stimulating conversation.
Since I had not been invited, she was surprised to see me, smiling her welcome and opening the door to a small Victorian parlor with red velvet chairs and a love seat. In a whisper she explained that her mother had already gone to bed in the next room. I allowed this to alarm me, and I apologized and made for the front door, knowing she would stop me, which she promptly did, steering me back to the love seat, where I kept looking at her noble, smooth, sensuous bottom and wondering if her pubic hair was as blond as her shoulder-length tresses. Her voice was as soft as the night wind, and I fancied her cherry mouth whispering, “Fuck me, please fuck me, Henry!” I saw her golden knees crossing and uncrossing under a short skirt and sighed at the thought of being trapped between them in a scissor lock. With every breath her bosom lifted and I toyed with the reverie of raising her breasts out of her dress in some dramatic way, as if lifting golden goblets toward the sky. Surely I would ball this woman, for already we were beneath each other’s skin, slithering for positions. It was not love, but lust was better.
Then Mrs. Dietrich called from her bedroom, sharply, irritably. “Harriet, will you come here, please?”
Harriet looked threatened, smiling nervously as she excused herself and opened the bedroom door. The room was in darkness. As Harriet closed the door there was a buzz of whispered angry voices. In a moment or two Harriet emerged, eyes blazing with anger. She avoided my glance and calmed herself.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
She smiled. “I hate to ask you this, but are you…armed?”
“You mean, carrying a gun?”
It was so absurd that she laughed. “Mother says you—you might have a knife.”
“Why?”
“You’re Italian.”
1 said, “Oh, shit, she’s crazy.”
The bedroom door opened and Mrs. Dietrich stood there in a housecoat over her nightie, her feet in slippers. It was said that she had been one of the town’s most beautiful women. Not so, then. She had jowls and the cords in her neck protruded, but her figure was rounded and attractive. Raising her arm imperiously, she pointed to the front door.
“Out!” she demanded. “Out of my house, young man, or I shall call the police.”
I glanced at Harriet. “What’s this all about?”
“Please go,” she said, taking my hand. “Please.”
I walked to the door with her. “What’s going on here?”
Gently she pushed me out on the porch. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the library.”
“Close that door,” Mrs. Dietrich snapped.
Harriet was brave, but she had been taught to fear her intractable mother. Mrs. Dietrich of course forbade her to ever see me again, so we were forced to go underground. It wasn’t easy in Placer County. There were Dietrichs everywhere—in towns, on farms and in mountain settlements. Driving separate cars, we used to meet in madhouses, on back roads, in abandoned farmhouses, in orchards and vineyards.
If a Dietrich cousin or uncle spotted us, a report was telephoned to the queen in San Elmo. It was sport at first, but after two months we tired of it. One morning in July I pulled up in front of the public library, took Harriet by the arm, and led her down to the car. We drove to the Nevada side of Lake Tahoe and were married by a justice of the peace. We spent our honeymoon at a hotel beside the lake, and the following morning we started back to San Elmo for a confrontation with La Dietrich. It was raining hard as we drew up in front of the Dietrich house.
As we stepped from the car Mrs. Dietrich emerged from the house in a raincoat, carrying an umbrella. Her bleak tight-mouthed glare, the protruding cords in her neck, told us she already knew and that there was nothing to say. Hand in hand we moved up the porch steps. Harriet braved a smile.
“Mother, Henry and I are married.”
Mrs. Dietrich raised her umbrella and whacked me over the head.
That was twenty-five years
Since I had not been invited, she was surprised to see me, smiling her welcome and opening the door to a small Victorian parlor with red velvet chairs and a love seat. In a whisper she explained that her mother had already gone to bed in the next room. I allowed this to alarm me, and I apologized and made for the front door, knowing she would stop me, which she promptly did, steering me back to the love seat, where I kept looking at her noble, smooth, sensuous bottom and wondering if her pubic hair was as blond as her shoulder-length tresses. Her voice was as soft as the night wind, and I fancied her cherry mouth whispering, “Fuck me, please fuck me, Henry!” I saw her golden knees crossing and uncrossing under a short skirt and sighed at the thought of being trapped between them in a scissor lock. With every breath her bosom lifted and I toyed with the reverie of raising her breasts out of her dress in some dramatic way, as if lifting golden goblets toward the sky. Surely I would ball this woman, for already we were beneath each other’s skin, slithering for positions. It was not love, but lust was better.
Then Mrs. Dietrich called from her bedroom, sharply, irritably. “Harriet, will you come here, please?”
Harriet looked threatened, smiling nervously as she excused herself and opened the bedroom door. The room was in darkness. As Harriet closed the door there was a buzz of whispered angry voices. In a moment or two Harriet emerged, eyes blazing with anger. She avoided my glance and calmed herself.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
She smiled. “I hate to ask you this, but are you…armed?”
“You mean, carrying a gun?”
It was so absurd that she laughed. “Mother says you—you might have a knife.”
“Why?”
“You’re Italian.”
1 said, “Oh, shit, she’s crazy.”
The bedroom door opened and Mrs. Dietrich stood there in a housecoat over her nightie, her feet in slippers. It was said that she had been one of the town’s most beautiful women. Not so, then. She had jowls and the cords in her neck protruded, but her figure was rounded and attractive. Raising her arm imperiously, she pointed to the front door.
“Out!” she demanded. “Out of my house, young man, or I shall call the police.”
I glanced at Harriet. “What’s this all about?”
“Please go,” she said, taking my hand. “Please.”
I walked to the door with her. “What’s going on here?”
Gently she pushed me out on the porch. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the library.”
“Close that door,” Mrs. Dietrich snapped.
Harriet was brave, but she had been taught to fear her intractable mother. Mrs. Dietrich of course forbade her to ever see me again, so we were forced to go underground. It wasn’t easy in Placer County. There were Dietrichs everywhere—in towns, on farms and in mountain settlements. Driving separate cars, we used to meet in madhouses, on back roads, in abandoned farmhouses, in orchards and vineyards.
If a Dietrich cousin or uncle spotted us, a report was telephoned to the queen in San Elmo. It was sport at first, but after two months we tired of it. One morning in July I pulled up in front of the public library, took Harriet by the arm, and led her down to the car. We drove to the Nevada side of Lake Tahoe and were married by a justice of the peace. We spent our honeymoon at a hotel beside the lake, and the following morning we started back to San Elmo for a confrontation with La Dietrich. It was raining hard as we drew up in front of the Dietrich house.
As we stepped from the car Mrs. Dietrich emerged from the house in a raincoat, carrying an umbrella. Her bleak tight-mouthed glare, the protruding cords in her neck, told us she already knew and that there was nothing to say. Hand in hand we moved up the porch steps. Harriet braved a smile.
“Mother, Henry and I are married.”
Mrs. Dietrich raised her umbrella and whacked me over the head.
That was twenty-five years
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