She shook her head again. “Oh, I’m so sor . . .” That word failed. She tried three more; could make no sound; could only beg with her eyes.
He let the chair legs tap down. “We’ll let it go by saying you just wanted to see for yourself. I dare say you’ve done quite a bit of ‘experimenting’ in your . . . time. You’re very attractive. Are you twenty yet?”
She hazarded a nod.
“Older?”
With a small jerking motion, she shook: no.
“I dare say you’re also bright. Catherine never had time for stupid women. Or stupid men either.”
“I . . . I didn’t know her well.”
“Then your intellect must have impressed her very much, if she recommended us so quickly.”
“I feel so . . . silly . . .” in a voice that communicated only terror.
“No. Not silly. You have quite a lot of time left to wander this globe. You must find out who you are. So. You’ve discovered, now, you are the sort of person who can enjoy such things as pass in these rooms only in fantasies—eh?”
Her eyes jerked back up to his.
He laughed. “There, with your pretty green eyes and your red hair all awry—”
Her hands started for her hair, stopped when Proctor laughed again.
“Really—you couldn’t expect to keep your pleasure in the fantasies secret, could you? You revealed that simply by coming here. Ah? And because it is a secret no longer, you sit there with your cheeks moving through alternate shades of plum, while I rear back in my chair and laugh.” He leaned his elbows on the scarred table top. “I do laugh.” His voice was very sober and gentle. “Can you laugh with me? Because I’m not laughing at you.” He waited until her eyes could stay with his. “Is it such a terrible thing to content yourself with only visiting places like this in sleazy books or in . . . what do they call them—underground comics? If their reports are uninformed, blurred, or inaccurate, you’re intelligent enough to doctor them back to your individual specifications, edit out those particular bits which to you are personally distasteful, thanks to either your or the author’s prejudices. Don’t you think I have this fantastic preoccupation as well as you? I’m an artist: imagination is a weakness we share. If you could merely arrive, tear off your clothes, throw yourself between the knees of whatever buck hauled out his—” He stopped, because she was looking down at her hands. “You tried. Quite admirably, I might add.”
“It was so dark in there, I couldn’t even see who it was who . . .”
“But you were afraid they could see you? They could, you know. You were the last one in. There was a light on in the hall. When you stepped through the open door, there was a moment when your eager, expectant face was in full view of all those already—I’m sorry. I’m being cruel. But my simple point is: even so, it doesn’t matter. We, above all people, have learned how to keep secrets. When you leave here, no one outside will know. Your skirt is neat; you’ve sustained no terribly large bruises; your hair? That can be counted to the sea breeze outside—”
“Ohhh . . .” on an indrawn breath. “My . . . do you have a . . .” She reached for his arm: stopped before she touched him, stared at her hand, jerked it back. “. . . comb. Oh I can’t . . . anymore, I’m afraid to . . . You must have a—comb? I . . . ” She let her head fall forward. Her shoulders shook twice. The dark red hair, which wasn’t very messy at all, swung forward.
When she looked up, bright tracks descending her cheeks, she blinked. “I’m afraid to . . .” (Head shaking.) “. . . touch anybody, now!”
Proctor reared his chair back again and locked his hands over his stomach. “Go home, Peggy-Ann. Go home. It will all be over in a sleep and a shower and the nice, smiling man who will come tomorrow—if not tomorrow, next month, next year.”
She stood, reaching to steady herself on the table, but even drew back there. “I’m . . . not going home, you know. When I went out I was on my way to . . . church.”
Proctor raised an eyebrow.
“Father Michael, he’s my advisor, there. We study together. That’s where I met . . . Catherine. She studies with him too.”
“Her new priest?”
“He’s not an ordinary . . . I mean, he’s been all over the country. He’s very interested in the problems of today. He . . .”
“Catherine has even less tolerance for stupid priests than she has for stupid women,” He narrowed his eyes. “Her one totally accomplished talent is the corruption of both. I’ve known her a while.”
