Original Sins (24 page)

The Rod and Gun Club float consisted of two men, one dressed in hunting gear, the other in fishing gear. One held a string of birds, the other a string of fish. They were handing these to two women in aprons who clasped their hands with delight.

Next came the National Guard, marching in formation with weapons, followed by the most enormous tank Raymond had ever seen. Its gun swiveled, pointing playfully into the crowd as bystanders squealed.

Raymond dropped his camera. It hung from his neck twisting slowly, its elaborate long-distance lenses projecting like a muzzle. He had spent the morning lying on his bed, studying his photo of the elephant hanging from the crane, surrounded by cheering townspeople. He had just realized he was going to leave this crazy place.

He and Emily sat in his father's car at the drive-in that night watching Rock Hudson slogging through the Everglades, trampling wild orchids, evading rattlesnakes and alligators and panthers, and succumbing to yellow fever, while hunting Seminoles. Emily waited with dread for Raymond to pounce and perform the obligatory necking. Instead he started up the car.

“What are you doing?” Emily protested

“Leaving.”

“But we don't even know what's going to happen.”

“I know. Rock Hudson is going to capture Anthony Quinn, I mean Osceola, marry Perry Mason's secretary, and make Florida safe for tourism.”

Emily laughed.

“What really happened is that Osceola was captured when he honored the cavalry's white flag. They put him in prison. And when he died, the attending physician cut off his head and would hang it in his children's bedroom when they misbehaved.”

Emily laughed.

“It's true. I read it in a book.”

“I didn't know you read books.”

“There's lots about me you don't know.”

“Like what?”

“Like that I've decided to take that job in New York City.”

“You're kidding?”

“I don't think I belong here. I don't think you do either.”

“Leave me out of this. You go if you want, but I'm doing just fine right here.” She couldn't imagine wanting to go someplace where you didn't know a soul. But what would it be like here without Raymond's complaints all the time? She felt a stab of loss. But maybe with him gone someone else would want to date her, someone more acceptable to the Ingenues.

After the parade, the Ingenues went to a rented cottage at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, for their annual week-long Beach Bash. Jed and several other Ingenue dates rented a cottage nearby. The Ingenues spent their days basting themselves with Coppertone, and rolling and unrolling spit curls. The boys threw a football, galloped in the surf, or raced their cars on the hard sand. Sometimes they lay on beach towels beside corpselike girlfriends, peeking at greasy pinkening flesh. At night they tried to bluff their way into nightclubs, rode a Tilt-a-Whirl at the amusement park, or retreated to an oceanside pavilion to dance to a jukebox and drink Coke laced with rum from a bottle in a brown paper bag. Couples would drift off to the dunes.

Every time they made love, Sally demanded, “Are you sure there's no way I can get pregnant, Jed?”

“Sally darlin, just trust me. These rubbers is foolproof. They blow them up on this machine to test for holes before they even send them out.” He'd read this in the folder inside the packets. They were the most expensive brand Anderson's sold—sheep gut, or some damn thing. Whenever he had to buy some, he'd hang around outside until Mr. Anderson, a golf companion of Mr. Prince, was in back filling a prescription. Then he'd race in, snatch some up, and hurl the money at the assistant

On the day Sally's period was scheduled to arrive, it didn't.

“God, Jed, what are we going to do?” They sat in the cottage living room. The others were on the beach. She'd told the Ingenues she wasn't feeling well. They smiled knowingly and said maybe Jed could make her feel better. Actually she needed quick access to the bathroom, where she went every half hour to search her panties for a bloodstain.

“Girls' periods are sometimes late for other reasons,” Jed assured her. He'd heard different boys say this. But back in his cottage he read and reread the folder about the testing machine.

The next day Sally inquired, “What will Daddy say?”

“He won't say nothing. He won't know. You're just late is all. Happens all the time. Don't get all hysterical now.” He was trying to decide if he dared ask Bobby or Hank about this. But it would be bad for Sally's rep. And it would make him look like a stupid jerk-off.

On the third day Sally said, “Jed, we've sinned. I know it. This is our punishment” It wasn't fair. If she'd enjoyed it, then she could see how she deserved to be punished. But she only did it to make Jed happy.

