“What in the world?” said Victorine.
“You said it!” said Joe. He had seen other big four-footed Lesbians at it before and he had noticed in his quiet way, unobserved, a solitary rat in the fowls’ yard at dusk masturbating, more than once.
“It beats me,” he said as if to himself. And it did. Joe accepted, if he did not really understand, Nature, but her distortions and perversities were beyond him.
“How silly Nanny is acting,” said Victorine.
“I guess she just misunderstands the urge,” said Joe.
“I brought you something,” said Victorine.
“You did?”
“It’s last year’s but it’s pretty,” said Victorine. She handed Joe one of those big Christmas cards that have little numbered doors that open, marked with numbers for the days before Christmas; behind each tiny door is a coloured picture of a toy, a doll, a stick of red-and-white candy, a dish of blue jello, a chair, and a top, a striped ball. All the doors had been opened.
“Look, the last one is always so pretty,” said Victorine. “See, it’s little Jesus, and Mary, and that’s Joseph, and there are the little sheep and even a pig. Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” said Joe, his eyes were shining as he caressed it. “You sure,” he said, “nobody wants it?”
“It’s last year’s,” said Victorine, “please take it.”
“I’ll hang it up now,” said Joe. “Come and see.”
“Oh, I can’t, I’ve got to go,” said Victorine. She wanted to see Joe’s hide-out again, but she said no; she denied herself and bravely turned away.
“Well, thanks,” said Joe.
“How’s your old woman?” said Victorine politely.
“Just fine,” said Joe.
“I hope her nose-bleed is better.”
Joe looked at her blankly. “Oh, that,” he said finally; he grinned at her. “Could be,” he said.
“Well, goodbye, I’m glad you like it.”
Victorine had unconsciously performed a little ceremony and had said in her heart farewell, to the enigmatic, the lovable, the mysterious Joe.
“I’ll let you know when the calf comes out,” he said, nodding at the pregnant Nanny, who had given up her useless manœuvres and returned to her ruminations, “and you can name it.”
“Joe,” said Victorine and she, too, nodded at Nanny, “does she know she’s going to have a calf?”
Joe shook his head and played with the tiny doors on the card. “It beats me,” he said.
A big shivering whinny came from the stalls, an imperious long-drawn-out squeal and a loud stamping.
“It’s Tom,” said Joe, “he thinks I forgot. We’re going to the blacksmith’s. Want a ride?”
“Thank you just the same,” said Victorine; she had loved straddling the broad hard back of glossy Tom who smelled so sweet of oats and aromatic hay, even the scent of his wind was sweet as candy. Joe would lift her up and settle her there, and her legs spread out almost at right angles not long enough to encircle him, only her ankles swung over his sides. Her little sneakered feet tickled him, and she laughed when he breathed which was like a caress; the horse would give a big sigh, inflating himself, and stamp, and switch his long black tail around that stung her bare legs. Parts of his skin quivered deliciously and specifically to shake off a persistent blue-bottle fly. Joe used to walk beside him, close to his head, near his muzzle and smile up at her, “Like it?” How she had loved the solid feel of Tom moving along under her thighs and the comforting reassuring look of Joe, the understanding look of him, as if he knew how good it felt, how sweet. It was as if she was married to him.
“Not now,” she said; she felt a blush coming and lowered her eyes.
“Never mind,” said Joe softly and they parted.
Chapter VII
Dearest Costello
From half-people, vagrants, and fairies, Joe and his sensuous but child-like appeal, Victorine had to make adjustments when she rejoined her family from whom she sometimes felt a waif-like estrangement, a queer anonymity in their presence. Allison was beyond her, too beautiful to touch, too good to be true; Homer? She felt no carnal interest in him, no curious incestuous drag, he neither irritated her nerves nor gave her confidence or any sweet security at all. She sometimes felt snubbed by him and it hurt a little but not much. Again she felt his stare, and raising her eyes, looking out for a moment from her inner lodging place, she wondered. He did not smile when she returned his look or seem to recognize her at all as his little daughter. Not knowing that she was beginning to resemble strongly her mother and did look at twelve much as Allison had at sixteen, a dreamy intensity about her, a withdrawal in her eyes, a sensuous, almost teasing, curve to her mouth, she misunderstood what he himself did not understand. It was as if he could not place her. Homer, so self-possessed, so sure of himself, could have felt uneasy, might have been frightened of a second Allison, brand new, doubly unpossessable, in his house. We will never know.
Dennis, cute as a stuffed teddy bear or a calcimined doll when he was washed, both entertained and sickened her, according to her mood and sensitivity. He was still a monster, unrelated, still half immersed in whatever slime produced such as he. Immodest, noisy, unclean, he had not caught on to the niceties at all that might have made him acceptable to a sister as fastidious as Victorine. Like Costello he had inherited his father’s tools and even at his age seemed proud of his appendages, and did not hesitate to exhibit himself to the family and friends. Victorine did not think the plump smooth parts, that seemed to grow right out of his stomach, were a bit funny, but Dennis laughed with pleasure at the sight of himself, and scarcely big enough to walk he had amused them all (the grown-ups) by grasping himself firmly within his dimpled fist and gurgling with delight, only, upon the lovable thing’s self-withdrawal, to screw up his face in amazement, and near tears, cry out, “Wheredigo?” It had been a show that had amused even the speechless Flora, mother of men, and grandma now to a little ape-man with a flower between his legs; who in his turn would beget his like, architectonic, like a big tower; all silent? Like a city at night?
