrust of everyone; my refusal to
accept my faults, my dislike of my own appearance and even of my way of
speaking; my inability to live tolerably with my parents -- all of it
tumbled out of me in stolid, dry detail, as if talking about it under the
influence of the wine-induced fog made everything seem galaxies away from
Memphis and from me. I was so mildly but pleasantly boozed, I felt as if
I were describing someone else.
Martha listened calmly and solemnly, asking an occasional question
to keep me on track. Just before one o'clock in the morning, I became
drowsy and ended my story, settling with a sardonic laugh into a chair
across the room from Martha, who smiled sleepily and sympathetically and
brushed a stray hair from her forehead.
"It seems so far away," I sighed, looking out the window at the roofs
of the sleeping city. "I'm so far away from it now, I wonder if it real-
ly happened."
"Maybe you had to physically get away from it," Martha said, "before
you could tell me about it."
"No," I said sarcastically, "first you had to get me two thousand
miles from home and put a bottle of zinfandel in front of me."
She smiled indulgently. "You're not that drunk. Not on zinfandel.
But, yes, I did ply you with liquor, hon. I'm sorry. No -- I'm not
sorry. I haven't seen this much of you in a very long time."
We both yawned. Martha suggested, "Let's get our jammies." We did,
Martha slipping into a pair of pale blue pajamas while I donned a thin
sweatshirt and jockey shorts, in which I usually slept. But as we were
putting away the leftovers, Martha said she wouldn't be able to sleep.
"I'll make coffee," she said.
I said, "Coffee? At one A.M.?"
"Yes," she said frankly. "I wanna talk to you. Do me a favor while
I make the coffee: go put your glasses on."
"Oh, Martha, I hate those damn--"
"Hon, go put your glasses on."
I did, reluctantly. In the kitchen she looked me over and decided
that it wasn't the fault of the eyeglasses themselves. I protested,
refusing to wear them any longer. She made me promise that I'd go with
her to a shop where I could replace the cheap plastic frames with some-
thing more attractive. She urged me, "Don't passively accept the bad
taste others force onto you, Steven. Your face is fine, you just need
decent frames." But she wouldn't force me to would wear them publicly
until I accepted myself with glasses.
While we sat at the dining table sipping French coffee, she took
control of the conversation. She said:
We grew up without parents. In her case, she had a mother who was
willing to be close to her in at least a minimal way, though they had
never shared the same values and never would. Martha had at least the
memory of a father, whom she described as tall, lean, intelligent,
affectionate and independent; he was never very successful, but he was
very much a man. He was close to his two daughters and encouraged them
to think for themselves. He was killed overseas when Martha was eight.
But in my case, she said, things took a different course. Martha saw my
mother as a good, conscientious, likeable woman. Martha cautioned me
that I should not think my Mom didn't love me; but I should accept the
fact that Mom might never be the mother I needed. Nor did I have even
the memory of a father, mine having died when I was barely two. In my
family circle there were few competent male figures; those that remained
were simply worn out, resigned to life as dictated by others. My over-
bearing stepdad typified the opposite extreme of heedless masculinity and
intolerance. I'd apparently been living in an emotional and intellectual
vacuum; I lived surreptitiously, letting others see only those parts of
me that I could twist into a mere copy of what they expected.
"I hate all of them," I said glumly, agreeing with her. "I distrust
and dislike every one of them."
"No,!" Martha said forcefully. She pounded the table once with a
clenched fist. "No, Steven! Don't hate. Understand. They did what
they could. They did what they knew to do. It wasn't much, in my humble
opinion, but it was the best they could do. And you do owe them respect.
But nobody ever said you had to love them. Anyway, I don't think you can
-- I don't think I could love most of the people I was involved with,
either, not in the way most people usually do."
She said we both grew up as if on a deserted island. We developed
our own means of survival, our own ideas, our own view of the world, our
own morality. In many ways most children grow up to be like their
parents, she said, but in our case we grew up to be more like ourselves,
untended, untaught except through our own isolation. "If we feel un-
loved," she said, "it's not because we weren't loved. It's because we
weren't loved for who we are."
The night wore on with neither of us able to stop talking. The
subject eventually moved to the unique relationship between us.
"It just happened," Martha said, lighting another cigarette and
hugging her knees to her chest, her feet propped on her chair seat.
"It's so strange, how it happened. Neither of us had the slightest idea
what we were doing. We couldn't trust what others told us, because we'd
already learned something different. What they told us made sense only
in their lives, not ours. It just happened that way." She knocked the
ashes off her cigarette and asked me, "Were you ever afraid you'd die and
go to hell?"
I inhaled and blew out with a bitter huff. "There is no hell," I
said. I told her I'd never felt that were wrong; it was everyone else
who was wrong.
"I was always afraid," she said, looking down as if remembering.
"Afraid of what?"
"I don't know," she said, absently and sadly. She paused. She
rubbed her shins and then fiddled with her toenails. "I was afraid of a
lot of things. But, then, I tried anyway. I was always afraid I'd never
be smart enough to be a teacher. But fearing it, somehow, made me need
to do it."
"Working on the delivery bike was like that. Physically, I'm not cut
out for it. The other guys have an easier time of it. I came to that
job and the first thing I learned was that I couldn't do it. All it did
was make me want it."
She made a wry little smile. "You don't belong there. You belong in
the theater. You belong in creating and in doing. I wish you didn't
want so much to be like everyone else. You're not like everyone else,
Steven. You can't be and you shouldn't be. You can't be someone else
and neither can I, despite how others might demand it and regardless of
how much we might want it." She crushed her cigarette. "That's Ronnie's
problem. She wants to be me, she wants the same boyfriends others have,
she wants to be anyone but herself. I can't be what my mother wanted,
and won't be what Mr. Buchanan wanted. I'm not submissive, and I'm not a
saint. I'm stubborn and different. I learned to be alone and to see
what others do without being involved in what they do. Maybe that's why
I could stay friendly with your mother, without feeling guilty about her
ignorance of us. I'm different and rebellious and wicked and I can't
help it. I suppose you and I could attempt to do and be what others want
-- we might even be good at it. But we'd suffocate."
We both yawned, stretching in our chairs and moaning about how late
it was. We saw through her living room window that the sky had begun to
brighten. Birds chirped outside.
I yawned again. "I hope I can get to sleep."
"After all this? What would keep you awake?"
I thought about it; I was tired, but tense and impatient. "Thinking
about all the things we talked about. Worrying, I guess. Wanting it to
change, or...wishing it were different."
"You can't change what's happened, hon."
I yawned again. "No. I guess not."
"You're at a disadvantage, not knowing what a father is. I don't
know myself what it means to have one, in the way most people do. But I
am a teacher, and I did learn things that helped me. I don't know what I
can be to you. I certainly can't replace the people you had in your
life. But I can teach you...if you promise me something."
I rubbed my swollen eyes. "Another promise? Okay. What's the deal?"
"Promise that you'll accept the fact that you're not stupid, you're
not ugly, you're not incompetent. It's just that -- and don't take this
the wrong way, hon -- it's just that you have things to learn. Promise you
won't just beat yourself over the head for what you can't be."
"Easy for you to say," I told her drily, and reached up to scratch a
pimple under my chin.
