Friends: More Will and Magna Stories

Magna As A Child

She gets on a train. A man makes a pass at her. “Hiya doing, darling?” She gets off the train. She waits on the platform. Another man comes over and says “Pardon me, young lady, but which way is uptown?”

“This the downtown side, that what you mean?”

“This is the downtown? That’s the one I want. This the local side of the platform?”

“That’s the local side there. This is the express.”

“That’s the one I want. The express. I have to get downtown in a hurry. Terrific business deal — you can’t believe it. You’re too young to understand that though.”

“I suppose so.”

She looks away from him, stands there, holds a book bag. She knows the man’s a character. It happens so often. Men want to touch her on the subway, talk to her. They follow her on the street sometimes, and certainly give her looks wherever she goes. One took her hand the other week, held it gently enough, and said “Why don’t you come home with me. It’s a nice home. A really big apartment — anything you want in it could be yours. Antiques: they’re yours. Not all, of course, but some, and the more valuable the better, far as I’m concerned. Lamps, chairs, dishes — anything of these is yours. Which one of those would you like?” “Do you mind?” she said, taking her hand from his. “No, really, I’m telling the truth. Whatever you want you can have. Lamps and chairs. Dishes too. All of them. Curtains. Brocaded curtains. Lazy Susans. Silent butlers. Know what those are? I got two, both sterling silver, engraved, but you can’t tell what the initials are they’re engraved so fancily. Whatever you want. You’re that beautiful. Beautiful as a princess. You are a princess. What country you a princess of, beautiful young lady?” She had to walk across the street to get rid of him.

This one stands beside her. She knows he doesn’t have to go uptown or down. He just wants to be with her. If not her, then another attractive girl. She knows he wants to be on the same train with her. She has an idea he’s going to sit beside her on the train, talk to her and then get off with her at her stop and follow her on the street or walk beside her. She has this problem. Not a problem really, but because of her looks she attracts strange men like this, old and young, and they cause her problems. She happens to be very pretty. That’s not being egotistical to admit it. People have told her it, and some have said, when she’s said she’s not that pretty, “Come on. You’re gorgeous, don’t deny it.” But she’s so young. Not even fourteen. Developed like a girl of eighteen maybe, and maybe older. Anyway, developed. And tall for her age. She might have already reached her full height. And men like her for her build and face. Young face, with very smooth clear skin, and her long blonde hair. They like her hair. They often tell her about her hair, just as they comment to one another or tell her about her breasts, behind and legs. Here comes the train.

“Our train,” the man says.

“Maybe just yours. I just realized I should take the local. It’s a local stop I’m going to.” She goes to the other side of the platform. The express comes. He doesn’t get on it. All the people who got off it go up the stairs or wait on her side of the platform for the local. He comes over to her.

“The local, that’s right,” he says. “I have to take the local — I forgot. What stop you taking it to?”

“Excuse me,” and she walks to the end of the platform. If there’s a policeman around she’ll stand by him. If the man comes over to her then, she’ll report the man. If the local comes and he doesn’t get on it, she’ll get on. If he gets on, she won’t.

But there’s no policeman. The man’s coming toward her. That’s it, she’s had enough. Who should she report him to? Nobody really looks that safe or nice to talk to. She’ll report him to that elderly man there, but when she gets closer to him she thinks he might be a derelict. That woman over there then.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but I’m having some trouble with that man there. He’s been bothering me.”

“What can I do for you, honey? Go upstairs. Tell the change clerk.”

“If I can just stand with you I don’t think he’ll bother me anymore.”

“Then I’m the one he might bother. Listen, honey, do what I say. Go upstairs, speak to the clerk in the booth. You want me to do it for you? I think I can in the time the next train comes.”

“I don’t want to be left down here with him. Can we go up together?”

“Better that you do it alone, honey. Maybe he won’t follow. If he does I’ll say something, but I don’t want to miss my train.”

She starts upstairs. The man starts up the stairs after her. She turns to him. The woman has her back to them, is looking down the tracks for the train. “Will you leave me alone, you crazy?”