“I . . . was supposed to go and talk to Father Michael tonight. But I didn’t want to.” Eyes down, up quickly. “Sometimes I think considering the world in classically theological strictures is a waste of . . . ” She looked around the room. “I shouldn’t say things like that here. It’s meaningless.” After another moment “One night when we were having coffee together, she told me I should come to The Hall of Mirrors some evening when I felt . . . disillusioned with theology.”
“She didn’t give you a chance, did she? The urges are practically the same. If you’re not in the mood for one, you can be pretty sure the other won’t sit too well.”
“I think I should go . . .” faltering before him. “. . . and see Father Michael, now.”
“Perhaps you can convince him to try the Mirrors—I’m sorry; again. Really, I don’t disapprove of you.” He let his meshed fingers part over his navel.
“I . . .” breathing now “don’t think you do.”
She almost . . . no, it was still a sad expression. She backed between the tables and the bar; at the door her hands went to her hair again. “You don’t have . . . ?”
Proctor turned up his hands and shook his head.
“Oh,” and may have even smiled, may even have begun another word.
Niger barked.
She pushed quickly out the door.
Niger barked again, ran forward. His forepaws hit the frosted glass.
“Hey, boy!” Proctor stood. The chair overturned.
Niger barked in silhouette.
“Come back here, boy!” Proctor started between the tables.
From the top of the stairs, the captain’s voice: “Quiet, Niger! come on up here!”
Another bark. Niger wheeled back, dodged the table legs, and lolloped up the stairs.
Proctor walked after him.
“What was wrong with the little redheaded one who ran out of here like that? She all right?” called from the dark.
Proctor stopped on the bottom step. “I don’t think she quite knew what she was getting into.”
“Too bad, Doctor. Thought she might catch number seven.”
Proctor looked at his hand on the banister, pondered the age of his flesh. “So did I.” He looked up again. “Any closer, Captain?”
Laughter of suede, laughter of velvet. A dog barking.
On the balls of his feet, Proctor padded up. There was less and less sawdust on each step. He squinted.
Nig raised his head. “Hey, Dove—”
Dove opened his eyes.
“Now what’s that hippin’ it down the street over there by the—”
“—church . . . !” Dove pulled on his belt.
Nig stood. His hand moved under the broken pants buttons.
Dove watched. “Hey, nigger, do them little titties and all that red hair she got hanging down her head get to you?”
“Motherfucker—” The dark wrist went in.
Dove looked back across the street. Bone hard fingers held flesh, blood-hard through his pants; his hand burned. “Yeah—”
“Dove . . . oh, baby, go over there and get it for me.” Nig’s free hand gouged Dove’s shoulder.
Dove made a long sound back in his throat. “Nig, you wait. Dove’s gonna see what he can do about that.”
“Mmmmm, pussy on a stick . . .”
Dove pulled from Nig’s hand and loped into the street. “Hey! Wait up, honey!”
She heard him, saw him, frowned. He moved forward. She felt her shoulder
jerk involuntarily and the expression she didn’t want twist through her face. She looked away and kept walking. If he did follow her, she wouldn’t hear him because he was barefoot; then heard him, much too close . . . He put his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, you sure are a pretty thing! How about us going into that back alley and me eatin’ out your pussy . . .”
She hunched away, opened her mouth, numbly astonished, closed it, pulled again. His hand was on the shoulder of her blouse, but when she pulled, his wrist touched her bare neck. Flesh on flesh started an explosion of revulsion that rippled her body, shook her face, snarled her features. She shook her head, hard.
“I’d sure love to get down there and eat it out. Come on. Come on and sit on daddy’s face. What you so scared of a little pussy eatin’ for?”
She started to—
But he made as if he were going to hit her.
Her shoulder struck the wall. She looked down, because he had grabbed the lap of her skirt. She felt his knuckles through the cloth. He was grinning, and bunching more cloth in his fingers. “Now what you got to be scared of? You’re gonna feel fine with my tongue a-workin’ it up.” Dove pushed his tongue out between his lips, wiggled it. The wall bruised the back of her head. He peered closer while she felt fear freeze her face, so the beginnings of screaming could only flicker around her lips. Then the elastic of her underpants tightened on her hip as his hand went under.
