Ponce stared down at the floor. He was in the Library, and Mona had just left. She had helped him a lot right off the bat. If it kept up like that, before long, he would actually know what was going on. But now she was gone, and he just stared at the floor. He was actually between the stacks, having wandered there shortly after she had left. He had heard about Mummer being released. Well, he supposed Surcher and his crew knew best. Would the guy still be around though? He wondered about that. He would talk to Tiger about that, he would wait and see. Certainly, quite a few people by now knew the score. And how long could a guy hang around with that on his door? Ponce stared at the floor. It was no good pretending he could hold up his head. The only good thing was that Jim had been released, though he wasn’t around yet. Maybe tomorrow he would be. Tomorrow. Would anyone be? His head carried a ton of dead concrete weight. He knew the score. Would they close down the school? He thought of old Bill Honeywell, and felt sorry for him. He certainly knew how he must be feeling, and above all, what he felt upon opening that broom-closet door. What a deal! For real. What about the team? He hadn’t been able to get an answer yet from Tiger about practice tonight. And the game? Poor Yvonne. . . . Twice he had been by the Guidance/Counseling office and twice the sign had been up, TESTING. He had almost broken all the rules—and barged in. He was dying to see Tiger and talk about things. He felt bad. True, he had taken the news initially like a man. But that was partly because he thought they had got their man. Now— the full impact of things was making its terrible way through him, utterly muting him. And what was wrong with that? How should he act? Couldn’t he feel bad? That was a man. Ponce, hanging his head, pondered all that.
“Hello, Ponce,” a warm and familiar voice said to him, between the stacks. He looked up and saw Miss Nectar. Immediately, he felt a little better. He even managed to smile at her, though not quite the usual one specially reserved for her.
“Hello, Miss Nectar,” he said to her.
“Feeling blue?” She had on a dress that was the color of
Autumn, Ponce suddenly realized, and it looked absolutely perfect on her. Beautiful. . . . The leaves of autumn— still—on the trees—beautiful there. . . . The fragmented sentence ran through his head on its own, having sprung up, suddenly, all on its own. It held him, almost haunted him. Would it depart from him? He listened to it. He saw her. He had always admired her, not as much of course as Miss Betty Smith, that dream of dreams. But—certainly—
“I’m sure blue,” he told her, sighing almost.
“I know how you feel.” Now she said.
“What’s going on around here?” Ponce asked.
“I wish I knew—” she murmured, “I wish someone knew," she also said, tenderly, to the lad.
“Will they close the school?” Ponce asked.
“I don’t know, It’s awfully bad—”
“I hope they don’t though,” Ponce said, feeling the warmth between them, longing for more. He wondered if she felt it too. He looked at her. He was sure she did. What a wonderful, warm woman she was. Like his mother, almost. That’s what it was. He gazed at her breasts..
“What are you looking for?” She asked, in a low voice.
“I don't know,” Ponce said, truthfully.
“You poor boy,” Tenderly, Miss Nectar said.
“What’s this place coming to?” Ponce, in a voice full of anguish, asked, between those stacks.
“How can I help you?” Miss Nectar asked, obviously affected, reaching out and touching him on the side of his face with her hand. He felt her hand. The warm, marvelous soft hand. Her mother hand. He caught her fragrance, which was wonderful. He stared at her face. There was warmth, a million years of it, tenderness, and human love in her face. Her brown eyes. Her hair. She had the nicest brown hair. Her lips were lovely. Full, soft, so receptive. He knew. His eyes were hot. Would he cry? There was just the barest hint of a tender smile on her lips, just for him, he knew, understanding him.
*T don’t know,” Ponce said, “I just don’t know,” he also said, only hoping she would keep that hand there.
She didn’t though. It slipped away slowly, he watched it slide to her side. He remained there, just staring at it. Then, at her. Next to Miss Smith, and his mother, she was the warmest woman on earth. He wished she would take
Pretty Maids All in a Row 301 him in her arms. He wanted to nestle against her, on her breast. His heart began to pound.
“There’s a big meeting going on soon,” she said, softly, “I heard.”
“Is there?” He said, still hoping she would.
“Yes. So I’ve heard.” she said, “School Board members, County Superintendent—Our Principal—” she said, “The State Police—”
“Surcher?”
“That’s it.”
She sighed. He saw her eyes. His heart pounded so hard.
“And I guess they’ll decide—”
“About closing down?”
“So Ive heard.”
Now Ponce really wanted to cry. Between that thought and his powerful desire, it was all he could do from bursting out crying. The tears were there, ready to pour out. What restrained them? He wondered, and marveled, staring again at her breasts.
“M-Miss Nectar—” he said.
“Yes?” What tenderness.
“Том sure are nice”
A moment, silence.
She smiled. When had he seen a warmer smile?
“Ponce—” she said, very softly, and tenderly, “That’s awfully nice.”
Ponce felt like shaking. Now, inside, alongside his rampaging heart, he was already shaking. Once it started, he knew, he was lost. There was no stopping it. He was getting in quite a state. He was really glad they were between stacks. He hoped no one else would dive in. The Library wasn’t very busy just now—but—you never could tell. It would be embarrassing as hell. He’d really be a laughingstock—they'd have him in a hammerlock—How he wanted her to take him in her arms!
“Miss—Nectar—” He said.
“Yes?”
He couldn’t get it out. He knew' he never would. He vibrated wildly. Disaster was just around the corner now. She would know all. Anyone might pop in. The warm and loving creature stood there, looking at him. Would she burst out laughing at him? Ponce dreaded that.
“Ponce—” she said, her voice caressing him, “What’s on your mind?”
He barely heard it.
“What are you looking at?”
“Your—face—”
She smiled.
“Just—your face—” He added.
How she smiled.
“Gosh you're nice—” Ponce got out.
“What were you looking for?” she asked.
“Jonathan Wild—”
“That’s a wonderful book—”
“Fielding shows an unrivaled mastery of the art of irony,” Somehow he got out.
“I agree there—”
“Have you read it?”
“I want to read it again.”
“I’ll get you a copy—”
‘That’s what 1 was looking for—”
She smiled.
“Do you like football?”
She smiled, but didn't answer.
He said, “I like it a lot”
“I know you do.”
The question was odd. He realized now. No sooner had it come bubbling out than Ponce realized how odd. He didn’t know what he was saying anymore, Ponce realized, suddenly. They remained standing there, so close. What would happen next? She was a warm flower. Would the stacks come crashing down? Ponce wouldn’t have been surprised—”
“It’s a very nice town—” He heard her reply.
She gave a little shrug. He loved that shrug. The shoulder moved, it was a shrug. Her dress moved too, upward slightly, over her breasts, gliding.