Her tummy. Under her arms. And her feet. Those are the best places. She’ll spank him, she says sometimes. Let her.
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That sweet odor that girls have. The softness of her blouse. He catches a glimpse of the gentle shadows amid her thighs, as she curls her legs up under her. He stares hard at her. He has a lot of meaning packed into that stare, but she’s not even looking. She’s popping her gum and watching television. She’s sitting right there, inches away, soft, fragrant, and ready: but what’s his next move? He notices his buddy Mark in the drugstore, playing the pinball machine, and joins him. “Hey, this mama’s cold, Jack baby! She needs your touch!”
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Mrs. Tucker appears at the kitchen doorway, holding a rolled-up diaper. “Now, don’t just eat potato chips, Jimmy! See that he eats his hamburger, dear.” She hurries away to the bathroom. The boy glares sullenly at the babysitter, silently daring her to carry out the order. “How about a little of that good hamburger now, Jimmy?” she says perfunctorily. He lets half of it drop to the floor. The baby is silent and a man is singing a love song on the TV. The children crunch chips.
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He loves her. She loves him. They whirl airily, stirring a light breeze, through a magical landscape of rose and emerald and deep blue. Her light brown hair coils and wisps softly in the breeze, and the soft folds of her white gown tug at her body and then float away. He smiles in a pulsing crescendo of sincerity and song.
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“You mean she’s alone?” Mark asks. “Well, there’s two or three kids,” Jack says. He slides the coin in. There’s a rumble of steel balls tumbling, lining up. He pushes a plunger with his thumb, and one ball pops up in place, hard and glittering with promise. His stare? to say he loves her. That he cares for her and would protect her, would shield her, if need be, with his own body. Grinning, he bends over the ball to take careful aim: he and Mark have studied this and have it figured out, but still it’s not that easy to beat.
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On the drive to the party, his mind is partly on the girl, partly on his own high-school days, long past Sitting at the end of the kitchen table there with his children, she had seemed to be self-consciously arching her back, jutting her pert breasts, twitching her thighs: and for whom if not for him? So she’d seen him coming put of there, after all. He smiles. Yet what could he ever do about it? Those good times are gone, old man. He glances over at his wife, who, readjusting a garter, asks: “What do you think of our babysitter?”
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He loves her. She loves him. And then the babies come. And dirty diapers and one goddamn meal after another. Dishes. Noise. Clutter. And fat. Not just tight, her girdle actually hurts. Somewhere recently she’s read about women getting heart attacks or cancer or something from too-tight girdles. Dolly pulls the car door shut with a grunt, strangely irritated, not knowing why. Party mood. Why is her husband humming, “Who’s Sorry Now?” Pulling out of the drive, she glances back at the lighted kitchen window. “What do you think of our babysitter?’’ she asks. While her husband stumbles all over himself trying to answer, she pulls a stocking tight, biting deeper with the garters.
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“Stop it!” she laughs. Bitsy is pulling on her skirt and he is tickling her in the ribs. “Jimmy! Don’t!” But she is laughing too much to stop him. He leaps on her, wrapping his legs around her waist, and they all fall to the carpet in front of the TV, where just now a man in a tuxedo and a little girl in a flouncy white dress are doing a tapdance together. The babysitter’s blouse is pulling out of her skirt, showing a patch of bare tummy: the target. “I’ll spank!”
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Jack pushes the plunger, thrusting up a steel ball, and bends studiously over the machine. “You getting any off her?” Mark asks, and clears his throat, flicks ash from his cigarette. “Well, not exactly, not yet,” Jack says, grinning awkwardly, but trying to suggest more than he admits to, and fires. He heaves his weight gently against the machine as the ball bounds off a rubber bumper. He can feel her warming up under his hands, the flippers suddenly coming alive, delicate rapid-fire patterns emerging in the flashing of the lights, 1000 when lit: now! “Got my hand on it, that’s about all.” Mark glances up from the machine, cigarette dangling from his lip. “Maybe you need some help,” he suggests with a wry one-sided grin. “Like maybe together, man, we could do it.”