Martha gently pulled my hand away from my face. "Don't, hon. Don't
do that to your face."
"But it itches," I complained, scratching again.
"No!" Again she took my hand, this time holding it firmly and close
to her. "Listen to me. If you don't like the way you look, do some-
thing about it. I'm going to show you how. This morning I'm sending you
to someone at my health club. He might strike you as very eccentric, but
I want you to listen to what he has to say. Learn from him. His name is
Fiore. He's trains athletes and dancers. Promise you'll listen?"
"Oh, okay," I said petulantly.
"Don't say okay unless you mean it."
"Okay," I said, halfheartedly.
"You think I have a nineteen inch waist because I mailed in enough
box tops? Fiore showed me how, and I want him to show you how to get rid
of those damn things by the end of this week. Promise me you'll listen
to him."
"Okay."
"And work hard."
"Okay, okay, promise."
"Don't pout, Steven."
"What's the sense of it? Seems like such a hopeless case."
"Jeez, where in the world did you latch onto such a low opinion of
yourself?"
"I just...learned to face facts, that's all. I'm not pretty, I'm
not anybody. I'm not very smart, I'm clumsy, I sink into a hole in the
ground when I'm around people, and I -- "
"Oh, hon!" she said, her voice heavy with anger and disappointment.
She gripped my hand tightly, frowned at me, and then dropped my hand onto
the table. "Steven, what's happened to you?". Groaning with frustra-
tion, she rose from her chair and walked to the living room window,
sighing distressfully three or four times. She leaned against the window
frame, folding her arms and gazing outside.
"I'm sorry..." I began.
"Please...be quiet while I get this together."
"I didn't mean to make you--"
"Stop, Steven. I won't let you trick me into feeling sorry for you.
And I won't let you feel sorry for yourself, either. It won't get you
anywhere and you need more than that. Please be quiet a minute."
I waited as she gazed out the window, her arms folded tightly as she
shifted her feet and frowned thoughtfully for a few moments. Finally,
after a deep sigh, she began:
"Hon, I have to tell you something. I wanted to tell you this so
many times, but I never knew how. I still don't know how. That last day
we were together in Memphis, when we went to the Holiday Inn...just be-
fore it was time to leave...I wanted so badly to tell you, it hurt. It
physically hurt. But I didn't know how you'd take it. I didn't know how
I could possibly make you understand. I once told you that there was
some momentous secret I wanted to share with you, and I wanted so much to
tell you then. But I couldn't. And I tried to tell you the day my
mother was married, and I tried to tell you the day I left Memphis. And
there were so many other times I tried. But I was so afraid you wouldn't
understand."
She stopped and then breathed heavily, wincing with consternation.
"If it's so hard to do," I said softly, "then forget about it."
"No! Dammit." She rubbed her forehead and gazed out the window.
"You need to know this. It's one thing to think no one loves you. but
it's another to think you're not lovable. I used to think that way. I
know how it feels. I work every day with young people who know that
feeling all too well."
"Martha, I've heard all this from the Brothers and the -- "
"No you haven't, Steven, and stop thinking you've guessed what I'm
going to say. Please, just stop thinking and just...listen. This is
hard enough for me to say as it is."
I opened my mouth to say okay again, but thought better of it. She
hugged herself tightly, her hands clinching and unclinching. Thinking
she might feel less pressured if I didn't have my eyes on her, I turned
away from her in my chair and sat still.
After another pause she said quietly and earnestly, speaking into the
warm dark outside the window, "I love you, Steven...I've always loved
you. From the first time I saw you, barely waist-high to me, I loved
you. You were the sweetest, most unique, most open and loving person I'd
ever seen. Your eyes had such a beautiful light...so eager, so trusting
and so...so very brave. I fell in love with you, and you were so free
and giving that...I simply couldn't resist. I never could. I still
can't."
She blinked. She covered her face with her hands for a moment, and
then folded her arms again and gazed out the window. "I don't know what
kind of love it is...It's not a romantic, Hollywood kind of love, it's
not like married love, it's not motherly. Or maybe it's all of those.
Maybe it's what philosophers refer to simply as love, the kind you can't
define by any known standard, the kind you can't put in a box. Whenever
I tried to control my feelings for you or rationalize them away or
moralize about what we did over the years, I couldn't. I once went to
one of my advisors, to try to describe what I felt, and later I went to
a psychologist. But I couldn't even begin to explain it to them, or even
to myself. All I heard from them was the same moralizing that I could
get from anyone on the street. I don't know what you're going to make of
this, or how you explain any of this to yourself, or even if you know
what the hell I'm talking about. I don't even know how to describe what
happens to me when we're together or why I sometimes feel so primitive,
so free, so wonderfully...alive with the pleasure that, for some reason,
I know only with you. I tried to justify my actions, but I can't. I
tried to condemn them, and I can't do that either. I tried to make plans
around it, tried to resist it, tried to analyze it. I can't. It's just
there. It's just...just me-with-you, and I can't conceive of it or
experience it in any other way."
Again, she sighed and searched for words. "It's just me...and it's
just you. It's what you do and it's who you are and it's how you think.
I don't think about you all day every day. I don't seem to pine when
you're away, not the way I'd miss a boyfriend or a parent. But when I
see you in front of me I become a completely different woman...or maybe,
I think, I become a secret 'Me' that I can't define or describe. Please
understand, hon -- I have no idea what's going to happen to us. Every
time I try to control it, it's a little like trying to tell the universe
how to change shape. Sometimes I think you'll find someone, and I'd be
so happy for you if that happened. I have no desire to own you. I know
you'll change with time, and I have no idea what you'll think of me years
from now. And I dread...Steven, I dread the day when either of us
changes or goes away or moves on with our lives, and I know both of us
will. There's nothing that you or I can do to stop that." Her voice
cracked a little, and she paused to wipe a tear from one eye. "And, oh,
hon -- if I ever did anything to break your heart, I don't know what...I
really don't know what I'd do."
Still gazing out the window, she collected herself quickly and went
on. "Maybe you're getting some kind of ambivalent message from me. Am I
wrong to feel the way I do? Were we wrong to break the rules? Am I
expecting something from you I have no right to expect? I've learned so
much since I left Memphis. I've seen so much. I've...changed so much. I
agonized over whether or not to bring you here and see what I'd become,
what I'm becoming. But I do trust you. I've always trusted you, because
I believe in what we feel for each other. I see honesty and caring in
the way you treat me and in every action you took with me. I could see
it and I could feel it."
She shook her head, slowly and sadly. "We were both so innocent,
Steven. Innocent, until we come face to face with the other morality
that's out there. Their morality. My sister casually slept with men
whenever she felt like it. So many, she doesn't remember their names.
Not because they wanted her. Because they liked her. And she was so
likeable, she fit in so well, so easily. I didn't have that. I had to
work and keep trying to change myself. But men didn't like me -- they
wanted me. They thought wanting was morality enough. But not you,
Stephen. Your touch and your eyes had love in them. You looked into me,
not at me. My father had that about him, too. I wanted him very much,
my father. I wanted him sexually, too. I don't know that he ever knew
what I was thinking. But when he looked at me, and talked to me, and
hugged me...oh, I loved him so! He loved me, too, just...just me. He
never made me be someone else or be like someone else; he just wanted me
to be the best me I could. And it made me want him completely. I never
wanted to own or possess him, and I never wanted him to own me. But I
did want to have the whole experience of him. And then let him go his
way, let him be him. I feel that way about you. Can it go beyond that?
