Bag of Bones 15 страница

“What was the reaction from Devore? ”

“Complete fury. He called again and again, first asking what was wrong, then making threats. ”

“Physical threats? ”

“Custody threats. He was going to take her away, when he was finished with me I’d stand before the whole world as an unfit mother, I didn’t have a chance, my only hope was to relent and let me see my granddaughter, goddammit. ” I nodded. ”

“Please don’t shut me out’

doesn’t sound like the guy who called while I was watching the fireworks, but that does. ”

“I’ve also gotten calls from Dickie Osgood, and a number of other locals, ” she said. “Including Lance’s old friend Richie Lattimore.

Richie said I wasn’t being true to Lance’s memory. ”

“What about George Footman? ”

“He cruises by once in awhile. Lets me know he’s watching. He hasn’t called or stopped in. You asked about physical threats—just seeing Footman’s cruiser on my road feels like a physical threat to me.

He scares me. But these days it seems as if everything does. ”

“Even though Kyra’s visits have stopped. ”

“Even though. It feels. . . thundery.

Like something’s going to happen. And every day that feeling seems to get stronger. ”

“John Storrow’s number, ” I said. “Do you want it? ” She sat quietly, looking into her lap. Then she raised her head and nodded.

“Give it to me. And thank you. From the bottom of my heart. ” I had the number on a pink memo-slip in my front pocket. She grasped it but did not immediately take it. Our fingers were touching, and she was looking at me with disconcerting steadiness. It was as if she knew more about my motives than I did myself. “What can I do to repay you? ” she asked, and there it was. “Tell Storrow everything you’ve told me. ” I let go of the pink slip and stood up. “That’ll do just fine. And now I have to get along. Will you call and tell me how you made out with him? ”

“Of course. ” We walked to my car. I turned to her when we got there. For a moment I thought she was going to put her arms around me and hug me, a thank-you gesture that might have led anywhere in our current mood—one so heightened it was almost melodramatic. But it was a melodramatic situation, a fairy tale where there’s good and bad and a lot of repressed sex running under both. Then headlights appeared over the brow of the hill where the market stood and swept past the All-Purpose Garage. They moved toward us, brightening. Mattie stood back and actually put her hands behind her, like a child who has been scolded.

The car passed, leaving us in the dark again. . . but the moment had passed, too. If there had been a moment. “Thanks for dinner, ” I said.

“It was wonderful. ”

“Thanks for the lawyer, I’m sure he’ll be wonderful, too, ” she said, and we both laughed. The electricity went out of the air. “He spoke of you once, you know. Devore. ”

I looked at her in surprise. “I’m amazed he even knew who I was. Before this, I mean. ”

“He knows, all right. He spoke of you with what I think was genuine affection. ”

“You’re kidding. You must be. ”

“I’m not. He said that your great-grandfather and his great-grandfather worked the same camps and were neighbors when they weren’t in the woods—I think he said not far from where Boyd’s Marina is now. “They shit in the same pit, ’ is the way he put it. Charming, huh? He said he guessed that if a couple of loggers from the TR could produce millionaires, the system was working the way it was supposed to. “Even if it took three generations to do it, ’ he said. At the time I took it as a veiled criticism of Lance. ”

“It’s ridiculous, however he meant it, ” I said. “My family is from the coast. