A Singular Man

9

DISTANT hilltops spreading a canopy of new green across the rolling land A spiral of smoke from George Smith's cabin in the woods. The white twisting Worrisome River singing on this Saturday morning. And the long lonesome wail of the steam engine coming up from the coast carrying a passenger for deposit at Cinder Vaiage.

Breakfast cooking in the cabin. Smith stretched stark on the bunk, hands folded under head, elbows sucking up. Birds achirp. Miss Martin wearing one of Smith's sweaters and her pair of black high heels as she clicked in and out of the kitchen cooking for the lonesome tiger lightly napping.

Canned ham grilled brown. Matzos. Big mugs of tea. Miss Martin smiling down at the lengthwise Smith and with a light finger flicking up his gentle pecker. No hebrew he. She sat chewing. Smith renewing. This quiet morning in the country. Her brown hair down. Long thighs and remarkable muscles around the knees.

Minutes by full of peace. Of all the fresh untired sounds out of the woods. Open up the ears wide. The eyes. Even dare think. That Miss Martin is forever part of me. Sits there eating. Watch the swallowing down her throat. She said one or two strange things while she lay sleeping. About a mysterious phone call to a place of worship. A cultured voice which suggested it would place sufficient explosive on the premises to blow it sky high next Tuesday midnight. The prelate to go with it. And Miss Martin sat up and I gently pushed her back down. Must have worries on her mind. Then she slept quietly snoring in my arms.

Smith finishing breakfast. Stood up and pounded his chest. Coughed. Padded to the bathroom. Standing in the tub under the chilling shower. Marching back to the living room. Pulling the towel zigzag over the back. One display of vitality after another. Miss Martin shyly peeking from the kitchen. Comes in. Smith lifting her sweater. Nuzzling face between two white pears. Give Miss Martin a friendly morning embrace. Happy in the cabin. Great to be alive. Till the wail of the steam train on the other side of the Worrisome River headed for Cinder Town.

Brief moments of unfettered solitude left. Smith and Miss Martin entwined. Opening up her mouth to say there's the train. And Smith whispered last night you said sleeping the prelate would be blown. Sky high.

"Did I."

"You did."