Costello had been different and was different; she had loved him dearly, almost to idolatry—perhaps the only real person she would ever love—but of late, and as we have mentioned, and to his frustration, Victorine had, it seemed, outgrown her older brother, and a reserve had come over her, her legs had grown longer and closer together, her mouth and eyes were impenetrable. Costello felt her superiority, a superiority that Victorine herself was unaware of. But afraid of her, of her abstract moony appeal, he let her alone and made plans to get even later on with a tentative list of other little women, like sticking pins in her image, at least one imagines he did (make plans). His sullen look, his slight sneer bespoke the male despoiler when he was bigger and the opportunity arose. His first love had rejected him, her indifference had incensed him and he turned cold, or so it seemed, and he dreamed of a monstrous revenge for which he was well equipped.
But Victorine had not forgotten all the fun and the excitement, she just, being woman, all of a sudden knew better, was that it? How did she know that the time had come for them to separate? It is hard to say, but like a pretty genie she changed herself into a little cloud and evaded him. Might he not have, if she hadn’t, passionate as he was, slept in her bed at night, his mouth on hers, his legs supporting her loins, her chest, still flat and smooth as his, fitted to his own and their hands clasped, wouldn’t it have been incest, the sweetest of all; and their punishment, what would it have been? Well, their childish games had given Victorine, perhaps, an insight, or else, as her love for him blossomed under the intimacy of their rough-housing, the play that gives a skin trust, better than anything else, brother and sister blood kin, she withdrew because it was too much for her. The intensity of her look, the twin veils that shuttered her eyes like a dog’s before he sleeps, the sudden rigidity of her body under Costello’s violent and imaginative play, had frightened him, too, and once
as he had straddled her, her hips locked between his legs as if in a vice, his knees deep in the chilly marshland by the bay, she had gone suddenly quite limp and lost consciousness, and he never attempted to scalp her again. The two red Indians had walked home subdued, on either side of the road, without a word. And love, if love it was, Victorine searched for elsewhere, a less violent, less bodily love, but it wasn’t easy, and the dark winding passages in her mind remained dark, winding, and secret passages. And she put aside her body, as it were, for someone else, much later, who might, or might not, resemble her dearest brother, and who might or might not awaken the almost spontaneous response that came to her in Costello’s wild brotherly embrace. There had been no tenderness, no sentiment in his child’s play, it had been savage and real and in between times he had ignored her and gone off with the boys, but Victorine’s pleasure was more like happiness, lingering, integrated; she adored him. “And God bless my dearest brother,” she would end her prayers at night, “and make him a good boy.”
Then something happened, you remember, to Costello. As if by prearrangement, and like a locust or a snake who has that moment shed its skin and is sensitive, he stood in his father’s vestibule and saw his father’s mistress. That she was his father’s mistress looked like a coincidence because Costello was all eyes and he did not overhear, at least he did not listen to, the short, cool and brittle conversation between them. Neither was he old enough to sense that here was a woman who could be bought. He was still warm from the encounter with his sister when the blonde seamstress passed him so close in the vestibule that he smelled her sweetness and could have touched her shining hair. His first response had been physical and compelling, but almost immediately, as if he had quickly possessed her, it went away, and was followed by a feeling so sweet that tears came into his eyes, and he longed to place his head on her knees as if she were his mother. Before she was down the driveway he wished to be of service to her . . . anything. He heard the self-starter on her car whining and coughing and he flew down the path.
“Can I help?”
“Christ!” Millie had just said. “God-damn starter.” She looked up, her short hair fell over her forehead and in the half-light she did look pretty. But her eyes were painted on with luminous paint like the instruments on the panel. They had no depth. She looked at Costello, his thatch of russet-brown hair, his yellow eyes, with amazement. “What a pretty boy,” she thought, “and he is looking at me as if . . .” She smiled at him. “Something is wrong,” she said, “with the whatsis.”
“It’s flooded,” said Costello.
“Get in,” said Millie, “there’s nothing to do, then, but wait.”
“I . . .” said Costello, bending his head and creeping in beside her, “I. . .”
“You’re Costello, aren’t you, I remember when you were a little boy.”
Costello blushed. “I’m sixteen,” he said.
“It’s a shame,” thought Millie; she had already decided.
•
Costello had seen, he thought, Millie’s room before, in some dream, perhaps, he had been in that place, or else a powerful intuition had, two seconds before he entered, given him a notion beforehand what he would forget afterwards. Time is like that.
“What would you like,” said Millie, “a coke?” She leaned over a dozen little lamps and when they were all on the room was still in semi-darkness; each little lamp had lit up her face from below for a second as she bent over it and Costello followed her progression from light to light, captivated.
