“Why did you come near me?”
“You were pretty. You looked very nice. You still do, Barbara.” His fingers pressed against her neck, suddenly unmoving. “You still look very nice. That hasn’t changed at all. Perhaps some things have changed. But not that. You’re a grown woman, now. You’re not a little girl playing games. Now you’re grown up. You’ve come into bloom. Your hair. I can see it in your hair. Your eyes. Your whole face. Your body. It’s there, everywhere in you. Do you know it? Do you realize it?”
She nodded.
“It’s strange to see that come into existence since we were together before. It was there, in a way. Not like now. Not full, like this. Perhaps only the first trace. I saw a little of it, then. Traces here and there. But not what I see now. Not this.”
He touched her cheek. Her shoulder. She moved under his touch. He drew his fingers along the sleeve of her pale jacket. The fabric was sheer and strange, still cold from the closet. He pressed it against her arm. Through the fabric he could feel the warmth of her arm, through the coldness of the cloth. Warmth. He leaned toward her, looking into her face. Her eyes were still shut, closed tightly together. She breathed slowly, evenly, her mouth open.
He touched her throat, running his fingers over her bare flesh, where the folds of the jacket came together. She quivered, tensing under his fingers, the muscles moving.
“It’s all right,” Verne said.
She did not answer. He watched her silently. She said nothing. Presently he kissed her, tasting her hard mouth. She did not stir. He kissed again, feeling her lips, cold and hard, against his own. Her teeth.
“Barbara?”
She moved a little. He put his hands on her warm shoulders, drawing back a little. After a time she opened her eyes. “Yes?”
“How—how do you feel?”
She shook her head.
“I wish you’d say something.” He waited. His hands pressed into her shoulders. He ran his fingers over her arms, over the pale fabric. Still she did not speak. He could feel her breasts against his arms, below his wrists. He moved his hands from her arms, covering her breasts with his fingers. Under his fingers her breasts rose and fell, again and again. Her heart. He could feel her heart beating, beneath the full cups of her breasts. His hands moved upward again, toward her neck. He pulled her toward him.
“Barbara—”
“Yes?”
“Isn’t this all right? Is there anything wrong with this?”
He kissed her again, on the cheek. She looked up at him as he pulled away. Her eyes were bright. In the half-darkness of the room they gleamed, sparkling and dancing.
“Your eyes are so bright.”
“Are they?”
Again he pressed his fingers into her neck, where her hair ended, above the collar of her jacket. Neither of them spoke. Time passed. Barbara sighed once, shifting a little on the bed.
“I wish I knew how you felt,” Verne murmured.
“Don’t you know?”
“No.”
“It’s strange that you don’t know. I thought you knew so much about women.”
“Well, not everything. How do you feel? Don’t you want to tell me?”
“You’ve known so many. Done so much. It’s very strange that you don’t know. Yes, it’s nice here, Verne. I worked a long time on this room. I’m glad you enjoy it.”
Verne waited a while, watching the girl beside him. Barbara’s face was expressionless. He could not read anything there. She stared ahead of her, into the distance. He could see her nostrils flare a little as she breathed. Under her long pale jacket her chest rose and fell.
“Real nice,” he murmured.
Barbara stirred a little, reaching out to stub the remains of her cigarette against the side of the ashtray. She leaned forward, bending over her purse. Her warm neck slipped from between his fingers. Verne lowered his arm slowly.
Barbara lit a new cigarette, shifting on the bed and leaning back. She blew smoke past him, folding her arms. Verne reached out his hand toward her.
She shook her head. “No.”
“No?”
“Don’t.”
Verne let the air out of his lungs. He said nothing. Beside him the girl smoked quietly to herself, so close to him that he could see the pores of her skin, the faint lines around her nose, the chipped edge of her thumb nail where her hand rested against her lip, against the white of her cigarette.
There was no sound. Outside the building a feeble wind rustled the trees, stirring the branches together. The room was cooling off. What heat there was had already begun to drain away, drifting out through the cracks in the walls, under the door, past the windows, out into the night. The night was full of fog. He had seen it as he made his way from the men’s dorm. Wet fog, masses of it everywhere, over everything. Fog outside, silent fog.
Barbara looked at her wristwatch. “Time for bed.”
“So soon?”
“Afraid so.” Barbara stood up.
Verne got to his feet. “I guess it’s time to go, then.”
Barbara, her cigarette between her lips, bent over the bed, throwing the covers back. She smoothed down the sheets with her hand. The last wrinkle disappeared. The bed was smooth and even.
“I’ll see you,” Verne murmured. He wandered over to the door.
“All right.” Barbara started to unfasten her long flowing jacket But then she stopped.
“What is it?” Verne said.
“I’ll wait until you’re gone.” Barbara stood with her fingers against the cord of her jacket, waiting.
“You don’t have to make such a god damn big thing out of it!”
“I’m tired. Good night, Verne. I’ll see you.”
“You really mean it, then.”
“Mean it?”
“About all this. About Carl. And me.”
“It’s the best thing.”
Verne twisted. “But damn it—We’ve known each other a long time. This sort of thing never works. These New Year’s Day resolutions. After a little while the old leaf slips back.”
Barbara nodded.
“It’s true,” Verne murmured. He gazed across the room at the bed. “You don’t think—just for old time’s sake—”
“No.”
Verne sagged. “All right.” He opened the door and moved out into the hall. “Well, I’ll see you.”
“Good night.”
Verne went slowly down the hall. Barbara waited a minute. Then she closed the door. She stood listening. She could hear him walking slowly downstairs, onto the front porch, then down the front steps onto the gravel path. The sounds died away. Everything was quiet.
She looked at her wristwatch, winding it thoughtfully. “That was more than fifteen minutes,” she said half-aloud.
She unfastened her jacket and got ready for bed.
14
THE MORNING WAS warm and bright. But not too bright. And there was enough of a breeze to keep the heat down. The sky was clear of fog. It stretched out, blue and uniform, on and on. Forever. Without end.
Barbara walked aimlessly along the path, between the great towers and buildings of the Company. She walked with her hands behind her back, gazing around her. Today she had put on short pants, short corduroy pants, deep red in color. Sandals were on her feet. A bright scarf was around her neck, a swath of color above her gray blouse and wide leather belt.
She was all by herself. Carl had gone by her window, before she had even got up, whistling and skipping along. Headed off down the road, vanishing between the buildings, his whistle dying away in the distance. She had lifted the shade and watched him until he was out of sight. Then she had jumped out of bed and dressed quickly. She hurried down to the commissary as soon as she was finished. No one was there. Both Verne and Carl had eaten and gone. In the sink were dirty dishes, and bits of Verne’s pipe ashes.
Barbara carefully washed the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. That was all the chores she could think of. Her room was clean and s
wept. She had even picked some new flowers and thrown the little roses out.
Now she walked happily along, going nowhere in particular, taking deep breaths of the warm air, filling her lungs with the smell of the clean new day. The sun danced around her, from bits of mica in the path. From the roofs of buildings. From windows half-boarded up. From all sides sunlight danced and streamed.
She felt good. She increased her pace.
Presently, as she walked along, she realized that she was coming to the Company park. The park was in the center of the grounds. Here a wide lawn had been planted, paths laid, trees arranged, so that the appearance of nature was given among all the machinery, the excavations, all the refining and smelting processes that had gone on day and night. Barbara came to the lawn and stopped, gazing across it. It was a perfect lawn. No weeds grew in it, and at the far border flowers had been carefully planted in low rows, endless bright streamers of color, red and blue and orange and every other color there was.
She paused for a moment, hesitating. Then she hopped up onto the lawn and walked quickly across it. Some mounds of clover grew here and there. Bees buzzed around the clover, getting at the moisture inside. Barbara skirted around the mounds of clover, avoiding them. She came to the low rows of flowers and stepped over them. Beyond the flowers was a narrow path.
And beyond the path was the Company lake.
The lake was a basin of concrete, huge and round, set like a gigantic pie pan among the flowers, laid down and filled with warm water. The water sparkled blue in the sun, shimmering and dancing. Barbara crossed the narrow path to the very edge of the lake. She stepped up on the concrete rim, her hands on her hips, gazing across the lake to the other side. On the other side were trees, a grove of immense fir trees, planted in a careful straight line, each one of them trimmed exactly like the next.
It was nice, very nice. Even though it was somewhat artificial. Everything was so—so perfect. The lake was round, exactly round. The trees were in exact formation. Even the flowers had been planted with care, according to innate geometrical concepts. Clover had got into the grass, but except for that—
Yet, it was better than clanking machines and the smell of molten metals and slag. All day long the factories had clanked and whirred. The roar of the blast furnaces, the unnatural charring heat. Furnaces withered life. Machinery devoured and destroyed, scooped up and burned away everything. The little oasis was much better than that.
Barbara stood for a long time, gazing across the lake. A slight wind blew bringing a fine mist from the water, up into the air. The wind increased, and the mist moved across the water in a great sheet. It touched her, the sheet of fine mist, and she found it cool and exciting. She looked around to see if anyone were watching. How foolish! She was alone. She was as completely alone as the first person in the world. And she had this tiny bit of the Garden of Eden to herself. In front of her was the dancing lake, the surface moving with the wind. Above her was the sun and sky. Behind her the flowers and grass. She was surrounded by the garden. Cut off. Isolated completely from the rest of the world, if such existed.
Here she was free to do what she wished. There was no one to watch her, frowning and noticing. No one to scowl and be offended. To sneer and make fun of her. To know and remember what she had done. She could run. She could dance, the way Carl had danced, along the path in front of her. She had been ashamed to join him, then. But she could dance now. There was no one to see.
Barbara turned, gazing all around her, her heart beating with excitement. She could leap and run. She could destroy, if she wanted. She could dig up plants, trample the grass. She could push over the trees, break the flowers, scoop out the water, pick up the great pie plate and empty all the water out onto the ground. There was nothing she could not do. Nothing at all.
Barbara sat down on the concrete rim of the lake. The concrete was hot, baked by the sun. She could feel it through her clothes. She untied her sandals rapidly, her hands shaking. She placed the sandals carefully on the rim beside her and then dangled her feet, down into the blue water. The water was cold, much colder than she had thought it would be. She gave a little cry, shuddering and pulling back. But it was good.
Presently she slid off the rim and waded out into the water, kicking water high in the air. The water came back down in great drops, heavy and cool, splashing around her, into her hair, onto her blouse. It made her tremble from head to foot. She began to shake with an intense fever. The icy drops rolled down her bare arms. The water lapped against her legs. Where the water touched it was like the touch of chilly fire.
She splashed back to shore. Standing back on the concrete rim she gazed up at the sun and across the water. Before, she had imagined herself as a sun goddess, giving her heart to the sun. Here she could do even more than that. She could give her whole self, her entire self, not merely her heart. She could give all of herself to the sun, to the sun and the water and the black ground around her.
She could be absorbed into the ground, back into the soil, like the rain that collects in puddles and finally drains away, sucked down into the earth. She could dissolve herself. Part of her would turn into the trees. Part of her would enter the lake. Part the sky, the sun, the grass—
She would be lost here in this garden, where no one could see her or follow her or know her. She would be gone. She would run away, run so fast she would disappear and be gone, vanished into the garden. She would become a portion of the garden, and no one would know which portion was she and which was not.
Barbara unbuttoned her blouse and slipped out of it. She unfastened her belt and stepped out of her short pants, laying them carefully on the narrow path beside the rim of the lake. Quickly she reached up for the sun, stretching out her arms, standing on tiptoe. But the sun was too far. She reached down to the water, bending over. The water was not so far. It was quite near.
Barbara entered the water, moving out, away from the shore. The water came to her eagerly, lapping around her, at her knees and ankles. She unhooked her bra and tossed it back with her other clothes, beside the concrete rim. Then she stepped rapidly out of her pants. She wadded the little silk pants up and threw them back onto the path. Now she was naked, completely naked from head to foot She ran through the cold water, splashing it against her thighs and hips, against her flat belly. She ran as far as she could and then, when the water was up to her waist, she dived into it, letting it cover her completely.
Barbara lay in the water, drifting and floating. She was losing herself into it. The water was taking her. She would be gone forever. She was melting away, merging with the landscape. She dropped her feet, standing up. The water reached to her breasts. She looked down at them. The sun had refused them, when they had been offered to him. But the water would accept them. She could feel the water pressing against them, asking for them. It was begging for her, for her whole body, and if the sun would not accept, then she was sorry for him; he had lost out, and for him it was too late.
She moved out farther, gasping for breath, shuddering and splashing. The water was sucking at her breasts, nursing at them. It desired to have them. It was eager. It could not wait. It wanted her now, at once. It could not be put off.
She stretched herself out on the water and lay, floating and drifting, moving with the slight currents set in motion by the wind. Now she was giving herself, all of her, without reservation. She was giving herself to the water, and the vast blue water was taking her eagerly. The water desired her. It was flowing into her, lapping into her, coming into her ears and nose, into her eyes and mouth. She opened her mouth and torrents of water rushed in. The water was bursting wildly into her, filling her up, swelling into her body. The water wanted to get inside her. It was pushing in greedily—too greedily! It was lustful. It was destroying her.
“Stop—”
She gasped for breath, choking and panting. She struggled to her feet, her toes barely touching bottom. Terrified, she pushed toward shore, wading toward the far rim of concrete. Th
e water sank down. Finally it was down to her waist. Water poured from her, splashing from her.
She stopped, coughing and retching. The water was bitter, strong. She shuddered, spitting water, dribbling water from her nose. Water dribbled down her face in a dark stream. Her hair, soaked and dripping, hung down in her face. She pushed it back. She was sick, sick and shaken. And frightened.
Barbara made her way to shore. What had she been doing? In another minute she might have drowned. She was all by herself; there would be no one around to save her. A few minutes more and it would have been over. She shook, gasping, pushing her hair back out of her eyes.
She reached the concrete rim and stepped shakily over it, onto the warm path. She made her way through the flowers and threw herself onto the grass. She was exhausted. She lay without moving, her eyes shut, feeling the warm ground under her, the firm earth.
Finally she sat up, some strength coming back into her. She got unsteadily to her feet and walked over to her clothes. She was still wet. Her hair was slimy and thick, heavy and shapeless with water. She tried to squeeze the water out of it. Bubbles came to the surface of her hair. She gave up and began to put her clothes on.
She dressed slowly, feeling the cloth cling to her wet skin. Above her, the sun was white and blinding. She blinked. Her head ached. When she had finished dressing she hurried away from the lake, through the flowers, across the grass. Away from the garden itself.
She came to the path and stopped, her chest rising and falling, gasping for breath. She had tried to give herself up to the earth and the sky and she had not succeeded. The sun had refused her; he was too distant and aloof. He had not wanted her. He had not been interested enough to come and possess her and carry her away. She had given herself to what was below, the water and the ground. The water had covered her and rushed greedily to take her. But it had been cruel and demanding, destructive. It cared only about itself, not about her. It would have filled her up and killed her. She would have been destroyed. The water in its lust to enter her would have broken her apart.
Gather Yourselves Together Page 23
