The camisole was rolled down with gentle mothlike movements, and then Lionel’s lips were on a bare little breast. Patricia cried out once, then was helplessly undone. “Beautiful, beautiful,” Lionel groaned, and proceeded. Patricia’s body arched. When Lionel’s hands were on her drawers, untying the ribbons, she blindly and without real volition assisted him. Now his own ready passion was obliterating even his caution. He closed his eyes and thought of Joan. He had his own fantasies. He began to sweat in his urgency. The girl’s flesh under his seeking hands was wet also. He unbuttoned his trousers. His cold mind still was in control, however, and he thought: No need to rumple them if I’m careful. He fumbled for something in a pocket and with one hand covered himself with experienced swiftness. Patricia did not see this. His body was above hers, not yet touching. She could see his face, very close, and to her chaotic senses it was the most beloved in all the world.
In the turbulence of her unfamiliar emotions, she was lifted into desiring joy. Her head was on the grass; tears ran down her cheeks. When she felt the weight of Lionel’s body on hers, she closed her eyes with rapture; without her knowledge, her arms lifted and enclosed his chest. The heat of his flesh became hers.
Then, without warning, she felt an intense and piercing pain, and was struggling, her legs thrashing, her arms and hands pushing him away in terror. But he was stronger; the pain became more unendurable. She opened her mouth to scream, but a quick hand was on it, smothering her. She was certain she was being killed.
All at once the pain was gone. She could hear Lionel panting in her ear; his sweat mingled with her tears. She saw his face, his eyes shut and teeth clenched. It was a strange, absorbed face, alien yet again exciting. It was then that she felt an explosion of ecstasy, unbearable, blinding, violent beyond all violence, running in tides over her body.
She did not know that Lionel’s passion was far more than her own, and that it was the untouched Joan he was deflowering and to whom he was making savage and adoring and total and tumultuous love. It was Joan Garrity’s beautiful face he was kissing. It was Joan’s full red mouth he was devouring. It was Joan’s body he was possessing. His own tears now joined Patricia’s, and he cried over and over, “My darling, my love, my darling, darling!” His chest pressed Patricia down; it was as if he were trying to absorb her half-naked body into his, merging it into himself. In the final climax he felt that his blood had joined the blood of Joan, and it was, running riotously together in an ardent stream, rising in a fountain of joy, swelling, engulfing. For a moment he was strangely reverent, awed.
Patricia came to consciousness first. Lionel’s arms were gripping her with a pain that was also joyous. She did not feel unclean. She had loved Lionel before; now she loved him with her new womanhood, her new knowledge. He was hers—forever. That he had not made love to her but to another girl never occurred to her, and never would. That he had taken, not herself, but another woman, would have been beyond her comprehension. She was only sure, with elation and selfless delight, that she was loved and that this love would never end. The pragmatic Patricia Mulligan was no longer practical. She loved as a woman, as she would never love again. She would give herself, over and over, with no end to the giving.
She felt Lionel rolling off her body. Leaning on his elbows, he looked down at her with astonishment. He was fully shaken for the first time in his life, and in some peculiar way, felt betrayed. His face was absolutely white; the freckles seemed to start out upon it. He swallowed hard, catching his breath.
But he came back to reality very fast. He covered himself hastily, after removing the object he had put on, burying it in the grass. He reached for his coat, and took a handkerchief from it. He thrust it into Patricia’s hand. He averted his eyes from her exalted face. “Here,” he muttered. “Wipe yourself.”
Patricia thought he was overcome. She waited for more kisses, for touches of tenderness. But Lionel was buttoning his trousers. His hands were shaking. Patricia saw this with gratification. Her heart became tumescent with adoration and fresh desire. She wiped herself. Then she was horrified to see blood on the handkerchief. She cried out, staring at it.
“It always happens. The first time. Nothing to be frightened about,” he mumbled. Well, it hadn’t been too bad. He sighed deeply. Of course, it had been Joan all along, not this miserable girl whose face had begun to pucker, preparing for tears of fright. “It isn’t anything,” he said roughly, then remembered that the girl was Patricia Mulligan. “Always the first time,” he added, more gently.