“I said would you like a coke?” Millie hung her coat in an overstuffed closet that let out a strong smell of her own perfume and peered closely at herself in a mirror over her dresser. She pushed up her gold hair and smiled at herself and ran her tongue along her lips to brighten them.
“No, thanks.”
“Whisky?”
“Well, maybe, if you are, but I guess not . . .”
“Make up your mind,” said Millie; she came and stood in front of him and he was a head taller than she. “You’re a big boy,” she said.
Again Costello blushed furiously.
“Come,” said Millie, “sit beside me.”
“I have to go,” said Costello weakly.
“Come, there now . . .”
“I . . .”
“What, baby?” Millie put out one of the little lights that didn’t make any difference, and leaned against him. The pounding of the boy’s heart seemed to shake the room. He remained motionless. Millie bent away from him and looked at him. “Costello,” she said softly and she reached out her hand and laid it on his cheek.
“Dearest,” sobbed Costello and he ducked his dark brown head and covered the marauding hand with kisses.
“Oh, my God,” thought Millie, “what movie did he see that in!” but the feel of his soft wet mouth pleased her. “This is going to be fun,” she said to herself. She wanted to go ahead, but shrewdly, and with malice aforethought, she said out aloud, “I’m so busy tonight, sweet, come and see me tomorrow at the same time,” and she gently ejected Dearest Costello who was in that seventh heaven, that delicious limbo where facts didn’t count, plans needn’t be made; broody almost, as if there were milk in him.
He tapped on his sister’s door, “Vic?”
“And God bless Dearest Costello and make him a good boy,” she had finished her prayers and in her mind, behind her eyes, she saw the forbidden tracks gleaming into infinity. . . .
“Vic? It’s me, Costello.”
“Come in,” said Victorine.
Victorine sat up and turned on the light. “What do you want?” she said crossly. A change had come over her brother. She stared at the new look.
“Vicky,” said Costello, sitting down on her bed, “let’s talk.”
“Oh, no, not that!” said Vicky. “What about?”
“I’m sorry I’ve not been nice to you,” said Costello softly. “I love you, Vicky, my little sister.”
“You make me sick!” snapped Victorine. “You look like Nanny!” And he did. She seemed to have lost for good the bad boy she had withdrawn from of her own accord and she sensed in his broodiness a left-over affection of some sort that had nothing to do with her. She would have preferred a more painful caress than the soft endearment he seemed to want to give her.
“’Bye,” she said.
“Good night, Vicky.” He tiptoed out. He lay awake visualizing every detail of Millie’s embroidered room and he smelled the palms of his hands that smelled of her. He felt no desire for her at all and he did not know what was expected of him tomorrow. It was the sweetest night he was ever to have.
•
“Costello?”
“It’s me,” he said, and he came forward the little way he could into Millie’s tiny room that he had been memorizing all night. Millie came towards him, “Well?” She looked provocatively into his eyes and took his face between her hands. “Well?” she repeated. She pressed herself against him but the boy stood, intestate, as it were.
The couch that they had used the night before had turned into a bed and there was standing room only except for it; a good half of the little lights were out and the single window, open a little at the top, sucked the pretty lace curtains out into the night. Millie wore something soft and pink that matched her skin and it was cut low showing half her breasts; and as he looked at them, stunned, drugged as if she had given him a Mickey Finn, she lifted them out and he saw the violet nipples. “Come on,” she said, “how do you feel?” She gave him a slight push and there was only the bed to sit down on. He had lifted his eyes from her naked torso and he gave her a tentative, moony stare.
“Well?” she said, it irritated her, and her own preparations, her bath, her perfume, the silk pyjamas, the bed, had aroused her sexual appetite and she wanted him to begin. She had forgotten, if she had felt it seriously at all, the desire to get even with Homer. It was desire plain and simple. But her sense of timing was bad, the boy was too stunned to react normally, too mu
ch in love to dream even of touching her.
“Dearest,” he said, attempting to regain what already seemed lost.
“Take off your clothes,” she commanded, “there, in the closet, if you’re so shy.”
Costello stood up. He was struggling not to cry. The disillusionment had been too sudden and he couldn’t keep up with his feelings. The semi-nude woman on the bed did not look to him like his dream of fair women.
“Goodbye,” he said softly.
Millie turned into a shrew.
“Why, you little shit,” she said furiously. “. . . I’m too old, I suppose!” It was the only reason she could think of.
“You’re too too beautiful,” the boy murmured, remembering his admiration for her gold hair, her smooth skin.
“Shit,” she said.
A gleam from way back in his childhood came into his yellow eyes at the repetition of the dirty word, and Millie, even in her fury, did not miss it. “You want it dirty?” she said. “All right!” She made a crude gesture with her hands, “Come on, then!”
“I can’t,” Costello said childishly, he didn’t know quite what he meant but he wanted to get away and run home.
Millie gave a raucous, mean laugh. “Your father didn’t have any trouble!” she said. He had gently opened the door, she knew he was really leaving, and she wanted to get at him, hurt him bad. “Your father . . .” she repeated, “your father was a man—he . . . why, you little fairy!”
The boy felt a terrible desire to kill her and he looked it. His eyes turned to flame and he clenched his fists.
Victorine Page 9