Smith flexing the knees. Picking up Miss Martin carrying her to the bunk. Train pounding up the valley. Ten minutes more to town. Ten years between Miss Martin and me. Takes one back to high school. Fastened to her young body. Jesuits walked around. All the other kids were there. One tall faced thin ecclesiastic cleric said what is your name. Where do you live. I felt located. He was the prefect of discipline, hatchet faced and feared. Coming out of nowhere to grab you defenceless by the collar. Twisting. I wanted to say, hey watch the garotte. But he had a system of torture called jug. To walk round and round in circles for hours. Miss Martin pressing against your belly would have been forbidden. Lectures on sex. Every Friday. Boys today we discuss the process of generation. White haired and ancient this prelate was easily given to tears. As he said there is a fleshy shaft from which two spongy balls hang. There were terrible whispers. You old clot. Marriage was the holy joining together of two people. Without use of the rubber covering of the organ. Boys as you sit there now before me. In the sight of God. Don't dare use rubbers. I'm not. The shaft is sacred this prelate shouted. Standing here before you today boys, remember that thought. These young beautiful innocent girls who come each year on the school boat ride. Are of the purest and whitest. Dare you look or feel up their innocent dresses. Dare you. Or think impurely. The wretchedness the writhing the Lord God will smash down on your heads. Everyone in the class looked around at me. As the prelate shouted evil companions. They are the ones dear boys. Miss Martin. Wish you did not dream of dynamiting the prelate. As this one shook his fist right at me over the heads of my class mates, screaming shaft. Fleshy shaft. The smart alec behind me whispering between my shoulder blades, that he was on his way home to pull his right out of its socket and didn't give a sacred fart what the Lord God smashed down. While he was pulling. All that seventeen years ago Miss Martin. We had class nights with apple pie and soda pop. And swam in the swimming pool. The bushy sight of our language instructor for months in black and now in nothing. I was voted having the biggest one at the secret ballot on the length of shafts. A disgraceful litde group of boys. Amused by my member. Which God help me I wanted to roll up that day so it wouldn't show at all. Never take it sadly out again. Till the darkness of last spidery night Miss Martin fooling with it said you have such a beautiful one. Held in her fingers. Said her father died. Building the bridge. She rides the train across to work. Her mother never had the money to move away from the bitter memory. Miss Martin you must have been a funny little girl father protected till you were six. Wham. A big girder. Best time of day to do it now, fresh as daisies. Just shut down the brain. Let instinct take over. And first thing this morning, Miss Martin out dusting crumbs off the table. Speeding to and fro in her high heels. Were my fellow prepsters and presiding prelates to see me now they would say he has turned out, that Smith, just as we thought he would, bringing the school name constantly into disrepute. With that shaft of his. And Shirl was impressed by such a splendid school. Till she married me and said the kids took so much out of her. Slaving to their litde wretched wants. Greedy litde heads spinning on a nipple as she said I want to live the way the rich live, go through life and hold my head up in the air being noticed and liked by everybody. This month of May. As age comes slowly and hardly notice it at all. Miss Martin makes such a fuss. Rolling her head. Brought breakfast. Time to meet the train. Bonniface. Will wait in the shade of the platform. And get a shock as I arrive. We'll stand there under cedar shingles. Just three. Miss Martin in black shining high heels. Grey dress, soft wool that clings. Bonniface perhaps without shoes. The train will pull out again. I will introduce Miss Martin to Bonniface. He will bow. And click. A thump perhaps without footwear. Miss Martin I am collapsing like a pack of cards. Filling you with white river. What do you see in me. Other than miraculous humility. You walked across this cabin floor this morning, bare arse wagging. I jumped up and held it two handed tightly just as you were slipping into the kitchen. And turned your face around again. Kissed you on the mouth. And kiss you now. And smell your sweet sweat and gamey breath. Under your hair around your arms. Lick your eyes. Tell the lids all these tales. How when I wanted to step out bravely into the world dressed in the best suit I had, speaking with the best voice I could and the school head master said he caught me in a lie. That I told all my fellow prepsters to lay the girls on the boat ride. To lift their dresses. To plug them as he claimed I had put it. You clerical lout. We sailed up the river. Between the steep cliffs my dear Miss Martin, God you are soft and full of warmth. How can it be such gay and painful summertime. The boat whistle blew. We strolled the decks. Sun glimmering on the water. Prefect of discipline head back to view indiscretion lightly this favoured day. The boat ride. Up the river to a park in the trees. Dance band. And all the proper little boys in sports jackets and flannels. And we swam and played ball, and jumped and ran and raced. I tried to star. For I met a girl that day. I had, true, told the school, who listened to me spellbound. To indeed plug these convent girls. None of whom could be plugged. I knew. Blessed creatures they were. Full of the Lord. And the mother of God. And the dream of hubby nine to five for forty years till dead in his tracks with a handsome policy. We passed a prison. Sitting on the shore. Grey and tight. Stone. And the prefect, Miss Martin, came by and said ha ha Smith, ha ha, that would be a place to keep you in line, ha ha. And I silently stiffly passed that remark by. Come to my funeral Miss Martin, be there. Please. And when they say wretched things about me, how I was fake, liar, and grew up out of all proportion to my prospects, shout back, say I was good-o humble and gentle. While they carry me away, music playing across my laundered lawn barbered round the sepulcher. They said why did I do it. Build a monstrous monument. Because I had no friends. No respect. Yet never went bald from worry. Nor breached white codes. Hashed up a few of the dark. And one or two white with my secretary. The ground I walk on she'll never worship. Born to know to whom to bow to whom to scrape. Much dumb demeanour everywhere. In that town full of faces erasing all the traces of what they feel. Just as well. Leads to a lot of embarrassment. A crackle of a twig. Lain here an hour. Missed the tram. Bonnif ace.

"Can I call you George now, George."

"No."

Miss Martin stiffened in Smith's arms. As she tried to get up. Her eyes opening wide. Pressing her elbows between the two bodies. Forcing Smith back.

"Don't touch me."

"Why."

"I'm as good as you are."

"No you're not Miss Martin."

"I want to get out of here."

"There's the door."

Miss Martin standing. Looking down at Smith lying there prostrate looking up. Teeth clenched inside her mouth. Fists held out from her sides white and tight. Raises them up. Shakes them down. Breasts trembling. Tide of tan round them and her thighs from last summertime. Eyes blazing.

"You deliberately got me up here."

"Sit down Miss Martin."

"Don't Miss Martin me. You bastard."

Smith cool faced. But wincing in the heart. Tell a fact and they fling back epithets. Give warmth and they wrap you in a chain. Behind her on the twin bunk, the file marked go. Which I thought in all my acute innocence would speed us into the solar system. Instead of being grateful they turn on you. Wretched left out world it is. Miss Martin troubled by how good she is. Of course you're not, Miss Martin. As good as me. I tell you for your own sake. To save you airs. The whole world will tear off you. With insults. Come now, no churlishness. Women lie and cheat twist and steal. Can't help it. Nature gave them these little habits. To use when hubby takes off for the tundra or is drunk in bed. I need you Miss Martin. Please don't go. Stay. I want you to cover me up with your soft self. Keep me warm and safe. Another crackle of a twig. A sound. Of music strange out under the trees. She stands so still. Staring back. If you can stare I can stare Miss Martin. As long as you like. Stay here forever. Unwavering eyes. Stony globes. I'm as honest as you can get. That's why Miss Martin I ask for all this respect. And why I confound all those who stood faithfully waiting for my every little failure. While I sidestepped slowly away down the various little alleys of success. Brown eyes. You stare. I'll stare. You out Miss Martin. Be sure of that. Don't you feel chilly or at least foolish without a stitch. Nipples clutched up with cold. We can't keep this up forever. You must have won contests at this in high school. To find some chink in my spirit. That's it, you got to straighten up. Caught you staring bent over. O it won't be long now before you must avert the eyes. You morsel. All this wasted time I could be looking at the rest of you. Breasts geared to giving. Bush beneath the belly. So late now to meet Bonniface. Have Miss Martin call the Funeral Director of Cinder Village for the hire of a car. Or ha ha hearse. She's breaking. Saw that flicker of the lid. Nervous moment there with the lip. Jesus Christ. Miss Martin. Catching her breath. Turning clutching her arms around her. Splickety lick for the bedroom.