“Hey, that’s a big hand full of pussy.”
He winced; and his fingers gouged. She hit him hard as she could. She clamped her teeth and sucked in air. I’ve got to get away! She tried to see past him, left, right.
“I’m gonna take you over in the alley. Then we’re gonna do it.”
He jerked her head forward when she tried to hit again; her hand glanced his shoulder; his fingers clamped her neck. The other hand twisted between her legs; she staggered forward. He pulled her across the street. The shadow from the building edge covered them, and she tripped. Her underpants tore. But he caught her waist. He pushed her against a door. The knob struck her hip. And she was gagging on the outrage and the absurdity. With darkness, she couldn’t even move. She shivered, and her body wouldn’t do any of the things she wanted. Trying, now, only to avoid pain, realized she had been thinking, Maybe he won’t hurt me anymore if I cooperate, though she already hurt between her legs where he had pinched her. He was pulling her panties down. And with his hands on her belly he moved down against her.
“Feed papa all that pretty pussy.”
That, mumbled into her. She reached down and caught hold of his hair, not to get him away, but to keep from falling. She felt numb, and his face slipping in her numbness. He was squeezing her buttocks. She thought: Why am I thinking; if I don’t move maybe he won’t—
“Hey, there, pretty baby. How about some of that pussy for me? Dove boy, you got it all set?”
She skinned her hand on dried paint and tried to kick the one on his knees. Because the second one was coming at her. He was black and his pants were open.
The white one pulled back his head. “Come on, Nig. Swing that black mother-fucker around here.”
She felt herself start to collapse. (She cannot fight. Watch her beautiful fear. I will not let her fight.) The black one caught her by the shoulders and slammed her on the door. “Open your mouth, bitch! Lemme get some tongue.”
She cried and tried to keep her teeth together. Only the sobs pried them open from behind, and his tongue from the front; suddenly she hissed because of what the second one did with four fingers between her legs. When she moved her arms he hurt them with his hands that could go all the way around.
Her thighs shook against Dove’s cheek. He turned away, and Nig’s cock hit his face (Nig’s legs leaned across his back). He ducked and reached up to feel the hot, rough sack with its wiry hair, bitter with her. Sweat, and the stench of (his own) shit; to touch it with the tip of his tongue. With his hand he guided the wide head. Dove grunted when she began to squirm hard against what he was pushing in her. He bit her thigh when she tried to yank aside, so he could push it in another inch. Now Nig jammed too.
“Suck on my balls while I dick this pussy, boy,” growled from above. Dove nosed the balls, ministered with tongue and fingers to the plunging junction. He held their legs till Nig’s thighs clamped his head. Which meant get out of the way. He came up, tired.
Her arms hung on Nig’s neck. Dove leaned on the wall and watched Nig convulse in her. Once he stuck his hand between their slapping bellies, fingered the slippery thickness, put two fingers into her, then, with his wet hand, kneaded the hairy bag. They growled and groaned toward ending.
After the first time Nig came, Dove went outside the alley and sat down on the curb. Nig always had it three or four times, anyway.
Dove sat looking at the dark face of the church. The shadowed carvings disappeared into the black on black silhouette as he looked up the twin spires. He scratched between his toes. He grinned at the sounds from the darkness behind.
A line of light cut the facade.
The door opened and a tall man stepped out on the church porch. He came down two steps, looked left, right. He saw Dove, motioned.
Frowning, Dove stood up and crossed the street to the bottom of the church steps.
Above the Roman collar, a craggy face. Grey-shot hair. His hands were immense. He towered above the blond youngster.
“What is it, Father?”
The priest came down another step. “You been sitting there long, boy?”
Dove shrugged. “Naw.”
“I’m waiting for a young lady. Redhead? About your age? You haven’t seen her go by?”