He sticks his hand into his fly and pulls out his penis. He waves it at her. “Big, huh, and it’s not even hard. Take a lick, kid. All you want. Free on the house and nobody here will mind. Go on, take a lick of it. It tastes real good.”

She runs upstairs. He goes downstairs.

“That’s awful,” she hears the woman say, “just awful. What are you doing that for to that poor girl?”

Maybe he says or does something. By this time she’s upstairs and she runs out of the station.

She comes home from her art lesson. Her mother says “Hello, sweetheart, have a nice day?” and kisses her cheek. She says she had a rotten day, maybe her worst except for when she was very sick. Her mother says “Here, let’s sit down and talk.”

“I don’t have to sit down. I can’t. I’m jumpy again just thinking about it. The art class wasn’t bad — that’s not it. Or not that bad. We had a live female model for once. Me, the big-shot, had been asking for one since they had the male model—”

“I didn’t know you had male models. In the nude?”

“Sure, except for a strap down there, but when we finally got a female I almost died when I saw her body — a woman for the first time like that. It honestly scared me.”

“Was she wearing drawers or something?”

“No — only he did, the male, though his behind cheeks showed. And when he bent over to make the towel under him right, one testicle showed too, someone said — though I wasn’t looking at the time because I had a feeling it’d happen. But the women don’t. And when she undressed in the booth she didn’t even pull the curtain, nor when she got dressed again. I think she should have. There were lots of boys my age too.”

“I think she should have also. Complain to the teacher. You don’t want to, I will, but I think you’re old enough to complain when you think something’s wrong. You do enough home. But tell me, sweetheart, what was it that scared you about her so?”

“I didn’t know women could get so big down there and different from me too.”

“You know what you look like?”

“I’ve held a mirror to it. A teacher — in Hygiene — suggested us to.”

“The model probably had babies. Don’t let it scare you. You have plenty of time yet, and maybe she was also a little messy.”

“And, well, I know what you’re going to say, but I almost got molested on the subway going to Art. A man showed his penis.”

“He exposed himself? Maybe you shouldn’t take those classes anymore.”

“No, I got away okay, I swear it, and since it was the first time ever, I don’t think it’ll happen again.”

“I don’t like it. Let me talk it over with Papa. But it was quite a day for genitalia for you. If you were old enough I’d advise your having a real drink. What about some cocoa or milk? I’ll warm some for you.”

“No, I’ll be okay. You need help with dinner?”

“You’re not just trying to bury it? You do feel better now that you got it out by telling me it?”

“Yes, Mom, yes. I won’t let that experience with the man warp my future sexual and married life.”

“That’s a smart girl. Because he’s destroyed, don’t let you be.”

Magna makes the salad, sets the table, does her homework, has supper, is told by her father to stay off the subways from now on unless she’s traveling with someone, reads a novel she got out of the library last week with eleven other novels. She wants to read three novels a week for the next month. She thinks her mind needs it. She finished two this week and is almost done with this one—Barchester Towers, the longest and most boring of the three, or just the one whose language, style and consanguinity, as her teacher would say — she thinks that’s the right word — but anyway, she got this far with it and if she doesn’t finish it she’ll be behind schedule. Then a friend calls.

“Magna,” Sarah says, “I’m in love.”

“Do tell me about it.”

“Act more excited. It’s big big news.”

“Oh, do tell me about it.”

“A boy in my school.”

“Oh, a boy?”

“Don’t be funny. A very tall masculine boy. He proposed to me today. Actually got on his knee. I said ‘Get up, jerko, unless you want to be there for the next five years.’ For in five years I should know, shouldn’t I?”

“Am I believing this? Okay, I’m believing this. He just wants to get in your pants, Sarah. What’s his name?”

“Not true and his name’s Toby.”

“Sounds like a clown. Drop him. No clowns allowed. Only serious names and serious professions. Charles, Henry, Ernest. Statesmen, physicians, writers, composers, choreographers, painters. Especially painters and all those in the plastic arts.”

“Magna, you’re too staid. You also should have a boyfriend.”

“I almost did on the subway today. Listen to this. A man wanted to take me home. Said he’d give me anything. For starters, he showed me his penis.”

“No.”

“Actually, that was another one last week. Nothing exposed. This one today — and he was my second potential boyfriend in three minutes. The first on the subway went goo-goo with his eyes till I thought they’d pop out — but this one, well, he brought his thing out and said — Wait, are my folks around? No. He said ‘Lick.’ I could have killed him. He was insane. If I had a gun I would have shot it off — truly.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Maybe not, but I’ve been thinking, isn’t there something they can do for men like that? Women too if they jump all over boys our age the same way? Oh, boys wouldn’t mind. They’re dumb enough to think it’s great and they’re so attractive if any woman suddenly pulled out her breast to them and said ‘Suck, eat, crunch, squeeze.’ But men. Maybe they could show them pictures of rats eating garbage same time they show them pictures of little and big girls.”

“Good idea. We can show these films in movie theaters. We can charge admission and make lots of money.”

“I’m speaking of photographs, not movies, and you’re missing my point besides.”

“I’m not. Magna, you’re getting too serious for me. But what did it look like this rope he had?”

“If you mean by rope, big, or if you’re just using it as another word for any sized penis—”

“Was it ugly, I mean? Sounds as if it would be. With bumps and scales on it and disease leaking out.”

“All of that. What do you think, I took time to stare? I felt sorry for him at first and also that he was very depraved, but most of all I was scared.”

“So you admit that?”

“Sarah, why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know. I had nothing else to say. But you want to hear about Harry? That’s my new flame.”

“What happened to Toby?”

“Toby is what I wish his name was. I know you don’t like it, but I do.”

“Okay, okay, so long as your story doesn’t have genitals in it. I’m tired of that today.”

“Harry wouldn’t do that. He might want to one day — with me, in a nice way, no creep flashing his raincoat on the street, I mean — but that’s some day, not today. I met him in the lunchroom. In a half-hour I knew he was it. He waited for me after school. Already sound too good to be true? He escorted me — that’s the word he used — if he could; you know — to my ballet class.”

“I like the word escort. He’s sounding good. He have a friend?”

“He says he has a few and they’re all almost as nice as he is. Harry’s not modest. He also plays the cello.”

“My favorite instrument.”

“If that’s so I won’t let you near him. I told him the cello was the most beautiful instrument in the world, but I don’t like any string sound but the guitar. And the mandolinski.”

“Why the ski?”

“To give it a, well, a little Russian flavor. Because I love Russian everything — Russian dancing and Russian dancers especially. I’ve changed my name to ski, you know. Sarah Nortonski.”

“Okayski, Miss Nortonski, any other newski?”

“Yes. You can sleep over this Friday. Mom says it’s all right. And you know my dad didn’t mind, since he has a crush on you.”

“Sure he does.”

“He does. He says ‘How’s your friend Magna? How come we see so little of her these days? Let me tell you,’ he tells me, ‘if I was a young woman of fourteen and wanted a good friend for life, Magna’s the one I’d choose.’ Other times he’s called you beautiful, witty, charming, precocious — I love that. And brilliant, he once said — talented and brilliant and, my dear, what extraordinary poise. That’s how he put it. He’s in love with you, you cookie.”

“Then think I want to sleep over your house?”

“Oh, he’s in love with my mother also, but he’s got a Russian crusher on you. You deserve it too. You’re really everything he says.”

“Why thank you, Ski. Sure I can come Friday. But I have to clear it with my folks. Hold on.”

Magna goes into the livingroom. Her father says “I don’t see why not,” and her mother says “Let me speak to Mrs. Norton.” The two women talk. The girls are both dears and a pleasure to have over, the mothers agree, and Friday will be fine.

“Great,” Sarah says to Magna. “I can’t wait. I’m going with Harry to a movie on Saturday or I would’ve asked you for that night too.”

“Is he staying over Saturday?”

“Magna, how could you? This is an extension. And of course he’s not. You know that.”

“I’m sorry, that was dumb of me. Okay, got to run, unless you have other important news.”

“How about you? I always talk, you never do.”