George Smith turning. There featured in the window. Dimly beyond the copper screen. The thin face. The smile. Little black comb with a piece of paper held. To take the blowing of musical air. Rumpled green shirt. Loose brown jacket. Slender green tie. Cedric Calvin Bonniface Clementine. The awful. Bonniface.

"My Gawd."

Smith rubbing his eyes. Pulling up the sheet somewhat over the naked parts. As the grin on Bonniface widened behind the comb. And the music continued. Smith rose. Smiling, crossing the floor to greet and say hello and how could you find the hidden cabin. How did you get from Cinder Village. I trust you are not utterly banjaxed. Cast up on the shore. God forgive dreadful things that happen aboard those steamers.

Smith stepping near the window. Stopping at the screen. All that is here. Just some greenery of leaves. And bushes. And no Bonniface at all. At all. And I've insulted Miss Martin. And who was at that window. Who. Miss Martin saw something too. And I heard.

Smith opening and leaning out the door. Looking this way and that. All ending in green. Something spooky out here. Some man roams mad. Stands about. Mooning. Making gestures. Carving things on the trees. I swear I saw that face. That smile. I'm shivering. Cold sweat. There's something out in the woods. I must quickly make friends again with Miss Martin. Before I lose every vestige of nerve. And that thing comes in and gets me.

Smith in the sheet. Grasped up round the shoulders. Crossing to the bedroom door. First peeking in the bathroom. And the empty space under the tub. In the cupboard. On the shelves. Where. That unblessed visage. The Bonniface. Or is the loneliness here too much. Or the staring contest with Miss Martin. The general feeling spreads that the world is rampant with mischief.

Knocking on Miss Martin's door. Once. Twice. O Gawd. Not a sound in there. Please Miss Martin I beg of you show some sign of life. Zip up. Make a noise. Even bust wind if you must. Make it mystical.

"Miss Martin."

George Smith stood rigid. Ready and frozen. For some hand to be placed without warning on the back. Reaching out of the silence. Hair stands up wiggling on the neck. Miss Martin believe me when I say you are worth ten of me. Or eight anyway. I'm lowdown. Without references. No business heading. No tide under my name. Just a vague fixed address which is beginning to move. Gawd. Standing here. Three miles to the first civilization. The house by the road with seven kids and one thin mommie.

Smith in the white toga. First in fear. Now in fever. Heart jumping all over the chest. Turning to the black defenceless telephone. Must have transport. Wrap up files and get out fast. Take the deer track. Dare not look in on Miss Martin in case she's transubstantiated.

Get on this talking machine.

"Operator."

"Number please."

"Brandy."

"Number please."

"Brandy, funeral director, Cinder Village, please operator."

"Why didn't you say so."

"I've just said so."

"Has there been a death."

"None of your damn business."

"O."

Smith decidedly executive. Toga drawn tightly. Leaning back against the wall. The soothing voice of Mr. Brandy any second now. Unless he's out busy. Ah. George Smith here, Mr. Brandy, I'm fine, nice day, how are you. Good, nice day, that's splendid. No. Haven't seen the new sign yet. Could you send a car. Instantly. That's splendid. O you read that. Don't believe all you read, Mr. Brandy. And could you have your driver get here as fast as he can. And send another man with him. Fine. Yes, nice day. Bye. Bye.

Times in one's life requiring unprecedented action. And on this rural sun dappled Saturday morning, take a few steps back. Raise each knee to test the suppleness. Bend to touch the toes. Eye the door. I will go through that thin pathetic pine. Like a steam train. Splinters flying. Panels asunder. Ere that ghost out there flitting between the trees. Will get a goodly taste of poison ivy.

Smith charged. Leading with the left shoulder. Hooking with the right. Brave bull. Feet nicely grasping all traction from the maple floor. Lightly flying with a thunderous crash through the door. Which shattered, fell to the floor. Hinges ripped. Screws flying. Smith on top. Miss Martin lying stretched on the bunk head buried beneath pillow. Oblivious to this stalwart. Sometime stallion.

Miss Martin, please understand the meaning of Bonniface. Proud culprit. Unconvicted world traveller sporting the canvas boots. Collector of second hand gravestones and urinals in quantity. Foot stamper, shouter and singer of the threnody. As one hears things strangely on the air. A voice out there in the woods. Faint. High pitched. Echoing far away from the other side of Worrisome River.

Jews and jailbirds

Bad news

Urinals and gravestones

Thrice used.