“No, Father. When was she supposed to be here?”
The priest shrugged up his tweed sleeve and looked at his watch. “Almost an hour ago. Maybe a little more. Peggy-Ann and I were supposed to do some work together this evening.”
Dove grinned. “Was she pretty, Father?”
The priest smiled.
“Then maybe I’ll just sit out here and wait for her to come by.”
The priest reached out and clapped Dove’s shoulder. Now he turned back up. Halfway, he stopped to finger himself, pulled down his zipper, and emptied his bladder on the steps. Dove narrowed his eyes at the cable of flesh. It was not as long as his. Urine made waterfalls down the steps, made a hot puddle about Dove’s calloused feet. Dove flattened his toes. Suddenly he got an odd look. A lot of it was grin. Something vicious tempered it. “Hey, Father?”
The priest’s water trickled away. He shook himself, shoved himself in.
“Hey, Father, you ever get to stick that big hook of yours in that redheaded pig’s pussy?”
The priest frowned.
“You know; the cunt you’re waiting for.” Dove gestured toward the priest’s crotch. “You got a fucker like a little whale shark. Don’t you ever stick her, Father? You go down in that strawberry sundae a-lickin’ and a-suckin’, like me?”
Dove recognized the priest’s look as rage the same moment the father kicked. Dove twisted away, to crouch at the gutter edge, grinning.
The metal teeth on the priest’s fly gaped and flashed. His fists clenched, raised beside his head. Then he stalked up the church steps.
Dove’s laughter chattered high like broken glass. Ripples moved from his feet.
Back in the alley he squatted beside them. Nig had her on the pavement. The buttocks rose and rose and rose. Dove touched them. They were sweaty, and they quivered at the bottom and top of each stroke. He pushed his finger in the crack. Played with the balls; let the shaft rub the nub of his middle finger. Nig groaned. Dove opened his fly and played with himself. Nig reached back, caught Dove’s cock. “Bitch,” he growled, “give this white boy some head. Hey, swing that pussy around!”
Dove kneeled by her face.
She tried to twist her head. Nig pushed it back. Put his knuckles against her jaw.
Dove slid back and forth in her limp mouth.
“Oh, baby, su
ck him good! Suck, baby!”
She didn’t. But Dove could feel Nig’s beat shaking her. Nig’s breath coarsened. His rhythm doubled. Dove felt her tongue move once on the side of his cock. He pressed in to the hair; and came.
Nig stood up over her, massaging his bright, black penis. “Go on.” He gestured toward her. “You better get it before it all runs out.”
Dove scurried around between her legs.
She moaned and turned her head.
Nig watched his brother’s yellow head waggle in the fork.
Once, when Dove got too violent, she gave a small scream.
Nig put his foot on her mouth. Her jaw moved under his instep, and once she tried to pull his ankle away.
“Yeah, that’s it. Eat my shit.” Nig grinned. “Eat it.”
Now Dove lay across her, his buttocks tightening, tightening, his face on her neck.
When Dove pushed back onto his knees, Nig shoved her side with his foot. He buttoned one fly button. “It takes you a while, boy. But you get the idea.” Dove stood up, his face glistening. He stepped from one foot to the other with a happy, nervous movement. “Come on, Dove!”
“Sure you don’t want to tear off another piece?”
Nig grinned and scratched his crotch. “Wipe your mouth, boy! Come on, get out your fish-knife!”
Reaching into his pocket, the one without the hole, Dove grinned back.
When Robby turned the corner, she was still crawling. When he reached her, she had stopped, curled up in the gutter, head and one arm on the sidewalk. And there was a lot of blood behind her.
Under her open blouse her bra was pulled down around her stomach. One foot was bare. Astonishment grew as he neared, repulsion and fascination battling to replace it. The fascination astonished him as well. He kneeled by her, his knee soaking through in the puddle where she lay.
Three of the yellow bruises were going blackish. He picked up the hair from her face, limp and puffy. It suddenly scored with lines of pain as she surfaced to consciousness.