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She likes the big tub. She uses the Tuckers’ bath salts, and loves to sink into the hot fragrant suds. She can stretch out, submerged, up to her chin. It gives her a good sleepy tingly feeling.
○ ○? ○
“What do you think of our babysitter?” Dolly asks, adjusting a garter. “Oh, I hardly noticed,” he says. “Cute girl. She seems to get along fine with the kids. Why?” “I don’t know.” His wife tugs her skirt down, glances at a lighted window they are passing, adding: “I’m not sure I trust her completely, that’s all. With the baby, I mean. She seems a little careless. And the other time, I’m almost sure she had a boyfriend over.” He grins, claps one hand on his wife’s broad gartered thigh. “What’s wrong with that?” he asks. Still in anklets, too. Bare thighs, no girdles, nothing up there but a flimsy pair of panties and soft adolescent flesh. He’s flooded with vague remembrances of football rallies and movie balconies.
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How tiny and rubbery it is! she thinks, soaping between the boy’s legs, giving him his bath. Just a funny jiggly little thing that looks like it shouldn’t even be there at all. Is that what all the songs are about?
○ ○? ○
Jack watches Mark lunge and twist against the machine. Got her running now, racking them up. He’s not too excited about the idea of Mark fooling around with his girlfriend, but Mark’s a cooler operator than he is, and maybe, doing it together this once, he’d get over his own timidity. And if she didn’t like it, there were other girls around. If Mark went too far, he could cut him off, too. He feels his shoulders tense: enough’s enough, man ... but sees the flesh, too. “Maybe I’ll call her later,” he says.
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“Hey, Harry! Dolly! Glad you could make it!” “I hope we’re not late.” “No, no, you’re one of the first, come on in! By golly, Dolly, you’re looking younger every day! How do you do it? Give my wife your secret, will you?” He pats her on her girdled bottom behind Mr. Tucker’s back, leads them in for drinks.
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8:00. The babysitter runs water in the tub, combs her hair in front of the bathroom mirror. There’s a western on television, so she lets Jimmy watch it while she gives Bitsy her bath. But Bitsy doesn’t want a bath. She’s angry and crying because she has to be first The babysitter tells her if she’ll take her bath quickly, she’ll let her watch television while Jimmy takes his bath, but it does no good. The little girl fights to get out of the bathroom, and the babysitter has to squat with her back against the door and forcibly undress the child. There are better places to babysit. Both children mind badly, and then, sooner or later, the baby is sure to wake up for a diaper change and more bottle. The Tuckers do have a good color TV, though, and she hopes things will be settled down enough to catch the 8:30 program.
She thrusts the child into the tub, but she’s still screaming and thrashing around. “Stop it now, Bitsy, or you’ll wake the baby!” “I have to go potty I” the child wails, switching tactics. The babysitter sighs, lifts the girl out of the tub and onto the toilet, getting her skirt and blouse all wet in the process. She glances at herself in the mirror. Before she knows it, the girl is off the seat and out of the bathroom. “Bitsy! Come back here!”
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“Okay, that’s enough!” Her skirt is ripped and she’s flushed and crying. “Who says?” “I do, man!” The bastard goes for her, but he tackles him. They roll and tumble. Tables tip, lights topple, the TV crashes to the floor. He slams a hard right to the guy’s gut, clips his chin with a
rolling left.
○ ○? ○
“We hope it’s a girl.” That’s hardly surprising, since they already have four boys. Dolly congratulates the woman like everybody else, but she doesn’t envy her, not a bit That’s all she needs about now. She stares across the room at Harry, who is slapping backs and getting loud, as usual. He’s spreading out through the middle, so why the hell does he have to complain about her all the time? “Dolly, you’re looking younger every day!” was the nice greeting she got tonight “What’s your secret?” And Harry: “It’s all those calories. She’s getting back her baby fat.” “Haw haw! Harry, have a heart!”