Should we cut our wrists and mix blood? What can we do, how can we show
someone how much we love, and how we love, how much we want to totally
please, without owning? How do we even marry, without owning? Steven,
do you know that when I talked to your mother a few years ago, she told
me she was shocked to learn that your Aunt Yvonne regularly slept nude
with her husband? Your mother was so incensed, so scandalized. She
said, 'God knows, I've never let either of my husbands see *me* with
nothing on at all'. She's a good, suffering woman, Steven...but how can
people live that way? What kind of morality is that? Mr. Buchanan waits
until he's worn out with so many women, women he called whores, and then
decides to marry my submissive mother so he can settle down and be waited
on hand and foot, with a few of his old whores hanging around in the
corners. What kind of morality is that? So many wives faking orgasms,
getting pregnant so they can say they're respectable with a home in the
suburbs and a new Chevrolet every two years. But without love, without
joy, what kind of respectability is that? We pray to God to keep our
stocks going up, to help us make more cars and more toasters and bigger
bombs. We pray for our team to win the World Series. But no one prays
that we'll learn how to love, how to please, how to understand and
accept. Hmp. Morality. It's so strange, my talking to your mother and
asking your folks to let you visit, let you come here and see the city
and the art and new life, new people, new ideas -- life and ideas that
they don't really want you to see. Such a pretense I've had to make, so
many omissions and white lies, to match up with their morality. My
mother's morality, my teacher's, my supervisor's. How could their moral-
ity conceive of the...the joy and fulfilment I felt as a young woman the
first time I shared myself with you? Their morality forbids it. Their
morality forbids neglect, forbids abuse -- and yet we are neglected, we
are abused. And what kind of honesty is this, having to be honest behind
everyone's back? What kind of morality is it that forbids pleasure,
forbids intimacy, forbids ecstasy? Forbids individuation and knowledge
and self-realization? It's not *my* morality. It's not my battered
wives or my screw-up kids or my frigid women or my impotent men. Not my
Mississippi lynch mobs or my wars. My morality tells me I shouldn't lie
to them; their morality demands that I do, if I'm to be honest about
myself."
She bowed her head and sighed. Her voice lowered. "But I can't lie
to you, Steven. I don't know if...Hon, I don't know what you expect of
me. I have an idea what it is. And I don't know if I can fulfill your
every dream. I don't know that you can fulfill mine, either. I don't
know that anyone, anywhere, can fulfill everyone's dreams and needs all
the time, in every way." She shook her head. "I knew...I knew that one
day I'd go to hell for this. And there is a hell, Stephen. It's all
around us. Whatever we do or don't do, whether we're right or wrong...
we're damned if we do and we're damn if we don't. I can tolerate it. I
can tolerate knowing that I do what I think and feel is best. I can
tolerate it because even though I don't know if I can do everything for
you, I will always, always be as good to you as I can. And I'll always
trust that you'll do your best. So if I can't live up to it all, or if
you can't, I can accept it. I can live with that much hell."
She stopped. She raised her head and breathed deeply from the night
breeze that faintly rustled the window curtain. "Oh, hon. I hope I'm
not letting you down." She sighed again.
She straightened, her voice changing from plaintive to bold. "But
there's one thing I simply will not accept. I won't accept thinking
that I might have done something, said something, that makes you feel
unlovable. Something has made you feel that you can't depend on yourself
or your ideas or your efforts. If you feel that way, then I've failed
you. Right now, right this minute, I don't really know what to do about
it. But I have nine days to change the way you feel about yourself. And
I intend to try. No. I don't intend to -- I will."
For the first time since she had moved to the window, she turned to
look me straight in the eye. "You have no idea how difficult it was to
say this. I agonized over it for years. Please don't use it against me,
Steven. I think you're old enough to understand what I mean."
PART 10D:
Her eyes and her words left me speechless. I cleared my throat and
concealed my state of shock, nodding firmly to signal my acceptance of
what she had said. I shuffled nervously. She waited, staring at me
almost apprehensively. She seemed at once both resolute and vulnerable.
"I hope," she said softly, "I didn't blow your fuses."
"They're not fuses," I said with a brittle smile, "they're circuit
breakers. They reset after a few minutes."
She smiled sweetly. "Have I...burst all your bubbles, hon? I can't
even tell. You hide your feelings so well. Too well, Steven"
"I'm not as good at expressing those feelings as you are," I said
guiltily. "But, no, I...I won't keep them hidden." I swallowed hard.
"I can't answer right now. But I will."
She walked to me and gave me a quick little hug. "You don't have to
say anything."
"Yes, I do," I said haltingly. "But my circuit breakers need time."
"Okay, hon. Okay. C'mon. Let's get to sleep."
With another fit of yawning, we shut the lights and groaned our way
into bed, lying uncovered and facing each other in the dim wash of early
daylight that filtered through the curtained window.
We lay on our sides, facing each other in the dark. I closed my
eyes. From the window behind me, the city stirred faintly. It was an
unfamiliar sound, one I'd never heard when falling asleep in Memphis -- a
vague, distant but lurking and steady noise, a hint of the unexpected, an
undefined coming and going, a hushed sound of events moving in all direc-
tions.
I shifted, making my shoulder more comfortable. Opening my eyes, I
saw her watching me.
"Are you falling asleep?" she asked.
"I'm thinking."
"Don't think, hon. Sleep." She touched my shoulder, squeezed it
softly. "It'll be all right, Steven. It will."
I closed my eyes. I was far too exhausted to question a looming
future I couldn't see or define. I trusted her. I felt I had no choice.
That Saturday afternoon shortly before one o'clock, I awoke to my
first weekend in New York, and my first hangover. And Martha's musical,
teasing voice, and her gentle hands rubbing my back and shoulders.
"Up," she said, "the day's half gone."
There was little time for serious meditation over her words of a few
hours earlier. Martha roused me with scrambled eggs and two cups of a
strong, minty tea that made my mouth and nose tingle, and some celery
juice. We showered and dressed hastily, then scurried outside into the
blinding sunlight before I knew what happened.
"Hurry!" Martha implored as she dragged me by the arm toward Second
Avenue. "I called Fiore while you were sleeping like a slug and he said
he's leaving the health club by three!"
I yelped, "Are you sure he can work with somebody who can't talk or
walk?"
"Snap out of it," she told me as we turned a corner and headed down-
town. "If you're that tired and if you have a couple of bucks, we can
take a taxi."
"Good," I resolved aloud. I stepped into the street as I'd seen
others do and raised my hand for a taxi.
"Slacker," she said.
The meteoric taxi ride helped wake me during the short trip to
Lexington and 47th. Martha loaned me her health club pass and told me
how to find Fiore on the sixth floor of the hotel. "This is only an
evaluation," she told me. "It's free. After that, and because Fiore's a
friend of mine and wants my body, he's agreed to see you for twenty-five
bucks a session. Take my word for it, hon, it's a bargain. But don't
bother if you're not going to work with him."
