The warmth of the sun made her sleepy. It was a good feeling. She sighed, twisting a little in the bed to get all of herself under the warm rays. After a bit she sat up and slipped off the top of her pajamas. She tossed it onto the chair and lay back again, her mouth open, her eyes shut.
The thick beams of the sun pulsed against her shoulders and breasts. She could feel the heat moving across her body like a living thing. It had a strange touch, the sunlight on her naked body. It filled her with excitement. Inside her, something seemed to stir, responding to the sun.
She wondered how it felt to have a life inside her, down in her belly. How would an unborn child feel, crawling and expanding, moving, twisting, reaching out? A living child, breathing, moving toward the light. Like a plant. Plants did that. What was it called? Photo-tropism. Something like that. She opened her eyes and looked up at the sun, but the light blinded her. She turned her head away.
Perhaps people were like plants. Perhaps they were phototropic. That might explain the sun goddesses. Perhaps there was something of the sun goddess in her. She turned back, leaning toward the light, twisting up to meet it. Outside the level land of the Company grounds stretched out in all directions. She could see no motion, no movement of any kind. She gazed at the buildings, the towers, the silent heaps of rusting metal and slag. The world was deserted. All mankind had fled. She was alone.
Barbara stood up on the bed, swaying from side to side as the springs gave under her feet. Reaching down to her waist she unfastened the pajama bottoms and let them slide down to her ankles. Standing naked in the warmth she raised her arms above her. Was that what they did? Was that it? She tried to remember what she knew about the Aztecs. Or was it the Incas? Some South American tribe. And they tore out the hearts of people and cast them up to the sun.
She smiled. That was too much. She could not do that; she could not give her heart up to the sun, even if she wanted to. It was impossible. The sun would have to be satisfied with something else. She put her hands under her breasts and lifted them up, up toward the sun. She would present her breasts to the sun instead. What would happen? Would the sun accept them? Would the sun make her breasts grow and expand? They might swell and expand, and finally burst like ripe seed pods. She looked down at them. They had not changed. They were still full and round, the breasts of a mature woman.
She laughed. They were large enough as it was. She stepped down from the bed onto the floor.
After she had dressed she walked downstairs and outside onto the front porch. She stood for a moment and then started down the steps, onto the path. Soon she was walking toward the commissary.
After a few minutes she saw a figure coming toward her, walking from the opposite direction. It was Carl. She could see his blond hair shining in the sunlight.
“Hello, Miss Mahler!” Carl called.
She waited for him, stopping. “Hello.” He came up to her, grinning from ear to ear. How old was he? Not more than twenty or twenty-one. She thought: he must be coming to get me. In another minute he would have gone along the path to the dormitory and seen me—standing at the window naked.
She blushed, her face turning scarlet. He was just a baby. What would he have thought?
It was a good thing she had not stayed there any longer.
“It’s a nice day,” Carl said.
“Yes. Very nice.”
What would he have thought if he had seen her, standing there by the window? Would he have been ashamed? Of course. He would have run quickly away, his eyes shut tight. He would have run on and on. She was delighted, thinking of this, of the boy running away, his face red and burning. She smiled.
“What is it?” Carl said, worried.
Barbara laughed outright. Carl was frowning at her, puzzled and a little alarmed. What a child he was! There was so little of that left in the world, a boy who ran and hid himself. Perhaps he would have to be taken by the hand, sometime.
“Are you all right?” Carl said.
“Oh, yes.” Had she been that shy at twenty-one? No. At twenty-one she had already been at Castle, and then at New York. With Verne.
Looking at the blond boy standing uncertainly in front of her, Barbara began to think back. The memory of herself at twenty moved up and around her, slowly at first, then faster and faster. It was a tide carrying her away from the present, rushing her back into the past.
Back to Castle. And Verne Tildon.
When Penny had suggested she ride back with Verne Tildon she was outraged. On the way back to the cabin she told her so.
“But after all,” Penny said. “I don’t see what you’re so excited about. What could happen to you? I suppose you’re afraid you’ll get raped, or something.”
Barbara raised her voice. “I don’t want to hear about it. I’ll get home all right without help from men I don’t even know.”
“You’re just afraid you’ll get raped. I wouldn’t be surprised if you wanted to get raped. They say old maids are like that.”
Barbara was furious. “Old maid! What do you mean! Just because you’re getting married—”
“I’m just teasing you, honey.” Penny put her arms around the girl. “My God, kid, you’re only twenty. You’re not even grown up, yet. You know what they’d call you? As far as they’re concerned you’re ‘San Quentin Quail.’ You’re under the legal age. You’re out of bounds. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“I wasn’t worrying about that. I just don’t like the idea of riding all the way back with strangers. It’s so unfriendly. Why can’t we all go back together?”
“You know, honey. We don’t have enough money. And if we don’t have money we can’t go on the bus. We have enough for two bus fares but not three. Of course, you and Felix could go back on the bus and I could go with Tildon, or you and I could go back on the bus and Felix could go back with Tildon. Maybe that would be safest. Tildon doesn’t look like the kind who would molest Felix. Anyhow, Felix would hit him over the head.”
“I’d hate to see you and Felix separated. I know how much you want to go back together.”
“Well, think it over for a while.” Penny considered. “There’s one thing you might do.”
“What’s that?”
“Why don’t you get to know this Tildon fellow a little better? Maybe you might like him. He should be pretty interesting. He has some kind of a jazz program back in New York.”
“He told me.”
“Well, you’re a jazz fan. Go over and visit him. It won’t hurt you.”
“I don’t think I want to.”
“You never want to do anything.”
“Well, god damn it, do I always have to do what you want? Can’t I not do things? Can’t I just be?”
“Sure, honey.” Penny took her arm. “Come on inside the cabin. It’s time to turn in. And don’t worry. Everything will turn out all right.”
Barbara sat alone in the cabin. It was evening. Penny had gone; she and Felix had walked over to visit with some people.
Sitting alone in the cabin, with Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers on her lap, she imagined that she was happy. Was she really? She put the book down on the bed and stood by the window, listening to the sound of the ocean. It was a familiar sound; she had lived near it all her life. It was like the wind or the rain; an eternal presence, a natural being that was always there.
But tonight the sound of the water made her feel restless. Why was it always there? Why was it eternal? Whatever happened to people, whatever happened to her—it made no difference to the ocean. Suppose she were some sort of little creature caught in the surf, pounded back and forth, beaten to death against the rocks.... Back and forth, up and down, until every bit of shell and bone had been broken and hammered to a pulp. Did that happen to the little sea things?