“Get her feet!” he hollers at Bitsy, his fingers in her ribs, running over her naked tummy, tangling in the underbrush of straps and strange clothing. “Get her shoes off!” He holds her pinned by pressing his head against her soft chest. “No! No, Jimmy! Bitsy, stop!” But though she kicks and twists and rolls around, she doesn’t get up, she can’t get up, she’s laughing too hard, and the shoes come off, and he grabs a stockinged foot and scratches the sole ruthlessly, and she raises up her legs, trying to pitch him off, she’s wild, boy, but he hangs on, and she’s laughing, and on the screen there’s a rattle of hooves, and he and Bitsy are rolling around and around on the floor in a crazy rodeo of long bucking legs.
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He slips the coin in. There’s a metallic fall and a sharp click as the dial tone begins. “I hope the Tuckers have gone,” he says. “Don’t worry, they’re at our place,” Mark says. “They’re always the first ones to come and the last ones to go home. My old man’s always bitching about them.” Jack laughs nervously and dials the number. “Tell her we’re coming over to protect her from getting raped,” Mark suggests, and lights a cigarette. Jack grins, leaning casually against the door jamb of the phonebooth, chewing gum, one hand in his pocket He’s really pretty uneasy, though. He has the feeling he’s somehow messing up a good thing.
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Bitsy runs naked into the livingroom, keeping a hassock between herself and the babysitter. “Bitsy ... 1” the babysitter threatens. Artificial reds and greens and purples flicker over the child’s wet body, as hooves clatter, guns crackle, and stagecoach wheels thunder over rutted terrain. “Get outa the way, Bitsy P the boy complains. “I can’t see!” Bitsy streaks past and the babysitter chases, cornering the girl in the back bedroom. Bitsy throws something that hits her softly in the face: a pair of men’s undershorts. She grabs the girl scamper ing by, carries her struggling to the bathroom, and with a smart crack on her glistening bottom, pops her back into the tub. In spite, Bitsy peepees in the bathwater.
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Mr. Tucker stirs a little water into his bourbon and kids with his host and another man, just arrived, about their golf games. They set up a match for the weekend, a threesome looking for a fourth. Holding his drink in his right hand, Mr. Tucker swings his left through the motion of a tee-shot “You’ll have to give me a stroke a hole,” he says. I’ll give you a stroke!” says his host: “Bend over!” Laughing, the other man asks: “Where’s your boy Mark tonight?” “I don’t know,” replies the host, gathering up a trayful of drinks. Then he adds in a low growl: “Out chasing tail probably.” They chuckle loosely at that, then shrug in commiseration and return to the livingroom to join their women.
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Shades pulled. Door locked. Watching the TV. Under a blanket maybe. Yes, that’s right, under a blanket Her eyes close when he kisses her. Her breasts, under both their hands, are soft and yielding.
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A hard blow to the belly. The face. The dark beardy one staggers. The lean-jawed sheriff moves in, but gets a spurred boot in his face. The dark one hurls himself forward, drives his shoulder into the sherifPs hard midriff, her own tummy tightens, withstands, as the sheriff smashes the dark man’s nose, slams him up against a wall, slugs him again! and again! The dark man grunts rhythmically, backs off, then plunges suddenly forward—her own knees draw up protectively—the sheriff staggers! caught low! but instead of following through, the other man steps back—a pistol! the dark one has a pistol! the sheriff draws! shoots from the hip! explosions! she clutches her hands between her thighs—no! the sheriff spins! wounded! the dark man hesitates, aims, her legs stiffen toward the set, the sheriff rolls desperately in the straw, fires: dead! the dark man is dead! groans, crumples, his pistol drooping in his collapsing hand, dropping, he drops. The sheriff, spent, nicked, watches weakly from the floor where he lies. Oh, to be whole! to be good and strong and right! to embrace and be embraced by harmony and wholeness! The sheriff, drawing himself painfully up on one elbow, rubs his bruised mouth with die back of his other hand.