Martha shopped while I was in Fiore's hands. I was surprised at his
height; who'd guess that a paid trainer would be even shorter than I! He
had phenomenal strength and agility. During the first ten minutes he
learned my every strength and weakness with a few quick glances over my
torso and limbs.
"Off with your clothes!" he snapped curtly, and he handed me a pair
of blue shorts. "Dress!" Before I finished changing he was chirping,
"On the massage table!" Rushed and confused, I fell down trying to
remove my shoes.
Fiore laughed merrily. "Haha! Say, you're allowed to sit on a chair
while you take off your shoes."
"Everybody's in such a hurry," I muttered.
"Of course! Iss New York! If you don' hurry in New York, you die!",
a remark he laughed about until I had the shorts on and was climbing onto
the table. For the next several minutes he threw me around like a bag of
dried peas.
"You hev a nice frame, Steven. Nice! But weak back and hips. What
kind of work you do, hah?" I told him about my newspaper route and the
delivery bike. "No, No!" he warned. "No good, the way you move! When
we finish here, we go to the bicycle to show you how to move. The way
you move now, iss no good!" For an hour he demonstrated how to manage
and build up my weaker body parts. By that time I was so breathless that
I merely grunted at his questions and stumbled through his instructions.
"Bad coordination! I have exercises for that! Here, here, no! No
pushups like that! Here, THIS iss a pushup! Only halfway, you see?
Never all the way! There! You see? Kapeesh?"
"What kind of food your Italian mother makes for you?" he asked later
as I struggled into my clothes with no air in my lungs and no strength in
my limbs. "Bread? Huh? Pasta?" I told him, yes, a lot of bread and
breaded foods, pasta, salads with oil and vinegar, cakes and pies, pan-
cakes, cereals. "Aha!" he screamed, "And then you have pimples, Ha?
Listen to me: No white bread! No white flour! Never! Get vinegar and
oil in the health food store! If anyone makes a salad with Crisco, shoot
them! If they give you a pancake, break their legs! No sugar! Iss
garbage, my friend! Garbage in your body, pimples on your face!"
He wrote a list of several items I should buy. "Today!" he demanded.
"There is a place two blocks down on Lexington! Start today! Come back
Monday, ten o'clock!"
He gave my back a slap that sent me reeling. He had a good laugh
while holding me up. "Haha, you'll be all right, my friend! In only a
few days with me, you'll have the strength of -- well, at least you will
be on your way! What's this?...smoke on your breath? Listen to me --
nicotine iss UGLY! You cannot have good skin if you smoke! And when you
see Martha, tell her thank you for sending you to me, I give you a
special price! How lucky to have such a beautiful woman on your side!"
As I glanced about on my way out of the health club, I saw that
Martha's was not the only lovely body in New York. There were several
dancers and models around, some of them bearing the most perfect figures
I could imagine. Their accomplishments fired me on -- though, for the
time being, I was too whipped to do anything more than limp out of the
club, into the elevator, and out to the busy sidewalk. By the time
Martha returned from shopping and found me outside the hotel, I had
managed to learn to stand again.
"So," she asked, "What's the verdict?"
"Are you sure Steve Reeves started out this way? I can do it if I
get plenty of rest between sessions."
"Not the way *we* fuck!" she laughed, drawing a startled look from
two or three passersby.
I showed Martha the list of things Fiore told me to buy.
"Can you afford this?" Martha asked. "This is some list."
"What'll it cost me?"
"About thirty or forty dollars, I guess."
"What I was going to spend on junk food, I'll spend for this."
Martha led me through my first trip in a health food store. We
walked out with a bag of bottles and foods and pills I'd never heard of.
Back in her apartment, she surveyed the goods. "I thought so," she said,
"he gave you a lot of B6. I figured as much, everybody on your mom's
side of the family seems to have signs of a deficiency. And, uh-oh,
Brewer's yeast! Oh, my -- hon, you'll hate me for this, but I have to
find some way to get a tablespoon of brewer's yeast down your throat
three times a day."
Most of the teas and supplements were not seriously upsetting, but
ingesting Brewer's Yeast was torture. By late afternoon I was filled
with vitamins, minerals, teas, juices, the yeast, and herbs.
For a rest, she introduced me to Central Park, where we roamed over
hills and through pine forests and followed a group of bird watchers
until twilight.
On our way out of the park, we passed a hot dog stand. "Hey," she
said, her eyes rolling, "Steven! You have to try a New York hot dog."
"No," I said firmly, mimicking Fiore. "Hot dogs iss pimples!"
"But you can't see Central Park without having a hot dog."
"No. No. And no."
"Wow, I see you took Fiore to heart. I'm proud of you."
The hectic session with Fiore and the walk through the Park did me
in. For dinner Martha made "nekkid" hamburgers (ground sirloin baked
slowly under a blanket of cheese and mushrooms), a salad dressed with
the special vinegar and oils Fiore prescribed, plus another handful of
pills. Martha informed me, "Gourmets never eat beef as-is. It's always
ground, Steven." Dinner was prefaced with a spoonful of dreaded yeast,
which I managed to swallow in small amounts with the help of some dark,
berry-flavored tea.
After dinner I sat listlessly at the table, feeling I'd soon faint.
"What's next?"
"To the bathroom. I'll show you how to wash your face."
"Wash my face? You think I don't know how to wash my face?"
"I'm gonna to show you how professionals do it." She gathered a can
of scouring powder and a bottle of the new vegetable oil and led me to
the bathroom.
I yelped with alarm, "I'm gonna wash my face with that?"
"No, silly. First we have to clean the sink. Watch and learn."
Again, it was a New York revelation. In her tiny bathroom Martha
taught me how to prepare my face with a thin coat of vegetable oil before
using special soap and steaming hot water.
I frowned at the sink of smoking water, and then at my oiled face in
the mirror, with growing skepticism. "Now, who would go through all this
just to wash their face?"
"People who don't accept the usual way of doing things," she said,
adamant. "People who don't listen to fairy tales. Do it, Steven. Open
up and try something different."
I followed the procedure reluctantly but exactly, counting aloud to
make certain I splashed the nearly stinging hot water onto my face as she
directed, twenty-five times. Afterwards, she made me look at myself in
the mirror.
"Feel your skin," she prompted, her voice losing its stiffness. "Look
at your face. Smooth, right? And the skin's tight? Look at your cheeks
glow, hon. Your skin's acid-balanced now, and the pores are clear. And
those damn pimples were opened up and they're already disappearing."
I looked carefully, flabbergasted. She was right. I wouldn't have
believed it without seeing it.
"Trust me?" she taunted. "Was I right? Is not the wicked witch
really your friend in disguise?"
I surrendered. "Yes," I mumbled.
"Feel better about yourself?"
"Yes."
She hugged me. "I've got to get you out of the 'Memphis mode', hon.
Stop letting those foamin' Romans tell you how to think. I want you to
find out for yourself, try something new, trust yourself. All it takes
is some work and a little nerve. Okay?"
I hugged her back.
"Love you," she said. "You know that now, don't you?"
"Yes."
She hurried into the kitchen and started cleaning up.
"What next?" I called from the bathroom, still looking at myself in
amazement.
"Movie, if you want."
"Doesn't anybody in New York ever rest?"
"Occasionally, but they don't admit it in public. It's bad p-r. But
after last night, I guess we could both use a quick nap."
