As the dawn came up east of Memphis, he parked beside a remote barn out in the country, and the two of them slept on the hay in the barn. Because she was in the habit of sleeping without clothing, she removed what she had on. He was already asleep, poor thing. She studied his face in sleep for a while, trying to determine if he possibly could be Raymond. No, he wasn’t handsome enough to be Raymond. Was it possibly Every?
She was not surprised when, sometime during the course of all her dreams, she began to think that Raymond—or Every—was making love to her. If you think about somebody just before falling asleep, you’ll usually meet them in your dreams. She couldn’t see his face, which he had lowered down between her legs so he could lick her. Then he suspended himself above her and tried to enter her, but she was too unyielding. He drew back and knelt and moistened her again with his tongue, and tried once more to enter her. Still she was too tight, but as he increased his pressure she suddenly unclenched and enfolded him and enjoyed the slow slide of him in and out of her. He backed. He forthed. She knew it must be Raymond, not Every, when he abruptly got over the mountain, filling her with his freight. She sighed as he fell off her, and realized she could never have married Raymond and was not going to think about doing so now. Her dream abolished him and went back to Jessica.
When she finally woke, in the early afternoon, and stood to dress herself, she felt a bit of his cream seeping out of her. So it had not been just a dream! With the back of her thumb she wiped it off her thigh. Then after thinking about it for a moment, she put her thumb in her mouth and sucked it. The taste wasn’t like cream but like the woods and the creek and the sky. It made her more homesick than ever.
When he woke, and the journey was resumed, he kept looking at her. She exchanged his looks. It was as if she knew that he knew that she knew what had happened during her sleep. She winked at him. She hadn’t meant to wink, but it was more spontaneous and involuntary than a laugh. It was some comfort to realize that whoever he was he was not Raymond.
Chapter twenty-four
The next big city they came to, he announced, was Nashville. Where was he going with her? But they did not leave Nashville. He stopped at a building that had a sign on the door, “Dixie Hotel.” It wasn’t much bigger than the little Buckhorn Hotel in Jasper. When they were in the room, he said, “Latha, I sure do hope you will be comfy here. I sure do hate to leave you for even a little while, but I’ve got to go out and look for some kind of job of work, to make a little money so we can eat. That guy down at the desk said I had to pay for a week in advance because we don’t have no suitcases, and that was the last of my money. Well, I’ve got just enough to buy you some bread and meat and some magazines to read, but then I got to look for work.”
He left her for a while, and she was afraid. But he returned soon, with a whole loaf of store-boughten bread and some bologna and a whole pile of magazines: Saturday Evening Post, Picture-Play, and Godey’s Lady’s Book. “Now you just stay here and try to be as comfy as you can,” he said, “and I’ll be back this evening. Don’t you go out.”
She read magazines for a long time. The bed was so comfortable that she fell asleep in the middle of the Saturday Evening Post. And it was full night before she awoke, just in time for his return. He was carrying a small cardboard box. “All I could find,” he said, “was a job washing dishes in a café, but I got two free meals and a dollar for it. And look what I brought you. I sort of swiped it from the café.” In the box was a complete dinner: big slices of roast beef, baked potato, fresh sweet peas, salad, and a big wedge of strawberry pie.
That night when she undressed for bed, he turned off the light and took off all of his clothes too. He lay beside her for a while. She was not sleepy. “Do you recall that time I took ye and Rindy on my stick-horse into make-believe Jasper? Working at that café put me in mind of the make-believe restaurant I took you’uns to.”
Although she could not say anything, she was playing with an amazing thought that had a name attached to it. This man, her hero, was Every Dill.
In a worried voice he asked, “Latha, caint you say anything at all?”