“Will it … will it last long?” Her voice was faint and weak.
“No. It’s just about over. Don’t be afraid.”
He knelt, dressing himself. He heard her say in a changed and timid voice, “Do you … do you love me, Lionel?”
Oh, goddamn, he thought. The silly bitches always ask that! There was only one reply. He patted her flank, smiled, and said, “Why, of course … Patsy.”
“I’ll love you always,” she whispered as she buttoned the shirtwaist and pulled down her grass-stained skirt. “I’ll love you always.”
And they always said that, too. It was a ritual. It made them feel less dirty, less used. Continuing with the ritual, he said, “I hope so.”
Putting her hand on his shoulder, she said, “How soon can we be married?”
He looked at her and was aghast. Married!
“You did say we’d be married …” She faltered. “Over and over.”
But he had been crying that out to Joan Garrity. It had risen spontaneously from his enraptured heart.
He knew that he was in danger. He shuddered in spite of the heat of the day. He said, “Patsy, we must talk of that later. Later, much later. We have so much to think about. Don’t we?” His voice was actually entreating, he was so fearfully alarmed.
Her head still lying on the grass, Patricia nodded in submission. She stroked his arm, and he shuddered again, but did not draw himself away. His eyes were fixed fiercely on hers. “And we’ll never talk of this to anyone, will we? It … it is too … precious. Isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, yes!” cried Patricia. “Too precious! It’s ours alone.” She was almost lovely in her meekness, her understanding.
He helped her to her feet and brushed the grass blades off her clothing. She held up her face, like a child, for his kiss. Closing his eyes, he obeyed. She did not feel the kiss was dry, reluctant.
“And … the Sunday after next?” she pleaded, her eyes glowing.
“And the next, and the next, and the next,” he said.
Patricia never fully remembered pedaling home. She was not on a bicycle. She was being carried on wings, her body tingling and content.
Lionel, cautiously taking another road home, was very thoughtful. He was not at all on wings. His mind was running with cold purpose. The next time, he would mention to the girl that his salary was very low, too low as yet to acquire a wife. Step by step. That was the way. Of her secrecy he could be sure, for she had a father. Had she had a mother, that would have been dangerous. Girls did not confess indiscretions to a male parent.
He looked at his watch, a “turnip,” as it was called—for it was nickel and cheap—and saw it was five o’clock. He smiled again. He would go to Joan, as he always did on Sunday evenings, and he would look at her, and remember.
His mind, always orderly, was teeming with plans. If that damned hotel ever got built, he could marry Joan. He had not asked her, as yet, but he knew that she was waiting for him and would always wait. He thought of her face again, the face he had really kissed with such terrible ardor in the glade, and his cold heart softened. It was always Joan with whom he lay, never the girl of the moment.
Joan, Joan, he thought. My darling, darling, darling.
My darling, thought Patricia, and even as she smiled on her bicycle, her eyes filled with happy tears.
13
Patrick Mulligan and his nephew Daniel Dugan sat in the garden of Patrick’s house this golden late-September day. Th
e mountains were the color of oranges against a benign and gentle sky tinged with gilt. The autumn flowers in the garden flared with violent color, as if in denial of their coming death. And, why not? thought Daniel. Even in mid-season they had not been so vehement; each petal glowed with light and hue; each flower face lifted itself to the warm air and the scented wind, a wind that had not been so pungent a month ago. White butterflies and the great black-and-yellow striped monarch butterflies blew from bush to bush, from blossom to blossom, their wings luminous. A tranquillity lay on the garden, a sweet thoughtfulness. The trees basked, heavy with their leaves, which were turning to scarlet and bronze. It was Sunday, but the sabbath peace had dwelt on the land since the end of August.
Daniel smoked his pipe, and Patrick smoked one of his thick black cigars. They had not talked for several moments, content in silent companionship. But Patrick’s face had an overcast of anxiety. He said, “This damned Panic. When will it end?”
