Part 20 (1/2)
TALL blue Miss Tomson lonely and aloof. Descending the stairs and crossing the hall of Pomfret. She stood trembling among the silent guests. Biting her stiffened lips. Eyes moist. White lids thinly holding back the tears. On the dark floor the light blood. Fumes of gunpowder in the air. As she walked up to George Smith and said, take me out of here. blue Miss Tomson lonely and aloof. Descending the stairs and crossing the hall of Pomfret. She stood trembling among the silent guests. Biting her stiffened lips. Eyes moist. White lids thinly holding back the tears. On the dark floor the light blood. Fumes of gunpowder in the air. As she walked up to George Smith and said, take me out of here.
Outside and beyond the stone shadowy porch of Pomfret. Smith standing with Miss Tomson. A wind and purple stormy clouds in a moonlit sky. Along by the cars collected like dark animals crouched on the drive. Her white pearls on her throat she wore months ago on the train. Sad gangling arms from her blue dress. Tears trickling down her face.
Smith driving Miss Tomson's long sleek black vehicle slowly away. Car lights flas.h.i.+ng across spruce trees, faint flower beds and a gabled s.h.i.+ngled dog house, a figure throwing a glittering dog collar in the window.
”Smith the only thing 1 ever owned was that dog. And that s.h.i.+t shot him. Thoughtful some b.a.s.t.a.r.d giving me the collar back.”
”Your dog was winning.”
”That was no reason to kill him. Men stink. What's left for me.”
”Miss Tomson it's not the end of the world to be dogless. I had a dog when I was a little boy, called Brownie.”
”Was he shot.”
”No. He died a natural death of disease.”
”Well then Smith how do you know. I just saw my dog killed.”
”Which way do I turn.”
”I don't care just get us away. They can push me dead on a cart down a long hall of some hospital.”
”Don't say that Miss Tomson, please.”
”Guys use you. If you love him. Give him everything and they want to get rid of you. You're a chain around his neck. I always had Goliath. Jesus. Any good guy's already married with kids. Already with a padlock and chain. I don't want to be fine. Or beautiful. I want a baby. A rocking chair. A porch in the country undoing my sweater to put it on the nipple. Who wants to be fine. The rats win.”
”That's not always true, Miss Tomson.”
”You just don't know, Smith. What were you doing at that lousy party,”
”A neighborly invite to a jamboree.”
”Don't s.h.i.+t me Smith. I'm just too depressed. What were you doing there.”
”Tell me about these gears. This right for third.”
”You're doing fine. Just drive. You got a license.”
”No. But I learned about gear s.h.i.+fting as a child.”
”Jesus.”
Smith motoring north. Past another entrance to Pomfret. Row of granite farm buildings on the road. Down a steep hill through the woods. High wire fence. Locking in Bonniface. Who as I drove Miss Tomson's car out of Pomfret seemed to be a shadow reeling beside the road, arms outstretched, coatless and shouting.
Stop I am Bonnif ace Disposer of dead Calvin helper of The maimed Clementine, the Ill.u.s.trious Banjaxed and cuckolded And Cedric too.
Stop.
You b.a.s.t.a.r.d Smith.
In these trying times. Of swindles, dog death and utter loneliness, where just another sad body naked next to mine can mean a whole world of peace and tenderness. Miss Tomson who gives money to beggars, violinists, street corner kids jigging with a homemade band, the mute and blind. Any helpless thing she would lift up and love. Like all tall women. When I became a b.u.m drowned in drink. And walk that wasteland street like all the others kicked out of family and home, severed, unshaved, unlaundered and unpressed. Miss Tomson will take my tattered leery self, say O Jesus Smith, you poor poor guy. Feed from the crumbs in the palm of her hand. Lift up my faint face. To hers so fair.
”How many cylinders have we here, Miss Tomson.”
”Eight.”
”My.”
Lonely headlights far away on another road. A red Barn. Stone wall above a sunken field. Hides of cows grazing in the night. Use a gla.s.s of milk with this cake beside me. Branches bending over the road, grey upturned leaves in the headlights. Monstrous purring engine whispering under this long black hood charging through the dark. Toting this peach, strawberry and cream. My delirious appet.i.te.
”All the best steak I bought him. Perfect report on his three medical checkups. Never even had worms. Could have shown him in the dog show.”
”Mustn't dwell on it Miss Tomson. You look terribly good tonight.”
”You really mean it Smith. Do I look O.K.”
”You do. There's a road house. Let's stop. Get you a drink.”
First few fat drops of rain. Speckling the steps up to a porch under a neon sign. Jerry's Night Spot. Dark interior. Smith tripping over legs, leading Miss Tomson to the dim bar. White coated bar tender, eyes full of I know more than you think. Here come two pupils.
”What'll it be.”
”Scotch for me Smith.”
”Two scotch.”
”Rightio.”
”Smith you look kind of handsome. Wish it wasn't that my dog gets killed just when I see you out of the blue again. You made the papers, even. How are you doing with your enemies.”
”They have vowed to get me. I will escape by submarine.”
”Ha ha.”
”Good to see you laugh again, Miss Tomson.”
Smith surveying her in the faint light. Not so sad now. Lanky arms nearly to her knees. Hair a blond blowable softness. Cool long fingers of her hand. Must touch so lightly the dashboard of her car, quietly lit panorama of switches, clocks and dials. My little dog I owned had big brown spots on the lids when he closed his eyes. Never cried when he died. Bonniface back in Pomfret. Paralysis in his extremities. Upheaval in the keester. I steal away north and east under the aristocratic weeping rain. With thick wads of fresh treasury bills clutched under the armpits. Looking for homecooked food. While building a little empire. House in the country. Flat in town. Retreats in the woods. Sultry with peace and other things. Thank you spider.
”Smith do you get any letters anymore.”
Smith extracts an envelope. Handing it to Miss Tom-son. Who holds it up in the purple tinted light. A yellow paper, address embossed in red.
Eel Street Easter (There is no time like the present) George Smith, c/o The Game dub South Park Side Dear Sir, It has come to our attention that you would wish to wrestle. We are not without strength. But rather we would wish you wasn't to insist to a grapple. We hope you will forget you thought you was able to take on anybody.
We remain not kidding, A. M. D. C.
(For The Committee) ”Very interesting. Have you answered itff ”No.”
”Tell them Smith you're a mountain girl and not a guy at all. And hope they're gentlemen and supply chaperones. A debutante. And when you wrestle reporters might be watching. These initials be a name like Al Moygrain Diltor Cranzgot. Ask him if he wants to try some thigh trembling. Sign your letter, the knee.”