“Free,” she said, and was happy when he gave her a big hug and held her tightly. But she was not happy when his male figurehead rose up and tried to get chummy with her. She squirmed and whimpered, remembering her dream of that barn they’d slept in, when she thought he was Raymond. He got off her and just lay there. He lay there staring at the ceiling for a very long time. Occasionally she would open one eye to see if he was still awake. Not only did he remain awake, but his dinger kept a-standing. With one eye she studied it, and admired it, and wanted to enclose it in herself, her mouth or womb or her ear or her bellybutton…or at least her hand. She reached for it, but pulled her hand back. Why can’t I do anything? she asked herself. She could only go on admiring it, until the moment she felt he was turning to look at her, and then she shut her eye.
“Latha, are you awake?” he asked. But she could not answer, nor stir.
Eventually she heard him get up. He went into the bathroom. After a time, she heard him moaning, and then a sharp intake of his breath, and then the toilet flushed. When he came back to bed, she rolled over and snuggled asleep in his arms.
Saturday he worked at the café again, washing dishes, and that night he brought home another dinner for her. After she had eaten it, he said, “Let’s go see a movin-pitcher show.” He walked her several blocks up the street to a theater. The film was The Navigator, with Buster Keaton. It was very romantic; also rather funny. It was the first motion picture she had ever seen. She was enthralled.
Back at the hotel afterwards both of them took Saturday-night baths in the tub. She thought she caught him spying on her while she took hers, but it didn’t bother her the way Vaughn had when he spied on her at Mandy’s house. She made a show of languidly rubbing the soap all over her body and washing it off. She spied on him too, when he had his bath, enough to see that his dinger was fully alert throughout. Despite this, he did not attempt again to molest her when they climbed into bed. She snuggled tightly into his arms again, still moist from her bath and smelling fragrantly of the soap, as he did, and again she could determine that his dinger was swollen thick. She allowed it to wedge between her thighs but they did not move. He must have decided that he didn’t want to force anything.
She woke some time later to discover that it was still there, and still swollen, but he had gone to sleep and was snoring slightly. She went back to sleep herself.
The dawn was coming up when she awoke again. That remarkable stalk of his flesh was still taut and hard. He had the trace of a smile on his face as if he were having a sexy dream. She separated herself from him so she could remove the sheet that covered them and so she could take a close look at that instrument designed for both pleasure and procreation. Lightly she traced the sinews of it with her fingertips but it did not wake him. Firmly she grasped it but that also did not disturb whatever sweet dream he was having. She rubbed the tip of it with her thumb. That part of it impressed her as the prettiest, the smoothest, the most exciting. She scrooched down a little so that she could bring her lips in contact with it. The feeling of that smoothness within her lips nearly drove her over the mountain. She stopped long enough to collect herself, and then she put all of it into her mouth. She sighed. She hummed. She realized that all of that beautiful humming she’d done with Jessica was but a fantasy of what she was doing now. She adored this lovely thing in her lips and mouth and throat and could not get enough of it. That fancy word the doctor had used, fellatio, was like calling a great banquet an edible. She lapped the shank with her tongue, and rolled her tongue around that smooth tip shaped like a little hat, and tried to remember what else Flora had told her. Yes, she was supposed to put her fingers under his balls. When she did this he groaned and woke up, but she did not stop. She sucked on the tip as hard as she could and then tried to get the whole thing down her throat. “Hey!” he said, and reached down to pull her away, but
he must’ve been having such a heap of pleasure that he couldn’t put much sincerity in his attempt to dislodge her from her plaything. Latha kept her eyes closed and became greedy, wolfing it in and out of her mouth as fast as she could. He groaned and threw his head back against the pillow. Then his hips began to buck, but she held on. She was swallowing and unswallowing it as fast as she could, her head bobbing so rapidly it shook her entire body. Abruptly his hands came down and grabbed her by the hair and tried to pull her away, but she hung on for dear life and buried her lips in his pubic hair and waited until the last spurtle had dribbled down her gullet.
Then slowly she slipped her mouth up off of it and raised her head and opened her eyes and smiled at him.
He smiled back at her, but his face wore a look as if she had given him something he’d never heard of or dreamt about.
She sat up and continued to smile at him.
He seemed to be struggling to find some words, and finally found them, “Have you ever done that before?”
