He heard all those questions, and more, inside him, battering at him, and they worried him. There was only one person he could talk all these things over with of course, and that was Tiger. He felt mad at himself for not having had the guts to try his door. What had stopped him? Was he really afraid of that jughead Trooper Andy? Was he out front now, he wondered, sitting in his car, watching the place? Later, he’d take a look. He hadn’t mentioned it. He was nothing but a big goon, a dope. Ponce, in his usual astute way, knew it. What about that Captain? That plainclothes State Detective with all the sharp questions? He was no dope. What was he up to? Ponce sure wished he had stopped in to see Tiger, or tried to. Maybe he could phone him. He would talk to him. First of all, find out about Practice. That was important, he had to know! And the game. Everything. He would talk over just about everything with him. That rump though. Ponce saw that beautiful behind before him, suddenly. He felt his hand moving slowly, beautifully, over it. He saw Miss Smith. Miss Nectar. He saw his mother. He saw all these figures before him, moving toward one another and becoming part of each other. He could see them, smell them. His hand moved slowly. Now there was this third-grade teacher of God knows how many years ago. Mrs. Hollander, and she too joined them. Then that queen of the Majorettes, the one and only Madge Evanmore. That honey. That gorgeous gal with a set on her like—who, anyway? Nobody had a set like that. Nobody. Not even Miss Smith, that dream of dreams, or Jill, poor Jill, any of them. Any of them. Ponce was murmuring, any old one of them, all of them. Ponce was growing warmer, the figures fusing, his eyes were closing. Now he was murmuring, and Princess Margaret, that gorgeous little honey, that honey, Oh Honey. Ponce kept on murmuring. Now the figures were all before him, and he was beginning to feel overwhelmed by them, for the emerging figure, a blend of all of them, was a creature fabulous beyond any of them. Them, he murmured, them, them, he was murmuring, his eyes closed now, his heart beginning to hammer now, thump thumping now, his body warmer and warmer, his organ, hardening, growing. Her rump, that gorgeous hump, what a hump, that divine hump, the hand gliding over it, his hand, which could have been his organ, gliding, smoothly, over it. He was dizzy with it. He saw it. Slipping inside those nifty silkies, those silkies, oh Jesus, sliding gently, easily, between rump and silkies . . . Ponce was spinning, he was floating off into a world of mysterious colors, sounds, voices, his own world, only, he was floating, driven by the pounding power in him, all of him, and in the organ, that sliding, gliding thrusting organ, that red-hot organ, that Jill would have loved she would have loved it, that any of them all of them any and all of them—WHAT AN ORGAN—He heard bells ringing, a series of bells ringing, ringing, a persistent, drilling, annoying ringing. Smash the ringing. Ringing. He opened his eyes. He was blinded by the light. What was that light? He was on the floor. What was that ringing? He saw the organ. In his hands, red hot, throbbing. His organ. The telephone. He was sure of it. Formidable organ. He sat up, listening to the ringing. It was the telephone. Should he answer it? Was there any point in getting up, reaching out for it, answering it? Who would it be? Who could it? One of Mom’s friends? His organ. He stared at the hungry, famished organ. OH GOD THEY’D LOVE THAT ORGAN! Tiger? Could it be? He got up, slowly. He put it back where it belonged, as best he could, gently, lovingly.
He picked up the telephone.
“Hello?” He heard his voice, somewhere.
“Oh—say—Good morning—pardon me for bothering you—is this the residence of Ponce de Leon, a Junior at Sawyersville High School?”
Ponce wondered. The voice at the other end had a peculiar, irritating nasal quality about it and was a funny pitch too, somewhere between a man’s and a lady’s voice, though neither, really. Ponce put his bet on the former. His heart was pounding again, but in a different way.