After cleaning the kitchen we lay flat on our backs in bed for a brief
nap. I fell asleep immediately. When I awoke, Martha was sitting on the
edge of the bed, smiling at me.
"Looks like you're beat," she said.
"Martha -- I'm sorry, I guess so."
"That's okay, hon. I can hardly believe you've only been here a
little more than 24 hours."
I sighed drowsily. "Is that all? Seems like a week already. But
you're right...this is only my second night in New York."
"I saw you so sleeping so hard, I let you nap over an hour. What do
you say we skip the movie, go over to Second Avenue and eat out? Ronnie
called, and she'd like to treat you for being so patient with her last
night. Would that be better?"
"Deal," I said, relieved.
I started to rise, but Martha held me down with a hand on my arm. "I
have to tell you something."
"Oh, no. More revelations."
"Yes," she said, and she made her voice very small and paused for a
long time while she played bashfully with my shirt collar, hiding her
eyes from mine. "Stephen...Ronnie is my very best, very close, very only
girlfriend..."
"Go ahead," I said warily. "Go ahead, hit me with it."
"Well...Steven...hon...she knows about us." She felt me tense up and
then go limp. "Not everything," she added quickly, "not...hon, not the
fucking part. I could never quite bring myself to tell her about that,
but I did say that we, you know, fooled around a while back. I didn't
want her to be totaled."
"What did she say?"
"Nothing."
I blinked. "Nothing?"
"No, she didn't say anything at all. I was so surprised. She asked
me again about it, later, and I did tell her that a long time ago you
gave me my first orgasm. She thought it was so sweet that we were good
to each other. I even think she was a little envious. She grew up in
Michigan in much the same way we did. But she had no friends at all,
Steven. No one. She went through three fathers and a screwed-up mother
and two really crappy brothers before she was sent off to a college she
truly hated. She walked out of class one day and never returned, never
went home again. She gave up everything and moved here with a college
boyfriend and lived with him...until he kicked her out because he said
she wasn't good enough for him. She ended up on the street, and got
picked up by a guy in a bar. He asked her to stay with him, and she was
so desperate for a place...He was the guy I told you about, who ended up
being so abusive. She endured it until she finished school and got her
first job. When she answered my ad for a roommate, she'd been sleeping
in the bus station for two days."
I shook my head and winced.
"Plenty of people had it tougher than we did, hon. Many who aren't
as sensitive as Ronnie would've turned cold and mean. But Ronnie still
tries. Like you and I, she knows she doesn't fit. But she can't live in
a shell, either. So don't think she gets loaded and always acts the way
she did last night. She's disorganized and she's searching. But she's
affectionate and understanding. I sometimes think...people like Ronnie,
who've been hit hard and who are so different, are the only people I can
get close to. She tries so hard to please. And like you, she can be
very hard on herself when it doesn't work. And she has fits of despair.
But she's really very nice. Now, please -- don't mention any of this.
I'm sure she'll know that I would have told you something about her, but
don't get into this with her. She gets very depressed about it. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Are you sorry you came here and got mixed up in all this? I know
so much is hitting you at once -- "
"No. No, I like it."
"You *what* ?"
I said earnestly, "I mean...I mean it's life, it's real. I can
understand it. It's not a Tupperware party. It's not I Love Lucy or
shopping at the A&P. It's like the things I really think about and feel,
but never talk about. I mean--" I sighed in exasperation, searching
for better words.
She ruffled my hair. "I got the idea." She smiled with admiration
and surprise. "I don't think you'll have too much trouble getting the
hang of things around here."
"Ronnie's no problem," I said, trying to stand. I ached everywhere
and needed to stretch. And I was starving. "It's Fiore that's gonna
kill me!"
Again, with ruthless practicality and adherence to method, Martha
forced a spoonful of bitter yeast down my throat. A cup of berry
tea and a shower later, I was awake enough to force my sore muscles to
carry me down the stairs and onto the sidewalk.
"C'mon," she said ahead of me.
"All right, all right. Let me wake up. Always in a hurry."
We met Ronnie a few blocks away on Second Avenue. She blushed when
she saw me, but she gave me her catchy, sweet, girlish smile that made
her dark blue eyes light up playfully.
"Remember me?" she joked, extending her hand. Blushing as well, I
accepted her handshake. Like her face, her hand was small and delicate.
She had long, slender, very warm fingers. Without her spiked heels she
was Martha's height, and she looked slimmer in a simple skirt than she
did in her business suit.
Ronnie took us to a crowded neighborhood diner where she and Martha
stormily debated the use and purposes of psychology. Ronnie didn't agree
with any of it. "Science is the bane of life," she groaned, slicing away
at a pork chop. "Putting people's feelings on charts and graphs!"
"It has its uses," Martha insisted.
"So does cyanide," Ronnie said.
"And like anything else," Martha went on hotly, "it can be used or
MIS-used, Ronnie. I don't agree with the way it's used. It's used to
plot norms, and the norms are considered not only normal and desirable,
but required for everyone. And, you're right, that's the part that's
sheer nonsense."
"Careful, Martha, you're on the verge of agreeing with me." Ronnie
grinned insolently and popped a chunk of meat into her mouth.
Eventually they exhausted themselves and changed the subject, moving
on to the latest ladies' fashions. I sat beside Martha and opposite
Ronnie, saying nothing. I listened, my elbow on the table and my chin
propped in my hand, eyeing them with an amused smile as their new conver-
sation progressed from frolicsome chatting to sarcastic debate.
"Ronnie," Martha argued, "that's what I don't understand about your
business. What right has some cafe society designer to decide what I
will or won't be able to buy in a store next year? He knows nothing
about me!"
"Oh, Martha it doesn't work that way!"
"Yes, it does! That's exactly how it works!"
"So boycott Bloomingdale's. All I do is design what I'm told, don't
point fingers at *me*."
"What you just said," Martha emphasized slowly, "is exactly what I
mean. The business is structured for the very few who tell everyone else
how to fall into line. Your own creativity and my freedom of choice
never enter the picture. Because marketers know that most people are
sheep. Madison Avenue denies people information that lets them decide
for themselves."
Ronnie winked at me, unwhithered by Martha's polemic. "Steven, isn't
this fun? Have you learned anything from this conversation?"
I shrugged and ventured, "Eat dinner with the boys, and don't wear
ladies' clothes?"
"Great, toots. Martha, I *knew* Steven was a cool guy. Steven, are
we boring you with this?"
I answered, "Actually, yes."
"Ha!" Ronnie yelped. "Good answer! Come on, let's stop all this
philosphical garbage and talk about something totally mindless. Steven,
has this friend of mine taught you anything about New York that you
couldn't have learned in Memphis?"
I told Ronnie about learning to wash my face. Her eyes narrowed with
serious interest in what I was saying. She wanted more information.
"Martha," she said, "why didn't you ever tell me about this trick
with washing the face? All this time, and you never told me."
Martha threw up her hands, "Oh, you're just avoiding my point! Just
for that, I'm going to the restroom. Please don't make Steven cry while
I'm gone."
"Okay, hon, okay," Ronnie said absently, returning to me. "Steven, I
meet Martha, next thing you know I'm calling her 'hon'. Can you believe
it? But tell me...what's this about washing? Seriously. See, I have
this blemish right here under my ear, and I have these pores, see? Over
here...?"