She had done it often in her fantasies and in her dreams but never in life. She shook her head.
“Why did you squirm and whimper when I tried to make love to you the other night?”
She could have liked to know the answer to that herself, but did not.
He asked, “Was it because you didn’t like me?”
She shook her head.
“Was it because you didn’t want to?”
She vigorously shook her head.
“Latha, why can’t you talk?”
Oh, there was so much she had to say to him, but she could make no answer that he could hear.
“Is something wrong with your voice?”
She vigorously shook her head.
“Have you forgot all the words?”
She shook her head.
“Are you afraid of me?”
She could make a sound, a scoff, but she shook her head.
“Do you know who I am?”
She nodded her head.
“Say my name.”
She had it right on the tip of her tongue and even grunted in the effort to get it out but could not speak it.
“Do you feel good? Do you feel well?”
She nodded her head.
“Then why won’t you talk to me?”
There was nothing she could say.
“Do you want anything?”
She nodded her head vigorously.
“What?”
She could not speak but she could reach down and touch him on his pretty penis.
He laughed and said, “Well, he shore don’t look very useful right at this moment.”
She smiled.
“However…” he said, and he reached for her and pulled her down to him and held her and gave her a kiss. He kissed her and she kissed him for a long little spell. By and by he swelled up again. He wanted into her and she let him in.
Because he was below her it freed her movements, and she moved, free and wild.
When she got to the top of the mountain, her head fell on his shoulder. She hugged him tight and tried to hold onto him but then she went over the mountain and that was the last thing she knew.
There was no telling how long a time passed before this swoon ended. It was broad daylight when her eyes opened, and her first thought was, “My, D Ward sure looks strange this morning!” Then she sat up in the bed and rubbed her eyes. She spoke aloud, “I do declare, it don’t look like D Ward at all!” She went to the window and looked out. She was in a hotel, by golly. She looked at the rumpled bed and she saw a man’s jacket hanging in the closet. She felt a mild ache in her vagina, and she clapped herself on the brow and said, “Oh my gosh, I’ve prostituted myself!” Quickly she began dressing, and said, “I’ve got to get out of here, fast.”
She ran downstairs, avoiding the look the desk clerk gave her. Outside the hotel she did not know which way to turn so simply by instinct she turned to her left and began walking as fast as her feet would carry her. She had not gone far before she had to stop and study her shoes. They were much too big for her. Had she mistakenly put on the shoes of the man she had sold herself to? And speaking of selling, she had no money on her. Where was her purse? She decided she’d better go back to the hotel and search for it. But she couldn’t face that desk clerk again. Or the man. And speaking of the man, what had happened to him? Stepped out for breakfast? She hadn’t even thought to check the bathroom to see if he might be in there. She retraced her steps only a short way, less than a block, before she determined that the best course of action was to continue on, so she turned again and walked faster, although the shoes hurt her. She scanned the buildings on both sides of the street, looking for anything familiar. This must have been a part of Little Rock she’d never seen before. But she hoped it wasn’t Little Rock, because if it was, they were probably looking for her, if she had escaped from the insane asylum. How had she done that? She ransacked her memory, but the last thing she could recall was at Christmastime when her sister Mandy had come to visit. The weather was warm now, so that must’ve been quite a few months back. How had she got out of the nuthouse? Had they dismissed her? And how had she sunk into prostitution? She was hungry for breakfast, or even dinner, if it was time for it, but what had happened to the money she’d earned with her body?
These thoughts pestered her like flies pestering a milk cow, but she had no tail to drive the flies away. She walked on. And on. And on. She was reminded of the time she’d walked away from Mandy’s house, trying to run away, but failing. Her belly had been swollen then. What had ever become of that baby? She saw a policeman and wanted to ask him how to get to Vaughn and Mandy’s house, or at least tell her which way was West Nineteenth Street so she could find it herself. But maybe the police were looking for her if she had escaped from the asylum, so she walked on past him with her face averted. Even if she found Vaughn and Mandy, they would probably try to send her back to the nuthouse.
