“Uh Uh—” She said, in a husky voice, giving a little gasp when their mouths parted finally from that long kiss. She went limp, she was sighing now, and trembling more, as he fondled those tips.
“Uh Uh—” She repeated, obviously being carried away. She sought his lips once again.
Pretty Maids A11 in a Row 379 of h, Ponce had to note, in spite of himself. He even got caught up in it. He felt it. Look at them there, with Jim! A burst of raucous laughter hit him. It must have been a good one. Turning away, by himself again, he Telt as he knew he should feel—pretty low.
What helped him from sinking down to the lowest depths he’d ever known was the spectacular memory of last night. What helped even more was actually seeing his dream, Eng Lit class, of course, which he had second period that morning. He sat there in that class, utterly unable to follow a thing. A dreamy-warm mist enveloped him. And it smelled good. He looked up once or twice and there, in front of the class, wearing the prettiest pale green dress, was his dream. He flushed. He burned. He yearned. He had to look away from her. He would have exploded right there, like a low-yield nuclear device at least, if he had kept his eyes up there. As it was, trying to stare at his books was hard enough. His body shook. His heart pounded like mad. He was in love, hopelessly. And would always be. With that dream. He was aware of her fragrance—even in the classroom filled with plenty of sweet-smelling maids. There was only one fragrance like that. It was enveloping him. He thought—of everything. She had done it for him. Ponce wanted to marry her, right away. And here he fell low once again. For it would be a long time, he knew, before he was in any position to marry her. At least—at the very least—until he finished high school. She wasn’t all that much older than him— there were guys right here in Sawyersville, he knew, married to ladies that much older—and more. Wasn’t Kish-ner’s wife ten years older than him? Or was it fifteen? It might have been. That’s what he’d heard. His mother had even said it, once. If she didn’t know—who did? She was good friends with Ruth. ... Two years at least, Ponce pondered, despondently. And what—he suddenly thought— what if he had given her a baby last night? Ponce nearly panicked. It hadn’t come into his mind at all before this, and certainly—it should have. He knew. It was something that followed logically—as a result of. Why hadn’t he thought of it? The amount spilled in her! Ponce was sweating. She didn’t seem worried about it. He took a peek at her. In fact, she didn’t seem worried about anything. The few glances he had cast upon her told him clearly she was
“I just can’t take any more,” she cried, suddenly, “I’m a bundle of nerves,” she said, sobbing at him, "That’s all.”
“I know—I know how you feel—” He said, putting an arm about her, the first time in all these years he had laid a hand on her, “How do you think I feel? I feel the same way—Believe me—” He said to her.
“I don’t know what to do!” She sobbed, against him.
“Now, Jane—There now—I know how it is—Jane—” He wondered what he could say, what should he say, or do, he really felt for her, “Maybe—maybe you could do with a rest—” He said, groping desperately, “Why not take a few weeks’ vacation, huh? Jane?” The idea gripped him, he wouldn’t mind a month off himself, right now, “By the time you got back—they’d have cleared up—the mess—” He paused, praying hard, ‘They’re bound to!” He said.
“I don’t know—I just don’t know—” she moaned.
Proffer could have groaned. If she left, on top of everything, it would be the final blow. He cursed the murderer. A bright idea hit him, out of the blue.
“Listen, Jane—” It really had him, “Why not do me a favor—and yourself a favor—heck, everybody a favor— and have a talk with Tiger—Mr. McDrew—” He said, “You know how great he is at talking to people—helping them—” He paused, “You know that” He was quite excited by it— “Look at all the kids he’s helped! My God, you know—”
Her sobs diminished somewhat. Proffer dared to hope. He continued standing there, his arm about her. Gradually, hoping more, he was aware of her sobs running low.
“Maybe—” she said, as Proffer hoped and hoped, “Maybe—I will—” She said, remaining there under his protective arm, quiet—and snug—
“I wish you would,” he said now, in his gentlest tone, “I’ll bet it would be an awful lot of good—” He paused, very slowly withdrawing his arm, “A lot of good—Jane—” He said to her.
She stood there, near him, looking miserable, once again. She was about to sob, a lonely figure in need, indeed.
Then—she nodded her head, slowly, as Proffer nearly gave a deep sigh. He stood there, watching her, not daring to move. He was offering up a dozen prayers, in all the languages he knew—
“Yes,” she said, “Yes, you’re right,” she said, her face turned to his, “I think I will—”
Proffer could have kissed her, then and there.
The new developments hurt Ponce very much, of course. He was particularly staggered by the demise of the Chief. He had known him since he was a little boy, he was in his mind a monument, not a human being, as permanent a feature of the Sawyersville scene as the Roll of Honor —or the Town Hall. He had just never associated the Chief with the concept of mortality at all. Ponce was shook up, deep down. And Jeannie Bonni. That was it. And all that crazy mob around the school. He thanked God for those State Troopers, they were great. He had always admired them, in any case. Without them, he would still be outside the school. They sure knew how to handle those jerks. Without a doubt. What a crowd. And those goddam reporters and stuff. Ponce hated to curse. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had. It was something that would hurt his mother very much. But—in thinking of them—it was the only way he could. It was the right word. The only word he could honestly employ—He was fussy about words, as any budding writer would be.
Inside the school, he had found things not too bad, to his surprise—and relief. It was almost as if the—thing—were getting to be routine. He rebuked himself for having that thought. It was an evil thought. Classes were going ahead, all the kids seemed to be more or less around, he had been glad to see Jim Green, looking none the worse for wear. A whole gang had gathered about him, firing questions at him before classes started. He was a hero more than ever. Ponce would wait till later, to have a talk with him. Now Ponce wondered: What would they do? For it was pretty bad, he knew, no matter how near-normal things seemed to be. Things couldn’t go on—like this. The kids didn’t seem scared—in fact, they seemed to be getting kicks out as perfect, as beautiful, as absolutely divine and marvelous as he had ever known or seen her. She conducted the class, he heard her voice, the same as ever, no less. It absolutely amazed Ponce, and increased his admiration for her, if that was at all conceivable, at least twofold. Certainly, one-half a fold. He worshiped her. Could it come true? Was there any chance at all of his wildest dream coming true?
“Ponce—” Her voice.
Was that her voice, calling on him? What should he say? He was in a hell of a way. He hadn’t any idea at all what the class was about today. He would have to answer, and look up. Their eyes would meet. How could he manage that?
“Yes, ma’m?” He said.
Their eyes met. He was a pounding, quivering thing. He was zooming to the heart of heaven, he was almost there, those divine eyes were on him—
“Would you say Milton was the outstanding figure of his time?” She asked, and he heard the voice.
Ponce had heard. Now he pondered the words. They had a meaning, he knew. And there was an answer somewhere. Somehow, that warm, steady, divine gaze of hers was definitely and lovingly guiding him there. In spite of the calamitous clamoring and hammering within, he was getting there. He kept his eyes on hers.