Daniel said, “When our invisible government wants it to. You know, this was contrived, to force the passage of that private organization of bankers, now calling themselves the Federal Reserve System, which has nothing to do with government at all. The bankers call it ‘federal’ to deceive the people. Under our Constitution, only Congress has the right to coin money, but the bankers don’t like that. They want to coin money themselves. We’ve been over that before, Uncle Pat. Once that amendment to the Constitution passes—the Federal Reserve System—the bankers will be able to control our currency and bring about the rule of what they love to call the ‘elite.’
“So, now we have a Panic which was planned a long time ago. The plotters are now telling the American people that if there is a Federal Reserve System there will be no more panics, no more depressions. They will ‘control’ that. Teddy Roosevelt knows what they are up to. William Jennings Bryan, that passionate and incoherent bumbler, knows, too, and that’s why he is screeching about crucifying mankind on a cross of gold. But he is too hysterical to be taken seriously.”
“Ah, God,” Patrick said.
Daniel nodded. “And along with that amendment there is proposed another a federal income tax. The government has promised that ‘only the rich’ will be taxed—for the people’s social benefits—but the people will discover that the real victim is the ‘little man.’ Like Ben Franklin once said, a national income tax will make us slaves.”
“I know,” said Patrick. “That happened in Ireland. The Irish were taxed to the death, Danny boy, by the English aristocrats. Queen Victoria said that after the Irish were eliminated in Ireland, by taxation and starvation and confiscation, of course, she would help the English aristocracy to ‘resettle’ our country with their own kind. I know, I saw it for myself.”
“I know it, too, Uncle Pat. And it can happen here.”
“You don’t have any faith in the American people,” said Patrick. “They won’t allow a federal income tax.”
Daniel laughed, and the laugh was not pleasant. “Oh, yes, they will! Their greed will be appealed to. Envy, one of the deadly sins, is very deeply rooted in human nature, Uncle Pat. And God always punishes it. This time the punishment will again be slavery through taxes—as it has always been.” He looked at his uncle kindly. “And it is the pressure of the bankers behind the Federal Reserve System, and the financiers behind the federal income tax, who will cause the passage of those two amendments to the Constitution. Very soon, too. As I’ve told you before, a government needs money through taxation to conduct imperialistic wars. There’s something brewing in the world, a war of governments against each other to control the world.”
Patrick shook his head. “Danny boy. No American would go to war.”
“Yes, he will. There will be wonderful slogans. The old Romans were expert in that. ‘The Senate and the People of Rome.’ ‘One nation, one government, one people.’ Yes, indeed. But all the time, it was only the government, and the men who controlled it, who wanted more and more power. This will happen to America, too.”
“I hope I die before it does, Danny.”
Daniel looked at him with affectionate commiseration. “I’m afraid you won’t. But don’t look so miserable. This is too nice a day. Let’s enjoy it. As the Roman gladiators said in the bloody arena, ‘Hail, Caesar, we who are about to die salute you.’”
“‘We who are about to die …’” murmured Patrick. He paused, then looked at the distant mountains. “Lord, have mercy, Lord, have mercy, Christ, have mercy—”
Daniel said, and his face was grim, “Yes, I know the kyrie. I wish every American knew it. And there’ll be the day, in America, when the despairing will chant it, without hope, I’m afraid. For the despairing will be responsible for their own doom.”
Patrick rocked heavily in his chair, his bright blue eyes clouded with thought. He said, “That damned hotel. I’ve gambled all I had. Mortgaged the Inn-Tavern. Everybody’s up to their ears in debt, for the hotel. And we can’t get credit to complete it.”
“Cheer up,” said Daniel. “The big chaps are careful. If this Panic goes on much longer, there’ll be a revolution. They’ll stop short of that.
“Didn’t Mrs. Lindon buy thirty acres each side of the property? Don’t worry too much, Uncle Pat.”
“Easy enough for you to say, Danny.”
“I’ve put half a million of my own money into it, haven’t I? I believe in it. Half a million, Uncle Pat, is a big investment, and I’m not an optimist. I don’t invest in losing propositions.”
