Jocelyn, do we grieve so much more bitterly for the death of a young animal? Why is the death of a child so infinitely more sorrowful than the death of an adult ?
You wept at once for bird and cat. I weep for you.
One evening after dinner she turned suddenly and caught him looking at her, his face open and unguarded.
“Oh, Miles,” she said.
He tried to turn his eyes from her. They stayed on her face, her perfect face.
She said, “You must know that I love you.”
(“I should have been a pair of ragged claws … .”)
She said, “And you love me. I know you do.”
(“… the mermaids singing …”)
She said, “I don’t have anyone else. Not anymore. When you go out of town—?”
He thought of Rebecca Warriner (“You’re very sweet, Milton… . That was lots of fun.”) He thought of the streetwalker.
“No,” he said. ( “No. I’m far too old for that.”)
Jocelyn, Jocelyn, I am not a lover but a killer. My penis is a rifle spitting bullets into other men’s brains, a steel bar that pulps their heads. A knife. A stick of dynamite. A dozen dozen forms of phallic death.
My seed is acid, Jocelyn. The universal solvent that no vessel can contain.
He watched as she stepped purposefully across the room to him. (“It’s warm. I’ll open a window.”) He remained in his armchair, his eyes on the softness of her smile. She seated herself sideways on his lap. He looked down at blue jeans and bare feet. She put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes, and he returned the look.
The warmth, the beauty, the smell of her.
He thought of cats and birds, of worms and men. He touched her leg and looked at his hand upon faded blue denim.
(“… ragged claws …”)
“I am an old man.”
“You are not old.”
“And you are so very young.”
She kissed him lightly on the lips. His hands remembered the wounded robin, the tapping of its heart, the weak flutter of crippled wings. She kissed him again, and he drew her to him and tasted her mouth.
“Old … .”
“We are the same age, Miles. I have known you for as long as you have known me.”
He held her close. She put her arms around his neck, her head in the hollow of his shoulder. He felt a heartbeat and did not know whether it was hers or his own.
(“Do I dare eat a peach?”)
“I love you,” he said.
“Oh, I know, I know.”
“I love you.”
He held her. A kitten on his lap, purring. He held her, and his hand moved to cup her breast, to touch her arm, the side of her face.
After a long time she stood up and held out her hands to him. He got to his feet. Her face melted into that warm liquid look he had glimpsed only once before.
(“You were my teacher, and now you are my friend.”)
They walked arm in arm to the bedroom.
Oh, Jocelyn! Warmth, fire, love. A gun, a knife, a stick of dynamite, a length of steel pipe. Not peace but a sword. Jocelyn!
Do I dare?
I will not commit suicide, Jocelyn. I will not leave the country.
He lay on his back, every muscle unstrung, every cell at peace. Her hair brushed his face. He opened his eyes to see her looking down at him.
“Hello, old man.”
“Hello.”
Her hand readied for him, her fingers curled possessively around his penis. She said, “I have made a discovery, old man. Men are like wine.”
“Some turn to vinegar.”
“Not the good ones. Oh, if you could see your face.”
“How do I look?”
“Proud. Beautiful. Grand. How do I look?”
“Beautiful.”
“And a little bit ausgeshtupped?”
He laughed, delighted. “But I never taught you that word!”
“Did I get it right?”
“Close enough.”
She stretched out at his side. He closed his eyes and learned her body with his hands.
“Miles? What did you say to me the first day?”
“When?”
“You said things in different languages so I would know the sound of each.”
“I said nothing of importance.”
“What did you say in German?” She swung into a sitting position, legs curled under her. “I
You wept at once for bird and cat. I weep for you.
One evening after dinner she turned suddenly and caught him looking at her, his face open and unguarded.
“Oh, Miles,” she said.
He tried to turn his eyes from her. They stayed on her face, her perfect face.
She said, “You must know that I love you.”
(“I should have been a pair of ragged claws … .”)
She said, “And you love me. I know you do.”
(“… the mermaids singing …”)
She said, “I don’t have anyone else. Not anymore. When you go out of town—?”
He thought of Rebecca Warriner (“You’re very sweet, Milton… . That was lots of fun.”) He thought of the streetwalker.
“No,” he said. ( “No. I’m far too old for that.”)
Jocelyn, Jocelyn, I am not a lover but a killer. My penis is a rifle spitting bullets into other men’s brains, a steel bar that pulps their heads. A knife. A stick of dynamite. A dozen dozen forms of phallic death.
My seed is acid, Jocelyn. The universal solvent that no vessel can contain.
He watched as she stepped purposefully across the room to him. (“It’s warm. I’ll open a window.”) He remained in his armchair, his eyes on the softness of her smile. She seated herself sideways on his lap. He looked down at blue jeans and bare feet. She put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes, and he returned the look.
The warmth, the beauty, the smell of her.
He thought of cats and birds, of worms and men. He touched her leg and looked at his hand upon faded blue denim.
(“… ragged claws …”)
“I am an old man.”
“You are not old.”
“And you are so very young.”
She kissed him lightly on the lips. His hands remembered the wounded robin, the tapping of its heart, the weak flutter of crippled wings. She kissed him again, and he drew her to him and tasted her mouth.
“Old … .”
“We are the same age, Miles. I have known you for as long as you have known me.”
He held her close. She put her arms around his neck, her head in the hollow of his shoulder. He felt a heartbeat and did not know whether it was hers or his own.
(“Do I dare eat a peach?”)
“I love you,” he said.
“Oh, I know, I know.”
“I love you.”
He held her. A kitten on his lap, purring. He held her, and his hand moved to cup her breast, to touch her arm, the side of her face.
After a long time she stood up and held out her hands to him. He got to his feet. Her face melted into that warm liquid look he had glimpsed only once before.
(“You were my teacher, and now you are my friend.”)
They walked arm in arm to the bedroom.
Oh, Jocelyn! Warmth, fire, love. A gun, a knife, a stick of dynamite, a length of steel pipe. Not peace but a sword. Jocelyn!
Do I dare?
I will not commit suicide, Jocelyn. I will not leave the country.
He lay on his back, every muscle unstrung, every cell at peace. Her hair brushed his face. He opened his eyes to see her looking down at him.
“Hello, old man.”
“Hello.”
Her hand readied for him, her fingers curled possessively around his penis. She said, “I have made a discovery, old man. Men are like wine.”
“Some turn to vinegar.”
“Not the good ones. Oh, if you could see your face.”
“How do I look?”
“Proud. Beautiful. Grand. How do I look?”
“Beautiful.”
“And a little bit ausgeshtupped?”
He laughed, delighted. “But I never taught you that word!”
“Did I get it right?”
“Close enough.”
She stretched out at his side. He closed his eyes and learned her body with his hands.
“Miles? What did you say to me the first day?”
“When?”
“You said things in different languages so I would know the sound of each.”
“I said nothing of importance.”
“What did you say in German?” She swung into a sitting position, legs curled under her. “I
Similar Books