Minutes later, Martha returned from the restroom and found us en-
grossed in a serious exchange.
"I can't believe," Martha said sarcastically, "that you two are
talking about cosmetics!"
"You know, Martha, this guy's fascinating. I never saw anybody go
into things so thoroughly. You do everything that way, Steven?"
The talk went from skin care to the relation between mind and body
and how an individual's acceptance of their faults affects their will-
ingness to either change the situation or simply resign to it and remain
a victim.
Soon Martha was yawning again.
"You already worn out?" Ronnie grumbled. "Just when it was gettin'
good!"
"It's been a rough two days," Martha said. "We're calling it a
night soon."
"Steven," Ronnie said, cupping her hand around her mouth in a mock
whisper, "Martha always does this when she's losing an argument with me."
We left the diner. Ronnie strolled with us along First Avenue. On
the way, we passed a pet store. The store was closed for the day, but we
stopped to look at the giant green and white parrots and the toucans in
the darkened window.
"Fascinating," I murmured, my mouth so close to the window that my
breath left a small circle of fog on the glass. "What huge birds. I
never saw anything like this back home."
"It's depressing, though," Martha said sadly. "The ones who aren't
in cages have their wings clipped. What a mean thing to do to such
gorgeous creatures. C'mon, Steven. Ronnie. Please. I can't stand
seeing this."
Back in our building, Ronnie stopped at her apartment to thank us.
"Steven, what a nice evening. Does this make up for my stupidity of last
night?"
I pretended ignorance. "What stupidity?"
"You're sweet," Ronnie said, loading the comment with overplayed
mushiness. She kissed me quickly on the cheek. "Mm. You Rhett Butlers
are all alike."
After Ronnie said goodnight and closed her door, I turned to see
Martha smiling at me. "One more chore. Let's cap off the night with
one more New York experience. Come on."
PART 10E:
We strolled down East 86th Street. It was getting late, yet I was
amazed that the traffic and the people on Lexington Avenue were as
frenzied as they were during the day. Martha led me to a newsstand so
besieged with customers that we had to push our way through to get a copy
of the Sunday Times.
"This is not the way you get it in Memphis," she said, offering me
the hefty newspaper with both hands as if it were a precious gift. She
saw my eyes bulge: the complete New York Times, including sections the
out-of-town editions didn't carry. "Hot off the presses," she said,
pleased at my reaction. "Be careful. The ink's still wet."
We headed home with the Times under my arm, my neck craning to catch
sight of all the activity that flourished in late-night Manhattan.
"Who would ever believe," I said delightedly, "that buying a news-
paper could be such a major event?"
"New York does have its simple pleasures," she said, enjoying my
excitement. "But don't stay up all night with it. You'll have plenty
of time later. Remember, Fiore told you to rest."
Later, upstairs, I crawled into bed as Martha sat propped against her
pillows reading a book.
"You really perked up tonight," she said.
"I did?"
"It makes a big difference when you're around people you actually get
along with. Ronnie was very impressed. See? There really are people
who like you."
"Well," I said grudgingly, "I did pretty good for a fifteen year old."
Martha scowled. "You did well, period! Stop running yourself down,
or I'll spank you."
I lay on my side as Martha paged through her book to lull herself to
sleep, as she usually did when she was alone. I gazed out the window and
listened to the city. Martha was right: being with kindred souls made a
difference. I wondered how I would handle myself when I returned home.
The very idea of having to fly back to Memphis loomed threateningly, mak-
ing the spread of the next eight days seem like a paltry eight minutes.
How much did Martha think I could accomplish in so short a time?
I shifted onto my other side, facing Martha. She put her book down
and looked at me.
"Ready for sleep, hon?"
I yawned. "Looks like it, hm?"
She turned around to shut off the light on the bedside table. She
rested on her side and faced me. Her hazel eyes glistened in the dark as
she smiled at me sleepily.
"I'm glad you're here," she said.
I pursed my lips and made a little kiss. "Me too."
"Goodnight," she whispered.
Settling onto my side facing her, I closed my eyes and tried to stop
thinking. The small kiss I gave Martha reminded me of Ronnie's friendly
kiss as she bid us goodnight earlier. I still felt Ronnie's small, lip-
sticked, warm, sticky lips on my cheek. A mild horniness sprang from
nowhere and spread with a vague tingle through my tired body. This was a
new feeling, purely physical and seemingly unalloyed with any emotion. I
wondered if the yeast and the bellyful of vitamins were responsible. I
wondered whether the tingle meant that Fiore's efforts on my behalf were
beginning to pay off. I wondered what kind of answer I could give to
Martha's confession of a few hours ago.
I opened my yes and saw Martha, on her side, still watching me.
She asked, "Are you thinking again?"
"Mm."
She looked at me for a long moment. Her sleepy gaze changed to a
mild frown. "That was terrible what you told me, about your mom when she
caught you masturbating. Did she really act like that?"
"I got over it."
"No. I don't think you did." She yawned. She fumbled with the slit
of my underwear and found the tip of my flaccid organ. "Maybe I should
check it again, though, and make sure it wasn't damaged." Carefully she
opened the slit and pulled out my cock. She said, "I told you I was
wicked. I can't help it. You're so touchable." She looked down at my
cock stirring languidly between her fingers. "Can I pull him off? It
can feel very nice when you're sleepy."
I smiled, lax and weary except for my cock, which itched pleasantly in
response to her soft hand. "Okay."
She said sheepishly, "You must think I'm terribly perverted, doing
this now. Maybe I am."
"Maybe I am, too. You see how courageously I resist."
Perhaps it was Ronnie's affectionate kiss. Or the lack of sleep.
Any misgivings I may have had about the strangeness of the moment or the
reasons for her need to masturbate me just then were obscured by the warm
tickle of her begging fingers.
She murmured, "I felt lonely, telling you all that about me this
morning. I felt you might think I was pushing you away."
"No," I said. My cock slowly unraveled.
"Steven..." she began falteringly, her hand encircling and hugging my
shaft. She swallowed, thickly. "It's not so easy for me...to open up
that way."
"I know," I whispered back, aware of the same problem within myself.
As I lay on my side watching her I sensed in her careful, delicately
urging fingers and her disquieted tone, our mutual need to coax reassur-
ance from weary flesh.
Sensing that I might be a little numb with drowsiness, she reached
behind her and grabbed a bottle of hand lotion from the bedside table.
Wetting her fingers, she smeared the peach-scented stuff on me and re-
sumed her tender milking. I sighed pleasurably as her slick hand gently
pulled upward, completing each motion with a squishy clench around my tip.
She asked, "Better?"
"Yeah. I'm tired, but I need it."
"I know."
She soon had me stiff, and as she began methodically milking me I
reached under the waistband of her pajamas. On her side, she raised one
knee so I could find her clit. Lazily I made one-finger circles on her
slick nub, now and then dipping inside her to caress the little lump of
nerves that I knew lay deep within. For a long time we masturbated one
another, in no special hurry to finish. We played languorously, sighing
and moaning. She came first, closing her eyes and easing into it with a
long groan, her hand on me pausing in its ministrations while she stif-
fened and enjoyed her cum with quiet desperation. As it ended for her,
her hips undulated softly a few times and then jerked to a stop. She
came out of it gasping wearily. I kept my middle finger in her while she
finished me off. Just before I came she nestled closer, gathering a
portion of her pajamas shirt and baring her flesh just above her navel.
