“No,” he said.
She laughed softly, and Ponce loved it. “You know what I’d like?” She said, “I’ll tell you my dream—I’d like to have one copy of all the world’s masterpieces—I mean, really nice copies—all about me, up and down the walls—well, most of the walls!” She said—“Oh, I’d like that, Ponce—” She paused—“Surrounded by them.”
The boy nodded, vowing he would do all he could to help her fulfill that dream.
“How are you, Ponce?” She asked, tenderly, reaching out toward the lad, taking his hand, “How’s your family?” She said.
“Oh—they’re all right—” Ponce said, the whole world hovering about that beautiful warm hand, on his.
“Your brother’s awfully cute, isn’t he?” She smiled, “Where did he get that red hair?”
“I—don’t know—Betty—”
“You have nice hair.”
Her other hand moved to the side of his head, and he felt it pass through his hair.
“Don’t you?” She asked, her hands still there. She was drawing him closer to her. Ponce trembled.
“What’s the matter?” She murmured low. uHmmmm?n
*'Wow—” He managed, though how he didn’t know.
“You’re the sweetest boy—” Her hand now caressed his face, she was looking right into his face, “Aren’t you, now?” And leaning forward just a bit more, she gave him a gentle and tender kiss on the lips.
“Gosh—” he said, "Holy Cow—” he also said, trembling more, and wondering when he would w ake up.
“Ponce, I’ve got an idea—” she said, continuing to caress his face.
“You have?” he said, staggered at what it might be.
“Yes, I have,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “Would you dance with me?” she said.
Ponce answered, shakily, “Sure—Miss Smith—”
“Betty—” She smiled, gently reminding him.
“Betty—” He said.
“You’re shaking an awful lot, Ponce—you’ll have to calm down—” She murmured to him, “Come on, let’s calm you down—” She added, sweet and low.
Ponce was suddenly aware only of being nestled in the most divine of arms, on that sofa. She was stroking him and murmuring little sweet things to him. Ponce tried hard to calm down. Her fragrance, a rose, made him float. He lay against her breast.
“There—” she murmured, “There—” she kept murmuring, "You sweet boy—”
“I—dream about you—a lot—” He said, at last.
“You do?”
“To—tell you the truth—Betty—” He suddenly said, “I —Tm in love with you—” He heard himself say.
“You’re such a sweet boy.” She said, hugging him, her face against him, “That’s an awfully sweet thing to say—” She spoke just next to his ear, her voice soft and low— “Want to dance, Ponce?”
“I’ll—try—” he said, hoping he could stand up, mortified by what she would see—if he did make it up.
“Come on—” she said, gently helping him.. . .
63
Looby Loo’s luscious kisses still lingered on Tiger’s lips when he left the house to have a look around that night. It wouldn’t take him long to get to where Jeannie should be waiting for him. that little doll, the honey bun. The little sweetheart, Tiger mused, thinking of her. What a verve. And ingenuity. How many Sawyersville maids could have persuaded their parents to let them out of their sight—that night? Very few, Tiger knew. Few, few. He mused. If any.
Cruising along through Sawyersvilie’s streets, passing the Town Hall, the Fire Station, the Roll of Honor, the pool room, Chief Poldaski’s favorite station, catching a glimpse of his car parked outside there, putting in a little overtime tonight, no doubt, the poor guy certainly with a job and a half on his hands, those crazy reporters and other media men milling about, making his life hell, plus the general curiosity-seekers, and so on, Tiger found himself thinking somehow of an ad he had seen in some British weekly some time ago. The New Statesman? It could have been. He had been looking through this weekly doing some off-hour looking around in the Library, as he sometimes would, Hetty had shown it to him, he recalled, for she had some friends working over there for a couple of years and they sometimes sent her such journals, weeklies, and such. This advertisement read, and it had stuck in his head, photographically, almost—“First Director for NACRO—this new national organisation [and that’s how it was spelled, all right] concerned with community involvement in the prevention of crime and the after care of offenders, seeks to appoint its first Director. Salary up to £4,000 per annum, pensionable [That was about $12,000, not bad, over there.] The post will be London-based but will involve travelling. It is desirable that the candidate should have academic qualifications and experience in social administration. Application should be made to the National Association for the Care and Resettlement of Offenders—” He had forgotten the address. Like the snatch of nursery rhyme that from time to time ran through his head, he didn’t quite know just why this should have stuck in him, or why he should be thinking of it, as a matter of fact, at this time, or any time, in fact. He chuckled, turning a comer and drifting out of Sawyersville’s seat-of-govern-ment area—was he planning on applying for the job? He wondered, still chuckling away there. Certainly, it had its appeal, no doubt—though he couldn’t even begin to see those people considering an American—No, he mused, he really wouldn’t dream of pulling out of Sawyersville, for any place, no matter the job, let alone England, that corny old place, that place, filled with snobs, fobs, fags, and Royalty—and Harold Wilson, don’t forget. Old Corn-pone’s best buddy, not to mention girls who wore skirts up to their ears— He chuckled again, thinking of that, and