Patrick gave him a smile of love. “Wish you were my son, bucko.”
“I am, almost. I’ve been studying this business of yours. It will be a great thing, Uncle Pat. I know it will.”
He stood up, yawning and stretching in the golden warmth. He looked at his watch. He thought of Molly Nolan. But he said, “Patty is blooming like the fabled rose. She’s got a sheen on her. She’s actually getting some flesh on her bones. Like a woman in love. Where is she today, by the way?”
“Gone off on her bicycle. She does that, sometimes, on Sundays.”
“Where does she go?”
“Well, today she’s with the Sinclair girls. One of their teas.”
Daniel glanced at his uncle, and then away. “She’s becoming more sociable, then?”
“Yes. Glad of it, too. Patricia always was … well, a little snobbish. She’s improving.” Patrick laughed fondly. “Know what she told me a week ago? She said to me that I wasn’t paying the boyeens in the dining room enough. And the ones helping me manage. That spalpeen Lionel Nolan, and Jase Garrity. In this Panic, too, when a man’s lucky to have a job! Made me promise to raise their wages next week. Never thought she even looked at Jase, but now she’s telling me how poor he is. Who isn’t? Well, I promised. Anything to please my little colleen.”
Daniel studied his uncle. “And so you are going to increase the wages of Jason Garrity … and Lionel Nolan?”
“Well, then. I promised the girl.”
Daniel put his hands in his pockets and looked at the mountains. “I thought she didn’t like Jase Garrity.”
Patrick smiled fatly. “Seems like she does, doesn’t it? I’m that glad, Danny. It’s a lad after my own heart.”
“But Lionel isn’t?”
“Can’t raise one without the other, now, can I, Danny?”
“I suppose not.” Clever Patty, thought the young man. Clever, indeed.
He thought again of Molly, and the conversation he had had with her a few days ago.
For several weeks he had been inviting Molly to take a ride with him on Sunday in his new automobile, a luxurious Packard, and she had politely declined with a remark that her widowed mother needed her. Daniel loved her voice; it was lilting and musical, a feminine copy of her brother’s; but hers had a sometimes disconcerting sharp edge to it, like the point of a knife in honey. She was all business, swift, efficient, clear-minded at all times, and would tolerate no shiftlessness in others. When Daniel called her into his own office with some ques
tion on general procedure, she was almost instantly there with a file folder under her arm, and she would respond crisply and without hesitation, looking directly at him with her extraordinary eyes. He had never known a woman like Molly Nolan before, forthright, frank, honest, and without coquetry or pretense or pretended coyness, and with an intelligence, he thought, as acute and discerning as any man’s. Yet, with all this, she was certainly not a “new woman.” She had an allurement that to him was irresistible, and she was most unaware of it. It was not a deliberate charm like her brother’s; she was never ingratiating; she rarely smiled, she did not try to please everyone; she was deft in every way and often implied impatience with fools. In short, Daniel had observed, Molly was a realist and could be domineering. Still, under it all, he had guessed there was a kindness, a fidelity, a tenderness, even an innocence, all hidden for fear of appearing weak.
Once a young assistant cook appeared in Patrick’s office, only to find him out for the day. He then told Molly, on her insistence, that he needed more wages. Molly had stared at him. “Times are very bad,” she said, “and Mr. Mulligan has not reduced the wages of anyone, though other employers have had to do it. He takes the loss himself. But why do you need more money?”
The cook had mentioned his five children. Molly had raised her gold-red eyebrows. “Mr. Mulligan is not responsible for your children,” she had said, with that knife point in her voice. She had then swiftly motioned with her hand in dismissal. No one argued with Molly, not even Patrick.
Daniel had first been intrigued and amused by the girl; then he had come to respect and admire her. There were no blurred edges on Molly, no ambiguities. A little later he was captivated by her. If I don’t take care, he would tell himself with humor, I shall fall in love with the damned girl, and then God have mercy on me. He did not find the prospect disagreeable, however.
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