“Ah—not too bad. Miss—Smith,” Ponce said, hardly stuttering. He couldn’t help noticing. His eyes were glued on her.
“Listen, now you call me Betty," she said, and Ponce hit a spin.
"Betty—” he said, in a dream. Would his feet ever touch the floor again?
She stood there, smiling warmly at him. A troop of cavalry were thundering inside Ponce, across the parched plains. Was that a bugle call? Rusty Joe loved them. Ponce grinned at that. And—Miss Smith. Betty—
“That’s better, isn’t it?” She said, Ponce wondering what she meant. “Isn’t that a nice sweater!” she said, touching it lightly with her hand. The sweater was soft wool, cash-mere, in fact, a special present his last birthday. He had rarely worn it.
“Thanks—” he said, grinning again. His face was burning.
“Sit down, Ponce. Want to?”
He followed her. The small sofa.
“I was just thinking about you, Ponce, isn’t it incredible?” She sat down. “Sometimes I think there really is something to this extra-sensory-perception business, that business, you know what I mean—” Ponce sat down, a foot from her. She smiled, and reached for a cigarette. “That’s one of the reasons I think I may have looked a little startled when you turned up—I was—you know?”
“You were?’’ Ponce only said.
“I certainly was. I was,” she said, lighting up, taking a puff. Ponce’s eyes fixed on that puff. He went in with it.
“What—were you thinking?’’ Ponce said, like that.
“Oh—” she said, withdrawing the cigarette, he loved the bit of red where her lips had been, holding it just to one side, near the left side of her face, her arm just resting against her breast, “I was feeling a little blue, to tell the truth—” She now said, lowering her tone, “You know, after—today—” She paused—“In a way—” Another pause —“I was thinking how you must be feeling, and taking it—as a matter of fact—” She stopped. Ponce lowered his head.
“Is that why you came?’* she asked, tenderly.
“I—” he said, staring at her lap, “I guess so—” he said, at last
She sighed. She puffed. Ponce saw the smoke drifting by him. And about him. It smelled good.
“I guess so—•** Again he said, continuing to stare at that lap. It moved.
“Partly—” he said.
“I’m almost scared to go back to that school,” she said. “You are?” Ponce said, slowly raising his head. She was just taking another drag. Ponce wished he could go in with it
“Ponce, let’s face it, there’s a nut loose there.” She blew out smoke, slowly.
“Yeh—I know it—” He said.
“Aren’t you scared?”
“Well—” He said, groping for it, “I’m not a girl.”
She smiled.
“That’s true,” she paused, “That certainly is true, isn’t it”
Ponce nodded his head.
He said, “But I’m scared, don’t get me wrong—” He paused—“Just—well—not in the same way—”
“Yes.”
“Aw—they’ll find him—” he said.
“But when?”
“Yeh—” Ponce said, “That’s it.”
“Isn’t it!”
“Gee—I’m sorry you’re scared—I really am—”
“I’m going back though,” she said.
“Aw, that’s good. Real good. Wonder how many kids will though? That’s the thing. It’ll be something to see—won’t it?”
She nodded her head.
“I’ll bet a good number of the girls stay home—”
“Yeh, I’ll bet—” Ponce said, “But—wait and see—”
“It’s a terrible thing—”
“It’s like a—dream—”
“Nightmare, you mean—”
“That’s what I mean.”
She pulled on her cigarette again. Her eyes were on him.
"But—” she sighed, smoke going for a ride, “That’s life —” She paused—“I’m afraid.”
“I guess it is.”
They were quiet. Ponce wished suddenly they wouldn’t talk any more about it. What good would it do? And—it spoiled everything. And that was a funny thing, because he thought that was supposed to be one of the things he really wanted to talk about. In fact, wasn't it the main reason he needed her so badly to talk to—tonight? Ponce pondered, thinking hard all around that one. More smoke enveloped him. He loved it.
“How’s your theme coming along?” Now she asked, gently. Ponce was glad she did. She moved her arm. The dressing gown moved too, however slightly. Ponce caught a fleeting glimpse of the tops of her breasts. With a casual movement of her hand, she adjusted the dressing gown. The treasures were lost from view, save for their glorious, soft fullness outlined under the gown. Ponce’s head swam.
“I—was up in the Library today—doing research—” he said.
“That’s good. Find much?”
“Well—you know—”
She nodded understanding^.
“Miss Nectar’s—very helpful—” he said, suddenly.
“Oh, Hetty’s awfully nice,” Betty said.
“She is,” Ponce said, feeling strange, hearing her first name used so familiarly.
“Did you discuss the theme with her?” Betty asked.
“Well—I—mentioned it—” Ponce said.
Betty nodded.
“I just—mentioned it—” Ponce again said, hoping to get away fast from that debacle. He nearly blushed.
“I think your approach is so good, Ponce. I hope you develop it. I can hardly wait to see the final item. Know that?”
"Hope I can do it!” he said.
“Oh you will, you will,” his English Literature teacher reassured him, giving another warm smile.
“What do you think of Crochet Castle?” Ponce suddenly asked, surprising both of them.
Betty’s lovely arm was moving. She was seeking an ashtray. Finding one, she put the cigarette out in it. She looked at Ponce.
“One of the finest of satirical novels,” she said.
Ponce nodded, and said, “The dialogue abounds with eccentric and sardonic wit—”
“It does.” Betty said, “I think it’s definitely Peacock’s masterpiece.”
“Oh, yeh, it is—”
“I think it is.”
“What about Jonathan Wild?" Now Ponce asked.
The dream moved, and Ponce’s eyes followed every nuance of the move. Was she getting another cigarette? No, Ponce observed.
“Well—” she said, “In having a thief and a gallows-bird as a hero, Fielding shows an unrivaled mastery of the art of irony—”
Ponce nodded, for he couldn’t agree more, of course.
“But probably, Ponce—you know—probably the greatest piece of satirical writing of all time—now that we’re on it—with a unique approach and a more than unique appeal for young and old alike, on quite different levels, is Gulliver's Travels—don’t you think?” She said.
“It sure is up there,” Ponce replied.
“I think it’s on top of there," Betty said, “Definitely.”
Ponce remained silent, for he couldn’t commit himself on that. He wasn’t exactly positive. She ought to know though, he thought, if anyone did. Maybe.one day he’d see.
“I like Donne’s Poems of Love a lot,” Ponce ventured, blushing just a little, having said it, however quietly.
Betty Smith’s warm eyes stayed on him, as she said, “I love them. I really do—” She paused—“Ranging from a lyrical ecstasy to—arid despair, those poems, both sacred and profane, arc a supreme reflection of the eternal conflict between the flesh and the spirit, Ponce, you sweet boy—”
“They are—” Ponce could only say.
She smiled, “But don’t let all this take you away from Milton—will you?”
“Oh, it won’t—it won’t—” he said.
Sitting back relaxed and cuddled up in her dressing gown, she looked terrific. Warm, wonderful, and terrific. Ponce waited for more.
“Literature’s so wonderful, isn’t it, Ponce?” she said, soft and low, turning her head upward a moment, toward the ceiling, as the lad gazed at her lovely white throat. “I don’t know what life would be like without it—” She faced him again, those warm eyes on him, “I don’t. 1 can’t imagine it. Ponce, can you?” She asked.