Pretty Maids All in a Row 337 how a few of the Sawyersville kids had tried imitating that —it had fallen flat. Then he thought, still chuckling a little bit, was it connected up somehow with that exchange teacher from England who was due to arrive at Sawyersville next term? For a year. She was a young Englishwoman, and from her photograph quite a fair maid. Tiger, as Assistant Principal, knew all about her of course, having in fact dictated the letters finalizing the matter, though Harry Proffer had signed them, the tube. It could be, Tiger mused, looking forward to seeing her. He had never encountered an Englishwoman. He might learn a lot more than he already knew or anyhow thought he knew about the place, maybe even find out just what the trouble with the place was, nearly flat on its face as it always was, or so they claimed. Suddenly, he felt sorry for the place. Maybe it was just too old. Maybe nations, like people, reached a certain age and then irreversibly started sliding downhill. It could be. It’s going to happen to me, Tiger mused, sadly, already I’m on the wrong side of the hill, he reflected, somberly. And when would it happen to the USA? He wondered. Or would this place never see it, having blown itself and everything around itself to kingdom come before that time rolled around? He wondered, pondering sadly on the matter. He cruised past the swimming pool, the Community Recreation Area. That area. What would be left of Vietnam, he wondered? What was Old Cornpone after? Did he know? Anyhow? Tiger chuckled, however sadly, thinking of that current occupant of the White House. That crafty boor. Perfect. He mused, was it true a country gets the leaders it deserves? Generally speaking, that statement could be said to be true. He knew it. Did that make him unpatriotic? He wasn’t. He knew. Didn’t I prove it? He mused. Who wanted to be a leader, anyway? Anywhere. What types were attracted to it? What kind of personality and character structure was essential? Tiger grew sadder, pondering all this. ... He thought of the Englishwoman. She could turn out to be interesting, and how, and no doubt of it. Would she come equipped with miniskirt? Tiger grinned. What would the School Board say? The P.-T.A.? He loved the P.-T.A. They loved him. When exactly was she scheduled to arrive, anyway? He made a mental note to check the date. Things should be part of History by then, he mused, hopefully. And what about Nur-sey Mortlake? He thought, taking a comer, getting nearer to his destination. Was that as walled off a situation as it looked? Could it be? Well—wait and see. It could be. It wouldn’t be the first—or the last, definitely. There was hope. She had a powerful pull. That was always grounds for hope. Well he knew. Always. He mused about her. She was worth it. Was she fighting, and hiding it? That could be, also. Well he knew. And it wouldn’t be the first either, that’s how those married sweethearts were, always. He tended to steer clear of them. But—this one—he sighed, thinking of her. Caution, patience—wait for the moment— judge it. That was all-important. The most important. For failure in judging it—he shuddered, almost. What a trial it was. A supreme one. It could unhinge one. Was it worth it? What a pull though. He couldn’t stop feeling it. What would Rochelle say? Or Betty? Those two had brains in the highest reaches. Should he talk it over with them? He wished he could. It would be something, talking it over with Rochelle. He could see it. That incomparable sweetheart, that darling, that possible life-partner—he felt he could talk over anything with her—practically. There was a limit. He was aware even there of a limit. Was there though? Should he give it a whirl—subtly, tactfully, obliquely? Would she see it? That was it, in a flash she would probably see it. No, he mused, a frontal approach, with her, or nothing. Tiger’s thoughts drifted on, he lost that one. He was thinking now of all the poverty in the world, still. The unfairness. The ass-kissing. He knew the enormous feat of strength, of character strength it took to go through life without ass-kissing, say twenty or thirty times a day at least, for a start. Tiger knew it. That was another facet of the beauty of his Sawyersville setup—there was nobody’s ass he kissed. Not that he would, he knew, no matter where he would be. Had he ever? Even in the Army —in Korea—He was proud of that. Not many could say that. Tiger mused, on other things. He grinned. It would take a hell of a lot more than the Offenders’ Directorship to pull him away from here. ... He thought of Janie’s last birthday party, that cutie, and all those little games they played, the same as a matter of fact he used to play at parties when he was a kid. Post Office, he grinned, that was some little sexy game. He used to love it. They all loved it. He knew Janie did. Parlies. As a kid. That all seemed like a