She came in time to a Nineteenth, but it said Avenue, not Street, and it also said South, not West. Just the thought that it might be near her baby made her walk along it for a good ways before she determined that it bore no resemblance to West Nineteenth in Little Rock. She passed a shop that had a sign, “Nashville Roofing,” and not long after that she saw another sign, “Nashville Tire Co.” She had memorized all the state capitals when she was in school, and she knew that Nashville was the capital of Tennessee. She also knew that Tennessee was a good distance from Arkansas. She walked on, but she was perishing with hunger. And thirst. She came to a place that sold gasoline for automobiles, and they had a spigot for water. She put her head under the spigot and filled her mouth with water. It was the best water she’d ever had. The owner came out and said, “Hey, lady, where’s your car?”
“I don’t have one,” she said. “I just wanted a drink of water.”
He looked her up and down. “Can I give you a lift anywheres?”
She wasn’t too certain what he meant by “lift.” But she said, “No, thank you kindly.” And looked down at her shoes. She studied those shoes in which her feet flopped around so loosely, and she decided to see if she couldn’t sell them. Most of her life, including at the asylum, she had not worn shoes. She looked at the owner’s feet. “Would you care to buy a pair of shoes?” she asked him.
“What size are they?” he asked. She took one off, and handed it to him. He studied it and read the size on the interior label. “They’re tens,” he said. “That’s me. How much do you want for ’em?”
“Whatever you think they’re worth,” she said.
“They’re practically new,” he said. “I could give you three dollars for them.”
She took off the other shoe and handed it to him, and he reached into his pocket and took out a roll of money and peeled off three ones and gave them to her. “But what will you wear?” he asked.
“I’ve gone barefooted all my life,” she said.
“Your feet are just about as cute as you are,” he said.
“You mean a restaurant or a grocery store?”
“I reckon a grocery would be all I could afford.”
“Well, there’s Burdell’s, about a half mile on up the road there. I could give you a lift.”
She pointed the other way. “How far is it to Nashville?”
“Sweetheart, you’re still in Nashville. City limits are a good two miles thataway.” He pointed the direction she was heading, and she walked on. “Suit yourself,” he called after her. “But I could really show you a good time, if you wanted one.”
Oh, she wanted a good time and had not had one anywhere in her memory. No longer thirsty but increasingly hungry, she walked as fast as she could, and eventually reached the store called Burdell’s, its sides covered with tin advertisements for cola drinks and tobacco and snuff and stuff. She went in, deciding not to spend all of her money, and bought two dollars worth of crackers and Vienna sausages and cheese and as a special treat a fried apple pie. She tucked the other dollar into her brassiere. She sat on the porch of the store and ate most of it. There were some men sitting on the porch, but they hushed as soon as she sat down. She avoided their eyes as they stared at her, but it was hard to eat while being watched. She kept dabbing at crumbs on the sides of her mouth.
At length, one of the men asked her, “Where you from, honeybunch?”
“Nashville,” she said.
The men talked among themselves in muted voices. At length, one of them asked, “Where you headin, sugar?”
“Nashville,” she said.
She finished her breakfast or dinner or whatever it was, got up, and moved on.
By the time she reached a sign that said “You are now leaving Nashville,” her feet were beginning to feel sore. She could tell by the position of the sun in the sky that she was heading west. It was still very hot. She wiped her sweaty brow with the back of her hand. She walked on. To amuse herself and take her mind off her feet, she concocted some sexual fantasies. She had no idea when she had become a prostitute or how many customers she had serviced, and although there was still an ache in her vagina it was a pleasant ache and it aroused her. Thus, when a truck driver slowed down alongside her and the man called, “Give you a lift anywheres, babe?” her first impulse was to get in and make a grab for his crotch. But while the wetness in her own crotch was not sweat, and while she may or may not have sold herself into prostitution, she still possessed some sense of dignity.
Enduring Page 24