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“Well, we just sorta thought we’d drop over,” he says, and winks broadly at Mark. “Who’s we?” “Oh, me and Mark here.” “Tell her, good thing like her, gotta pass it around,” whispers Mark, dragging on his smoke, then flicking the butt over under the pinball machine. “What’s that?” she asks. “Oh, Mark and I were just saying, like two’s company, three’s an orgy,” Jack says, and winks again. She giggles. “Oh, Jack!” Behind her, he can hear shouts and gunfire. “Well, okay, for just a little while, if you’ll both be good.” Way to go, man.
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Probably some damn kid over there right now. Wrestling around on the couch in front of his TV. Maybe he should drop back to the house. Just to check. None of that stuff, she was there to do a job! Park the car a couple doors down, slip in the front door before she knows it He sees die disarray of clothing, the young thighs exposed to the flickering television light, hears his baby crying. “Hey, what’s going on here! Get outa here, son, before I call the police!” Of course, they haven’t really been doing anything. They probably don’t even know how. He stares benignly down upon the girl, her skirt rumpled loosely around her thighs. Flushed, frightened, yet excited, she stares back at him. He smiles. His finger touches a knee, approaches the hem. Another couple arrives. Filling up here with people. He wouldn’t be missed. Just slip out, stop back casually to pick up something or other he forgot, never mind what He remembers that the other time they had this babysitter, she took a bath in their house. She had a date afterwards, and she’d just come from cheerleading practice or something. Aspirin maybe. Just drop quietly and casually into the bathroom to pick up some aspirin. “Oh, excuse me, dear! I only…!” She gazes back at him, astonished, yet strangely moved. Her soft wet breasts rise and fall in the water, and her tummy looks pale and ripply. He recalls that her pubic hairs, left in the tub, were brown. Light brown.
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She’s no more than stepped into the tub for a quick bath, when Jimmy announces from outside the door that he has to go to the bathroom. She sighs: just an excuse, she knows. “You’ll have to wait” The little nuisance. “I can’t wait” “Okay, then come ahead, but I’m taking a bath.” She supposes that will stop him, but it doesn’t. In he comes. She slides down into die suds until she’s eye-level with the edge of the tub. He hesitates. “Go ahead, if you have to,” she says, a little awkwardly, “but I’m not getting out” “Don’t look,” he says. She: “I will if I want to.”
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She’s crying. Mark is rubbing his jaw where he’s just slugged him. A lamp lies shattered. “Enough’s enough, Mark! Now get outa here!” Her skirt is ripped to the waist, her bare hip bruised. Her panties lie on the floor like a broken balloon. Later, he’ll wash her wounds, help her dress, he’ll take care of her. Pity washes through him, giving him a sudden hard-on. Mark laughs at it, pointing. Jack crouches, waiting, ready for anything.
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Laughing, they roll and tumble. Their little hands are all over her, digging and pinching. She struggles to her hands and knees, but Bitsy leaps astride her neck, bowing her head to the carpet. “Spank her, Jimmy!” His swats sting: is her skirt up? The phone rings. “The cavalry to the rescue!” she laughs, and throws them off to go answer
.
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Kissing Mark, her eyes closed, her hips nudge toward Jack. He stares at the TV screen, unsure of himself, one hand slipping cautiously under her skirt-Her hand touches his arm as though to resist, then brushes on by to rub his leg. This blanket they’re under was a good idea. “Hi! This is Jack!”
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Bitsy’s out and the Water’s running. “Come on, Jimmy, your turn!” Last time, he told her he took his own baths, but she came in anyway. “I’m not gonna take a bath,” he announces, eyes glued on the set He readies for the struggle. “But I’ve already run your water. Come on, Jimmy, please!” He shakes his head. She can’t make him, he’s sure he’s as strong as she is. She sighs. “Well, it’s up to you. I’ll use the water myself then,” she says. He waits until he’s pretty sure she’s not going to change her mind, then sneaks in and peeks through the keyhole in the bathroom door: just in time to see her big bottom as she bends over to stir in the bubblebath. Then she disappears. Trying to see as far down as the keyhole will allow, he bumps his head on the knob. “Jimmy, is that you?” “I—I have to go to the bathroom!” he stammers.
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Pricksongs & Descants Page 20