“What I told you about Mr. Subway wasn’t talking? And I saw a woman completely nude for the first time in my life today in art class. I suffered and I know why too. I’m going to end up looking like her, with my breasts and hips already large as they are. I don’t think I’ll have as much hair down there as she had, or I hope not, and never mounds of it under my arms and so dark, nor will I look so down and out, and so sad. But the body has to end up sagging like that, doesn’t it?”

“Not with us dancers, my dear. Keeps the breasts and tushies tight — not just the legs. Ever see some of the old ones? Sixty, seventy years old. I’ve seen them in the showers and dressing rooms at ballet school and their bodies still look half great.”

“Maybe I should give up painting for dancing then, but aren’t we talking silly? Always the body, never the mind.”

“Not you, just me. I can’t stand to think deep or read. All I ever want to do with my life is eat like an amazon and exercise and dance. Oh: see ballets and good ballet rehearsals too. But you’re getting much too serious for me, and I got to scoot too. See you Friday, Brainstem, and come straight from school.”

In bed that night she thinks about the model. The teacher told the class to go up and take a good look at her. “It’s allowed. I checked beforehand with Astor and she said for the sake of art and higher learning, look anywhere you like and close as you want too, though keep a five feet distance from her if you have a bad cold.”

Magna stayed on her stool, drawing the model and the few students who went up to look at her. The teacher came up behind her and said “What’re you concocting there, a basket of fruit? Take advantage — go up and give her a real inspection, unless it’s against your principles or whatever, of course.”

“It’s not. It’s just that, you know, I’m a little concerned she might think I’m just staring, no matter what you said she said. And I thought I had a pretty good drawing going till you came by, but if you still—” He was nodding his head, so she put the drawing down and went up to the model.

The model was on the floor on her back, legs spread apart, looking up at the wall clock. Magna stared at several parts of her body — hand, feet, shoulders — before she looked between her legs. It’s so shiny and big. They’re really not the prettiest things in the world, that’s for sure, though penises, from what she’s seen of them on statues and in photographs, aren’t the nicest looking things either and look stupid besides. But go back and draw it. Let Mr. Finkel think “Oh boy, this kid really got something from my lesson — maybe more, if she shows it to her folks, than I bargained for.”

She made a large drawing of just the model’s legs spread apart and her vagina and pubic area. Mr. Finkel came over, made believe he was handing her something and said “Here, kid, you get today’s cigar. It’s your best effort yet, not just for what you put in but what you left out also.” She said “I think I know what you mean, but can you explain it further?” He said “Just think about it — you’ll get it,” and walked away. She still didn’t know what he meant and doubted he did either. Just pretending to be profound, like most of her teachers, but anyway…

She’s been rubbing herself down there for the last few minutes. Door’s closed and lights out and she’s under the covers. She’s tried to masturbate a few times but has either fallen asleep doing it or stopped because she thought one of her parents might walk in and turn the light on at the same time and catch her at it, and once when the light was on she thought there might be a tiny hole in the ceiling or walls someplace and one of her parents or the building’s tenants might be looking through it. She knows where and how to rub and what she’s supposed to do to complete it. She’s read a couple of library books about it and what the end’s supposed to be like, but she’s never come near to feeling anything but a little titillation down there while she was doing it. She also read in one of those books that every woman, including married ones, should practice masturbation for all sorts of reasons — spiritual, political, like that — and sooner a younger woman learns how, better it’ll be for her and all freedom-loving women in general, so she’s never really felt much guilt over it but hasn’t yet talked about it with anyone. She doesn’t like the idea she’s doing it so soon after she saw that man on the subway, but is sure that incident had nothing to do with it. In fact, more she thinks of him, less interested she is in continuing to rub herself, so she closes and opens her eyes a few times to get him out of her head, and also changes hands because the right one’s become tired. The model today probably had more to do with it than anything else. Thinking of that woman’s vagina probably made her think of her own, though without really knowing it, since right after she thought of her she found her hand rubbing down there. Sarah and her new boyfriend and the heavy petting she bets they’ll start doing in a month if they stay together? No, she never thought of that till now, though again that’s not to say somewhere deep inside she hadn’t been thinking of it. But she still doesn’t think so, nor anything related to Sarah’s father being infatuated with her, something she already knew by his actions and looks and wishes he’d stop, more for her friendship with Sarah and Sarah’s mother’s sake than her own. Anyway, whatever it was that started her doing it, it’s not working. She’s been rubbing for around fifteen minutes, both hands are tired, she’s beginning to ache down there from it, and she’s no further along in getting excited as those books said she’d get than she was a few seconds after she started. Maybe she’s doing it wrong or is just too young yet or the books left out something or some other reason. No big deal. It was more out of curiosity that she wanted to complete it than any other thing. She turns on the light, listens from her bed if anyone’s behind the door, reads a little and falls asleep.