“That ain't nothing but nonsense, Sally. It ain't no sin to love somebody.” But actually he was wondering. It didn't hardly seem fair. If Betty Boobs got in the family way, he could see it might be punishment. Betty was just for fun. But Sally he loved. If Betty Boobs did get in the family way, you'd be home free anyhow because the whole school knew it could of been any of a dozen boys. Sally went into the bathroom and sat on the toilet and pressed toilet paper against herself. It came away bloodless. She buried her face in her hands and promised the Lord she would never screw again if only He'd restore her period.

Her period arrived that afternoon. She fell to her knees by the toilet, her hands clasped, and thanked the Lord.

That night at the pavilion Sally and led danced every dance, in shorts and bare feet on the sandy floor.

“What's got into you, Tatro?” Bobby asked. “Or should I say, what have you got into?”

“Glad to see you feeling better, Sally,” smirked Mo, next year's Ingenue president and head cheerleader.

Lying on a blanket in the dunes under the full moon, Sally explained they could do everything else, but had to stop screwing. Jed saw her point and agreed to make do with a hand job.

This arrangement lasted for several days. One night at the pavilion, though, Jed and Sandy Ellis danced together twice. Jed lit three cigarettes for her, and the last time she rested her cigarette hand against his match hand to steady it. Then she raised her eyes to his, over the flame. He was gazing back so intently that the flame burned down to his fingers. He plunged his scorched fingers into her rum and Coke, and she sucked them clean, saying, “We don't want to waste this good rum, do we?”

Later, in the dunes, Jed lay on his back with his hands behind his head, waiting for Sally to do something about his erection. He kind of liked this business of just lying back and being taken care of. To his alarm, Sally squatted over him, his prick entering her.

Everybody in Ingenue knew about Sandy. She majored in other girls' boyfriends. Sally was damned if Sandy was going to move in on
her.

“I don't have no rubber,” Jed gasped, putting his hands on her waist and trying to lift her off.

“Don't worry. I've just finished my period,” she said, moving efficiently.

Jed shrugged. You couldn't refuse a lady. But could you call a girl who behaved like this a lady?

Chapter Eight
Miss Newland

Beth Crawley was dressed in an Alpine climber's outfit—lederhosen embroidered with edelweiss, a felt hat with a feather. A coiled rope hung from her shoulder, and she held a pickaxe. She was singing “Climb Every Mountain.” Emily had to admit she had a pretty good voice. But in fifth grade her nickname had been Creepy Crawley. She'd looked like a praying mantis, tall and gawky and hunched, predatory and pious at the same time. A metamorphosis had occurred in junior high. Now she was gorgeous, and looked like a shoo-in for this year's Miss Newland. Emily felt alternately sorry for Sally and delighted that she had just dropped the microphone at the most poignant moment of her rendition of “Since I Don't Have You.” She remembered Sally as a little girl singing into her jump rope handle, and lashing the rope as though it were a microphone cord.

She thought about Raymond's letter that had arrived that afternoon: “Dear Emily: Well, so here I am. Do you remember how we used to sit in the Castle Tree and discuss our New York City penthouse? My new place is no penthouse, but it
is
on the roof—of an old building on the Upper West Side. I sweep the halls and stuff in place of paying rent. It's one room, with a sink and tiny refrigerator against one wall, which I hide with a folded screen when I'm entertaining the mayor. A small bathroom. The view's pretty neat—the Hudson River with the New Jersey Palisades on the other side.

“All day long I do layouts for people's brochures. I got my first paycheck—sixty-three dollars a week, once everything is deducted. Sounds like a lot, but it's barely enough to get by on up here.

“The night I arrived Gus (the guy who got me the job) met me, thank God, because I had no idea what to do next. I probably would have been in that exact same spot two weeks later. He's a nice fellow, young, single. It was fun to meet him after so many notes and phone calls. He said he wanted to take me to dinner, what kind of food did I like. I said I liked everything. He said, ‘I'll give you a choice of what's close by—Indian, Japanese, or Finnish.' Well, I felt like the original hick. I tried to play it cool and said I was too tired, he'd have to order for me. I ended up eating raw squid or something. It's amazing how little I've seen of the world, Emily. But I'm trying to make up for it. Please write when you can. Love, Raymond. I miss you, but nothing else about Newland.”

