blinking at her stupidly, brushing food from his mouth with a sleeve.
'Yah?' he said. 'Vot iss, mister?'
Ethel laughed, dropping her masquerade huskiness of voice. 'Not mister, honey. You got wife, woman?'
'No got. Vy iss your business?'
'Well, now, you just have a look and see,' Ethel said.
She crossed to a corner of the room, where a strawtick resting on some nailed-together two-by-fours did duty as a bed. Casually, she removed her clothes, stood naked before him.
A glazed look had come into his eyes; a trace of spittle coursed from the corner of his mouth. But he remained cautious.
'Vy?' he said; then, 'How much?'
'No money,' Ethel smiled. 'Nothing that you can't handle.'
'Yah?'
'Yah. So come on and have a sample. I'll clear out afterwards, if you don't want me to stay.'
She stretched out on the bed, opened her arms and legs to him. The farmer – his name was Gutzman – emphatically declared, after an hour's sampling, that he wanted her to stay. He wanted her to stay forever and ever, and he would say nothing of her presence to anyone (no one ever visited him, anyway). And if her brute husband from Nebraska should come looking for her, he, Gutzman, would kill him on the spot.
'Good care I take of you, little Greta,' he promised, hugging her to him. 'Vot you ask, I do.'
He meant it, although she had little to ask of him for the time being. In his attentiveness, his anxiety to please her, she became bored to the point of screaming. But she did not scream, of course, but wisely pretended to reciprocate his feelings. And tasting such wonders as he had never known, as he had believed it impossible to know, Gutzman almost sobbed in gratitude.
He had never experienced love, or even liking. Hungry for talk, he was barred from it by an inability to communicate. So always he was the mute stranger in any group, drinking in the tantalizing words of others. Always, he was the outsider, the man doomed to stand apart from those who talked and laughed. Many times he had tried to become one of them, grinning and nodding hopefully when they cast him a glance. Breathlessly wedging in on their conversation with blurted-out remarks. But his eagerness, his anxiety to please, seemed only to heighten the wall which life had built round him. People drew further away from him, leaving his statements hanging in the air unremarked. Taking little note of his existence, except for sly glances and secretive whispers.
Now, however, everything was different. His little Greta (Ethel) had made it so. Within her loins, he had found far more than release for his pent-up seed. In this, the ultimate gift of her body, there had been reassurance, a bolstering of his ego, an unqualified declaration of his desirability. And Hans Gutzman burst out of his shell to at last become part of life.
After a few days, he could even accept Ethel's acid-edged ribbing without feeling rebuffed. He was a little shocked by her language sometimes, but delightfully so; looking upon it as yet another naughtily charming gift from this woman of all women.
'Take it easy, Gutzy,' she would say, 'you horny old son-of-a-bitch. Those are my tits you're squeezing, not a couple of stacks of cowshit.'
_'Hee, hee!'_ – a shocked giggle from Gutzman. 'You badt girl, Greta. Maybe I spank your bottom, ya?'
'Why not? You've done every other goddamn thing to it.'
'Good badt girl, my Greta. Maybe I saddle horses tonight. Ve take nice ride, yah?'
'Yah. Now you're talkin', Gutzy.'
The horseback rides became nightly occurrences. Sometimes they lasted for hours, Gutzman jabbering on endlessly about the places they passed and the places beyond; who lived here or there or over there. Telling her everything he knew – since she seemed greatly interested – about the various towns and villages.
So, at last, amidst the unsorted dross of his chattering, Ethel found gold. They had ridden unusually far that night, the end of her first week with him. Ethel had become very tired, and
'Yah?' he said. 'Vot iss, mister?'
Ethel laughed, dropping her masquerade huskiness of voice. 'Not mister, honey. You got wife, woman?'
'No got. Vy iss your business?'
'Well, now, you just have a look and see,' Ethel said.
She crossed to a corner of the room, where a strawtick resting on some nailed-together two-by-fours did duty as a bed. Casually, she removed her clothes, stood naked before him.
A glazed look had come into his eyes; a trace of spittle coursed from the corner of his mouth. But he remained cautious.
'Vy?' he said; then, 'How much?'
'No money,' Ethel smiled. 'Nothing that you can't handle.'
'Yah?'
'Yah. So come on and have a sample. I'll clear out afterwards, if you don't want me to stay.'
She stretched out on the bed, opened her arms and legs to him. The farmer – his name was Gutzman – emphatically declared, after an hour's sampling, that he wanted her to stay. He wanted her to stay forever and ever, and he would say nothing of her presence to anyone (no one ever visited him, anyway). And if her brute husband from Nebraska should come looking for her, he, Gutzman, would kill him on the spot.
'Good care I take of you, little Greta,' he promised, hugging her to him. 'Vot you ask, I do.'
He meant it, although she had little to ask of him for the time being. In his attentiveness, his anxiety to please her, she became bored to the point of screaming. But she did not scream, of course, but wisely pretended to reciprocate his feelings. And tasting such wonders as he had never known, as he had believed it impossible to know, Gutzman almost sobbed in gratitude.
He had never experienced love, or even liking. Hungry for talk, he was barred from it by an inability to communicate. So always he was the mute stranger in any group, drinking in the tantalizing words of others. Always, he was the outsider, the man doomed to stand apart from those who talked and laughed. Many times he had tried to become one of them, grinning and nodding hopefully when they cast him a glance. Breathlessly wedging in on their conversation with blurted-out remarks. But his eagerness, his anxiety to please, seemed only to heighten the wall which life had built round him. People drew further away from him, leaving his statements hanging in the air unremarked. Taking little note of his existence, except for sly glances and secretive whispers.
Now, however, everything was different. His little Greta (Ethel) had made it so. Within her loins, he had found far more than release for his pent-up seed. In this, the ultimate gift of her body, there had been reassurance, a bolstering of his ego, an unqualified declaration of his desirability. And Hans Gutzman burst out of his shell to at last become part of life.
After a few days, he could even accept Ethel's acid-edged ribbing without feeling rebuffed. He was a little shocked by her language sometimes, but delightfully so; looking upon it as yet another naughtily charming gift from this woman of all women.
'Take it easy, Gutzy,' she would say, 'you horny old son-of-a-bitch. Those are my tits you're squeezing, not a couple of stacks of cowshit.'
_'Hee, hee!'_ – a shocked giggle from Gutzman. 'You badt girl, Greta. Maybe I spank your bottom, ya?'
'Why not? You've done every other goddamn thing to it.'
'Good badt girl, my Greta. Maybe I saddle horses tonight. Ve take nice ride, yah?'
'Yah. Now you're talkin', Gutzy.'
The horseback rides became nightly occurrences. Sometimes they lasted for hours, Gutzman jabbering on endlessly about the places they passed and the places beyond; who lived here or there or over there. Telling her everything he knew – since she seemed greatly interested – about the various towns and villages.
So, at last, amidst the unsorted dross of his chattering, Ethel found gold. They had ridden unusually far that night, the end of her first week with him. Ethel had become very tired, and
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