As cum splattered on her she smirked contentedly, murmuring "Mm-hm,
mm-hm," and watched thin rivulets drool down her hip onto the sheet.
When I finished she wiped up with a kleenex, then tugged my shaft firmly
to draw the last of it onto the tissue. With our arms limply entwined,
we fell asleep.
I awoke early Sunday and lay for a while watching Martha sleep. She
was curled into a ball, her pajamas stretched over her smoothly rounded
hips and firm thighs, one hand folded loosely into a fist near her cheek.
She lay on her side, her face toward me, her eyes softly closed and her
lips parted. She seemed touchingly innocent. It had been years since
I'd watched her sleeping. For a while I dared not move; I had only a few
days to see her this way. My brain ached with the question: How could
this woman, this grown woman, so lovely, so intelligent, so accomplished,
appear so childlike as she cuddled in sleep beside me?
I lowered my head to barely touch my lips to hers for a moment. As
always, her flesh seemed to melt into mine.
Knowing I would not fall asleep again, I slid carefully from the bed
and crept into the kitchen, where I rummaged for coffee and set the
percolator brewing. Then I found a pen and some paper and sat at the
dining room table. I gazed at the window in the living room where
Martha had confessed her thoughts and feelings early Saturday morning.
I began writing, one word or phrase at a time. At fifteen, what
could I say to allay the anxieties she expressed? Did she see me as a
man, as a boy, or as a man who happened to be less than sixteen? How
could I have expected her to respond to me in any way other than the way
she responded while standing next to that window? How could I expect her
to embrace an uncertain, undefined future with a partner whose major
claim to fame was a paper route and advanced skills at delivering grocer-
ies in Memphis, Tennessee? Should I proclaim an undying love for her?
My fifteen-year-old heart idealized that love as precious; but a more
cynical old man in my head knew that my youthful heart was susceptible to
indulgence in impractical mush.
The words I wrote fell together and fell apart fitfully. I crossed
them out, rewrote them, crossed them out and began again. Over an hour
later, I had written:
You were always the one who offered first.
Am I the one who only receives?
That in me which I couldn't do, you do.
That which I couldn't have, you give.
I give you that you are more than loved,
but as my secret otherness,
the You-ness I can't be but am,
you are cherished, dearly.
Before I could finish, I heard a muffled knock at the front door.
Thieves? The landlord? Quickly I fetched my pants from a hanger in the
bathroom and stood listening at the front door as I dressed. Again, two
brief, soft knockings. I cleared my throat. Silence. I cleared my
throat more loudly.
"Steven?" a girlish voice whispered from the other side. "Is that
you?"
It was Ronnie. I started to open the door, remembered that I wore my
glasses, removed them, opened the door halfway, and peered out. She
stood in the hallway in her pajamas and floor-length bathrobe. Her face
looked shiny, as if just washed.
"Hi," she said, grinning. She gave me a little wave of her hand.
"Martha up?"
"Not yet."
"Steven, I'm outta coffee." She folded her hands beseechingly and
grin meekly. "Please?"
"Sure," I said, beckoning her inside. I opened the door and held a
finger to my pursed lips. She nodded and tiptoed into the kitchen.
Realizing I was in my t-shirt, I tiptoed to the bedroom and fetched my
shirt. Martha still slept. Closing the bedroom door, I buttoned my
shirt and waited in the living room until Ronnie tiptoed from the kitchen.
"Shh, okay," she whispered. She held a cup half filled with coffee
grinds. She stood near the door waiting, smiling sleepily with hair
falling into her face. I moved quickly to the door.
"You guys sure clean up fast around here," she whispered.
Not understanding, I looked at her.
With her head she gestured toward the living room sofa. "The sofa's
already made up and folded. Unless you sleep on the floor."
"Oh," I said. "Yeah. I woke up early."
She patted me on the shoulder. "Good boy. You Southern guys are so
self-sufficient." Wincing and grimacing playfully, she whispered "shh"
again and opened the door and slithered past it. I stood near the door
and was ready to close it when she poked her head back inside. "Oh, by
the way--" she whispered, craning her neck and face toward me. She gave
me a quick, innocent peck on the cheek. "Thanks." She withdrew, waved a
tiny bye-bye at me with her fingers, and tiptoed down the hall.
Just as I quietly closed the door I heard Martha mutter sleepily
behind me, "Steven, is somebody there?"
She stood in the living room doorway, drowsy, her formerly combed
hair a tousled, light auburn fuzz across her eyes and forehead. She
slumped, she had no makeup, and her pajama sleeves half-covered her hands
as they flopped uselessly at her side. She looked deliciously girlish.
"Ronnie," I said, gesturing toward the door. "She ran out of coffee."
"Oh...She's always out of coffee."
With her pajama bottoms rasping sluggishly along the floor, she
drifted into the kitchen. Quickly, I retrieved my writing from the
table, folded it and slipped it into my shirt pocket. I unfolded the
Sunday paper and spread it on the table and sat, pretending I'd been
reading all along.
In a moment Martha appeared at the kitchen door, still slumping,
squinting at me through half-closed eyes. "You made coffee?"
I nodded.
She paused, scratching her forehead, and rubbed her eyes and
murmured, "Oh. That's sweet." She yawned and drifted toward the bath-
room, pausing on the way to give me a quick kiss on the cheek and say
"Thank you" before stumbling into the tiny room and closing the door
behind her. After a while I heard her clinking around. She dropped
something plastic that rattled on the floor. Soon she drifted past me
again, carrying cosmetics and towels, pausing again to give me another
peck before floating listlessly to the shower stall in the kitchen. She
removed her pajamas, giving me a quick flash of her tightly toned back
and her charmingly round, sloping derriere (I mused: How in the world
would one dare use common street or medical terms to refer to something
so perfectly, delicately, and beautifully shaped?). Stepping inside and
drawing the curtain, she turned on the spray and gave a little squeak.
As she showered I returned to my prized Sunday Times. So far, my
first Sunday in New York was a great success: it was not yet nine a.m.,
and I'd already been kissed by two women and totally turned on by
Martha's luscious nudity. Outside, sparrows chirped merrily.
During my brief shower, Martha applied her makeup quickly and combed
her hair, pinning it back and bobbing it. I was amazed to find that in
mere minutes she transformed the sleepy, frowzily sexy, pajama'd little
girl into a chic, poised, glamorous woman in skirt, blouse, and loafers.
After I dressed we walked down Second Avenue past several bars and res-
taurants that advertised their brunch menus on entrances and on sandwich
boards along the sidewalk. Martha laughed when I asked her what a brunch
was. "Brunch," she said, "is where we're going." She advised me which
of the places along the street had good service and which had good food.
She said, "You have to compromise between service and food. It's a New
York institution: usually, you can't have both at the same time." I chose
food over service, and we went to a place where I ordered eggs benedict
on English muffins (yet another rarity in Memphis) and I was introduced
to a spicy, non-alcoholic version of the bloody mary. I spent most of
the time watching the appearance and behavior of the other customers.
