“You want me to?”
“Go ahead.” He spoke before he even looked, and only when she lowered her curved blond lock under cloche-covered head did he turn his head away from the screen to peer athwart. Was everything all right? She was just bending down under cover of his coat. Oh, was that it? That was what it was like? She pressed hard against the hand on her pussy. That was his part, to cooperate, as she bent almost double, latent, unguessed, limber little fatso.
“Oh,” he breathed silently — could see her eyes were closed tightly shut, always open unseeing when she straddled him before, but shut now: swoggled, the word arose spontaneously—“O-o-h,” his turn this time: “O-o-h, Stella.” Hornswoggled — inner ecstacy hers, hermetic, supreme, too deep for utterance—
Light from the opened balcony door darted into the gloom of the balcony. She neither saw it nor heard the quiet sound of hinge. Her eyes popped open as he lifted her face away, covered receding stalk under coat — but before? Or not before? The three spindly, springy black youths reached the top of the balcony stairs. Oh, Jesus, they were inspecting Ira and Stella with glistening white eyeballs. And then furtively, knowingly, one another. Oh, God. Ira sat upright.
Stella too now realized what had happened. She recovered resignation first: “Should we go?”
Between fear and fury, Ira sat immobilized. “Sonofabitch luck.” Yeah. They had bounced down to the lowest tier of seats, just before the brass railing, and the tallest looked up. Then dark faces leaned together. They talked as Ira squirmed about. Where the hell was that usher? If he could hear them jabber, everybody else could. He heard a soft tread behind him, saw a flashlight beam on and off. About time.
“Get your coat. Wait a minute, my briefcase.” He saw Stella get ready, just as the uniformed usher, flashlight like a baton, began descending the aisle.
“Listen,” Ira whispered, “do what I say.”
“What? What’re you gonna do?”
“Never mind. You ready? When I tell you, follow me.” Ira could see she was dismayed. He shook his hands at her more in menace than reassurance. Fuck her. Fuck them. “Get ready to get up.” His mind seemed in uproar. He didn’t give a damn. Guardedly, he turned his head to peer over his shoulder: was everything still the same? The white, rubber-covered chain still stretched across the steps to the second balcony? Jesus, it was. And so was the white NO ENTRANCE sign still hanging from the chain — he had ducked under it a hundred times on his way to and from the projectionist’s booth on top of the stark third balcony, where the chairs had no cushions. Jesus, everything looked the same. But it would take nerve, boy, it. . would. . take. . nerve. But he wasn’t going to lose it — goddamn her, them. Red Grange carried the ball, shaking tacklers, running like a phantom through the broken field. Maybe give it up. Open his fly again, hold her twat, and jack off — and go. Play it safe. Mamie was waiting. He was about to reopen the top button of his fly. Nah. Jimmy Walker was doing the honor with visiting dignitary; not Mussolini, was it?
Unaware of the usher’s flashlight descending, the three black youths below seemed to have shaken off theater protocol, buoyant in their mirth, unfazed by fellow patrons — and again they looked up, but this time saw the beam approaching. “It’s nearly now,” Ira warned.
“Where do you wanna go?” She turned plaintive, puerile face.
“Follow me. Another sec.”
“What?”
“Shut up.” Between this and his next word, he caught a flash of rosy Irish face, so reminiscent of that Irish serving girl who with her husky amorous escort descending the sloping path through woods had saved him from his rusty predator long ago. They had saved him, saved him in Fort Tryon Park. Jesus, he spurned the prompting. Save her? Little cocksucker. What the hell, did she think he wasn’t going to get his piece of ass?
“Now! C’mon, c’mon!” And even as he had once docilely complied, she did too, in his power: out into the aisle, and then quickly, while he lifted the heavy muffled links of chain, she ducked, to be prodded under, faltering or not, and up the first dusty carpeted steps. Crouching, he followed.
As down below, the usher’s subdued and subduing voice rose after them: “Hey, you, where d’yuh think you are?”
“Yeah, man,” was uttered with risible abandon. “We just come in, yeah. Sittin’ down.”
“Well, take it easy. There’s others in here. .” But he got away from them that time. Just beat the gleam of the eyeball?
“Go ahead.” He shepherded her up the dust-laden carpeted stairs. And climbed quickly after her — to his backward glance, the movie on the screen of the first balcony disappearing below the tallest black youth, before the second balcony hove into view, utterly deserted, dark and private. They had made it. He pressed her plump, round rump under palm exultantly. “Oh, boy!”
“Ira, here?”
“No, wait a minute.” First harbingers of rekindled furor fired every sense, every second, transformed into accessories rank on rank of dim, empty, raised seats sloping to the antic screen below where spare, sparsely smiling Lindbergh received a medal to silent applause, translated into increased volume of piano accompaniment — private roost above the world, cozy terrain of gloom under shaft of projected cinema, staked out by a couple of red exit lights. Just one little step more, and it couldn’t be beat for utterly seamless, pulsating solitude — almost like the kitchen green walls—
“In here.” He opened the door to the merest glimmer of a flush toilet stool.
“O-oh, it’s so dark, Ira.”
“Waddaye want? Light? Git in.” He shut the door after her. Tomb darkness encased them: mummy-yummies. He felt for the light switch. “Okay, honey bun.” Through dusty bulb, the snapped-on weak, spongy light bound them together in exquisite depravity. “Boy, everything!”
“It’s for ladies.” Her chalky blue eyes behind eyeglasses, so tractable, regarded self in the smudged square mirror above the lavatory, and him beside her, she regarded him. Her amorphous, juvenile countenance below his stubble-shadowed features met his relentless brown eyes behind glasses, she timidly basking in his leer. She didn’t need to be told; she responded to the mere movement of his head, as if his ferocity, compressed by close quarters, was permeating her with his desire, his will, chalky-eyed. And as her bosom began to heave, she set down her Elements of Bookkeeping in the dusty enamel bowl, her green coat over it, and bowed, tugging up skirt, down panties—
“Ah — h!” Maniac bliss at the sight, dropped briefcase on covered toilet bowl, coat in rumpled heap on top. And oh, boy, what bulbs of ass. He unbuttoned fly, “Oh, boy, this is better. Way better.” Sight of her fed the greed of eyes, sight of her whetted, as did feel of her, the greed of hands insatiable of contour. And oh, boy, that face of his, though bespectacled silly, transcendentally gloated in the dusty mirror: carnal guerdon, wow. Little pig, little sow, let me in. The dumb little punk in pleated blue up, dappled ass-rise above cloud of lacy drawers, as she clutched the caked lavatory rim with pudgy hands, thrall to abuse, ecstatic for defilement, obeisant before ravaging, his chattel, chattel to destroy. No wonder guys beat up on ’em, gave ’em the works, left ’em for dead — Jesus, the terrible ultimate mutilate spawned by a whole week’s fear and humiliation bloating consummation, damn her, oh, to plug and throttle in blot of bestial woe-betide — boy, it was a shame to ram it into her, and get it over in a few seconds— And then was heard. . what the hell? — footsteps in no uncertain sound and number. And oh, Jesus, a scared and shrinking pause, two faces staring open-mouthed with alarm at a cobweb trapdoor, while automatic nerveless hands restored garments, picked up briefcase, bookkeeping manual.