In one of her dreams there was a big bull with a long unicorn’s horn on its head. She knows what those mean and knew in the dream. In the dream she said to the bull, when he stepped out from behind a bush and got into a charging position, “Come on, I know what you and that horn mean. You want to try and fool me with symbols and stuff, get more complicated, but don’t come around like some old-time figure in art.” She’s become something of an expert on her dreams. Her youngest aunt’s a psychotherapist and they’ve talked about their dreams a lot. The bull chased her after she lectured him on dreams and art. That was when she stopped interpreting within the dream, or even thought of it as one, and it became more like a normal dream. She was dressed only in white, even her socks and shoes. White’s such an obvious symbol for her, though she didn’t think of it then, but it can also stand for death, can’t it? — in the Orient her aunt’s said and she’s read. Anyway, she was chased, fell back against a wall that had a few pillows on it, that suddenly became one huge pillow. A bed, what else? or something close to it. No? Yes. The bull charged from about ten feet away, head down, horn out, straight at her. She thought she’d be pierced by the horn and she screamed, so loud that she thinks she must have screamed outside of the dream too. The horn was a few inches from her stomach when she woke.

She’s thirsty. She gets up and goes to the kitchen for some ice water or seltzer. Her mother’s reading in the livingroom. “Everything all right, sweetheart? It’s past two.”

“I had a bad dream. Did you hear me scream?”

“No. It was that bad? Anything you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know if it was that bad, just very revealing, I think.”

“Tell me.”

“I dreamt about a man about to penetrate me with an erection. In the stomach. But it’s the same thing, isn’t it — myself down there and my stomach? Only the man was a bull with a unicorn’s horn, and the horn, well it has to be what I think it is to think it was an erection, right?”

“Sounds right. You haven’t had any of those experiences — even close to it — have you?”

“Me? Not a chance. How would I? Where?”

“I’m not accusing you, I’m just naturally worried. So it was your whole day of bad experiences today. But anything else bothering you related to sex?”

“I don’t know about bothering me, but another man got suggestive with me on the subway, right before the one who exposed himself. I just walked away.”

“Maybe from now on let’s take the bus.”

“And Sarah’s father. I didn’t want to say anything for I don’t want to hurt my friendship with her, but if she’s telling the truth, he has a crush on me. Actually I know he has. I’ve seen the way he looks.”

“You think you’re old enough to tell?”

“I am. And not that he’s evil or would do anything or anything, but he doesn’t do a good job of hiding it.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t sleep over there this Friday after all.”

“Maybe for a while it’s not a good idea. I can go over for afternoons and she can sleep here.”

“Don’t tell her the reasons though. It’d only hurt her. So, sweetheart, back to sleep?”

“I also tried to masturbate tonight and not for the first time too. That’s all right also, considering everything, isn’t it? I didn’t want to tell you, but we were talking and I guess I really wanted to get it out, and now it is.”

“What can I say? That I like hearing it? Not so much. The act itself is normal for young women as well as some older ones, I suppose — I’m not going to say at what specific age you do and you don’t — but let’s not talk about it anymore. It’s not that nonsense that I don’t like learning you’re growing up but maybe something you can try to save for your friends. But if anything is troubling you and you want to talk about it, no matter what it is, come to your father or me or both. Now off to bed.”

“I want to get something cold to drink first.”

“Not too cold or you’ll have trouble sleeping.”

Magna pours herself a glass of seltzer. Her mother goes back to her reading. Later her mother comes into Magna’s room, thinks she’s sleeping, pulls the covers up an inch or two to Magna’s neck.