New Yorkers entered a restaurant, quickly sighted a table, and headed
straight for it. Memphians usually stood still, frowned, and seemed to
agonize over a decision before moving falteringly ahead, changing their
minds several times in the process. I also noticed the glances and
stares men directed at Martha.
"You know" I said secretively as we ate, "two men in here are staring
at you."
"That's what New Yorkers do," Martha said, unfazed. "They stare.
They're trained from childhood in effective staring. Don't stare back,
though. They get violent. If you think this is staring, wait until you
get on the subway."
We returned to her apartment. The first order of business was to
stuff another load of nutrients into my mouth, including a tablespoon of
the yeast, which blessedly was getting easier to take. Then Martha pre-
pared food for a picnic in Central Park. She told me more about Ronnie
and how they met and became friends, and things they did together.
Martha had laid out several slices of bread and covered each with
slices of ham and cheese. She said, "I always thought Ronnie was very
pretty." She was pleased when I agreed. She kept talking as she worked.
"Would you like to go out with her?"
"Don't be silly, I don't like her that way. Anyhow, I'm too young."
"Steven--" She sighed impatiently, but continued working. "Ronnie is
now your friend, because she's my friend. And she likes you. I doubt
that she'd scream in horror if you asked her to go out and show you
around. Please get out of the Memphis mode, hon, she's not one of your
tough old aunts. She's more like your cousin Josephine Louise, the one
you used to get all goggle-eyed about. Anyway, you won't even have to
ask, because she's going with us to the beach at Fire Island Wednesday.
And I'm asking her if she'll meet you for lunch after your session with
Fiore tomorrow, and show you how to get to a place on 34th Street where
you can order some decent eyeglass frames for yourself." She stopped
smiling as she worked, speaking somewhat bitterly and almost to herself.
"I don't like the way you're growing up down there. You've proven you can
work hard, you've proven you can get your grades in school, you've proven
that you're desirable and intelligent and sweet. I don't see why they
allow you to just submit and suffer everything the way they do. So many
people, so determined to make you exactly like them..." She looked up at
me, apologetic, seeming almost surprised by her own words. "I'm sorry,
hon. They're good people. But they don't understand you. And they've
left me with an awful lot of work to do and an awfully short time to do
it." She grinned at me, wrapping the sandwiches. "Am I pushing you too
hard? Hm? Why are you so speechless?"
"I just don't talk much."
"You used to talk my head off, years ago. Well, hon, that's all
right. Just be yourself, don't worry about it. Anyway, I have news for
you. I've set you up with a date."
"A what?"
"A date. With a student of mine. Marilyn. She's sixteen. She's
bright, sweet, cute. Done some theater, too. I told her about you and
she wants to meet you."
I paused. "What if she doesn't like me?"
"She already likes you, Steven. And it was her request to begin
with."
"But what if she doesn't like me?"
"If she doesn't," she said firmly as she worked, "then you should
learn to handle it. With grace, confidence, and intelligence...Well, I
see you're not so happy about it. All right, I won't force it. We can
talk about it later, then, and you make up your mind. But it's for
Friday, and I'll be there to chaperone, and...well, you make up your
mind."
"All right, I'll...probably say yes." I said reluctantly.
"Hon," she said frankly, stacking the wrapped sandwiches and looking
in the cupboard for a bag. "don't be a pushover. You can say no to me
if you want to."
I didn't reply. I was thinking: what is she trying to do, get me off
her hands by setting me up with someone else?
"There, now," Martha said finally, placing our sandwiches in a bag
and fetching her purse. "We're ready for Rockefeller Center, and the
park, and a movie I know you'll be crazy about." She stood in front of
me and looked me over. "You look so nice, Steven. Please think it over
about a date with Marilyn. Will you? There may be plenty of people who
would put you down for not being what they expect of everyone else. But
you're different in a very nice way and, frankly, Marilyn's looking
forward to meeting you. I can't imagine a caring, intelligent person who
wouldn't like you. You think about it. C'mon, let's get going."
Her words may have served in one respect to shore up my lagging con-
fidence. But I chilled at the thought that her long-term hopes didn't
appear to be the same as mine. On the other hand, I wasn't that certain
about my own long-term hopes. They had never been defined in my head;
when I tried to envision what Martha and I would be like in ten or twenty
years, I always drew a blank. It was as if I had been living under an
old assumption from the past, when Martha and I were growing up: She had
always been there and, somehow, she always would.
That afternoon she led me through Rockefeller Center and Radio City,
and then a lake in Central Park. We stayed in the park until sunset,
sitting on the grass and snacking. When it was almost time to leave for
the movie in the Village, she packed our leftovers and sat looking up at
me, her skirt spread on the grass around her.
"I know you're having a good time," she said, teasing. "But what
have you been thinking about all day, hon? Come on. You're hiding
again."
Vacillating, I pulled my handwritten note out of my shirt pocket and
gave it to her. "I don't talk that well on my feet yet," I told her. "I
couldn't say it. I had to write it."
She unfolded it and read, her head lowered and her face hidden as I
stood near her. The paper lay loosely in her hands on her lap.
Hearing nothing, I stuttered, "It's just words...it's not finished or
anything..."
"I understand that, Steven," she said quietly. "I know what the
words mean."
"Well...it's not what I was thinking. It's...what I was feeling."
For a long moment she silently looked down at the page. I couldn't
see her face.
"Hon," she said earnestly, "I hope I'm not letting you down."
I shuffled, stirring my feet on the grass. "Well, I did promise I'd
be your friend while I was here. A friend wouldn't put a lasso around
you. A friend wouldn't want to." She didn't move or speak. "I mean...
you wouldn't be the same, would you, with your wings clipped?"
I looked down at her. Nearly horrified, I saw a tear drip from her
hidden face and onto the paper. She sniffed. I tensed: I had not
expected this!
Gently, she wiped the droplet from the paper and fingered a corner.
"Hon," she whispered, "these are the most beautiful words I ever read."
"Well, they're a little...clumsy."
"I don't care," she said firmly. She looked up at me. She smiled
sweetly, gratefully, happily. She wiped a corner of her eye. "It's
lovely. It's simply lovely. And these words...and what you just told
me...it's the most beautiful thing you've ever done. Look at me, you
have me crying like a baby. No one has ever, ever done anything like
this for me! It's so unselfish, so much like the Steven I know!"
She stood, reaching for me. "C'mere," she said, and she embraced me
with a close, tight hug, clinging to me from head to toe. She sniffed
again, and then laughed against me. "Oh, lord, you don't say much. But
when you do, you sure know how to do it!"
I gulped, astounded. She hugged me until I couldn't breathe.
Leaning back, she held me by the shoulders and beamed at me. "Come
on!" she said eagerly. She grabbed my arm and walking briskly, keeping
herself close to me. "We're headed for the rest of your vacation."
I glanced at her as we moved blithely along the path toward the south
end of the park. She smiled, relieved, exhilarated, shaking her hair in
the breeze, squinting into the setting sun.
She said contentedly, "Steven, you're not just a friend. You're not
just sweet. You're one helluva romantic guy. I'm so glad you're here."
I beamed back, smiling inwardly. I thought: victory is so sweet.
Continued...
-- CJ
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