He sounded happy, for maybe the first time in his life. But imagine not even missing your own family. Well, he always was a weirdo. But a weirdo whom she found herself missing at times. Like right now. He'd be whispering sarcastic remarks about each contestant out of the corner of his mouth. With him sitting next to her it would hurt less not to be up on stage herself.

The girls were coming out in bathing suits and spike heels, as the announcer read their measurements: “…. thirty-four, twenty-two, thirty-four …”

Why had the JayCees invited Sally to be in this pageant but not her? What about seniority? She couldn't even blame it on her father for not being a JayCee, as some girls did, because there was Sally.

“… Miss Emily Prince … thirty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty-six …” She just hadn't been poured in the right mold. She wrapped her arms tightly across her chest and slouched down.

“… Miss Sally Prince, thirty-four, twenty-four, thirty-four …” Sally heard this with pride. She'd worked hard to get her waist exactly ten inches smaller than her breasts and hips. She'd been measuring weekly for years. If her waist began to thicken, she'd do one set of exercises. Another set if her bust began to diminish. It seemed like her breasts had begun swelling since she and Jed had been making love. Could everyone out there see that she was no longer a virgin? Would she get all coarse like Betty French and Sandy Ellis?

She loved being under the spotlight with the entire room admiring her. She smiled for all she was worth, trying to project pep. If only she hadn't dropped the mike. But maybe no one noticed. Or maybe they thought it was part of the act.

Jed watched Sally pause and turn from side to side. God, she was gorgeous. The whole town could look at her and want her and speculate, but he was the only one who got to touch what was underneath that bathing suit. Thank the Lord she'd got over her notion that sex was a sin. Now he blew up every rubber like a balloon to be sure there was no leaks. Hank and Bobby, sitting on either side of him, poked him with their elbows, and he grinned. Everybody knew she was his girl, and he felt proud. She lived on Tsali Street, her daddy ran the town, she could have picked any boy in the whole place, and she'd picked him. Of course he'd picked her too. And he could have had any girl—except maybe Sister Sourpussy, whom he spotted hunched over several rows below. But who'd want her now that Old Ugly had gone up at New York City? It sure was nice around the house with him gone. No more arguments at dinner.

Donny and Leon lay under the hemlocks by the stadium wall, looking down at the spotlit stage through binoculars Leon had found. After the football games, when the floodlights were cut, as the Rebels were cleaning out the popcorn poppers, Leon would climb the stadium wall and creep through the bleachers searching for forgotten blankets and thermoses, fallen change. Rats would be scurrying up and down the concrete steps, carrying popcorn, peanuts, and heels of hot dogs. Leon's parents had sent him down from New York City, where he'd been getting in trouble with the laws, to live with an aunt. He had all kinds of daring ideas, and Donny thought he was wonderful.

Donny watched the girls strut across the stage, remembering last winter when he and Tadpole had been at the newsstand in town playing pinball. As they were leaving, they took a
Playboy
off the rack. Miss March had long blonde hair and huge jugs. Donny was imagining what it would be like to have that silky blonde mane swirling around your face as those white tits lowered themselves onto your chest, when Tadpole whistled and said, “Look at that hair, man. Charlene, now, she's a hot number. But her hair, man, you could scrub the kitchen floor with it.”

The owner of the newsstand called from behind the counter with a leer, “White tail turn you boys on?”

“Naw sir,” they said in unison, replacing the magazine and racing out.

Sally Prince was swaying onto the stage, and Leon wouldn't give him his turn. Donny punched him and grabbed the binoculars, saying, “Goddam, Leon, it's my turn, motherfucker!” They scuffled in the dirt. A flashlight beam swept the bushes. “Hey, who's that up there?” a deep voice called. They crawled frantically to the wall, as the flashlight came rapidly up the hill. They dragged themselves up and over the wall, then ran like hell down the highway toward Pine Woods. Donny was terrified. He'd never been in no trouble. His grandmaw would kill him. She'd been complaining about him hanging around with Leon. Maybe she was right about Leon being destined for a life of crime.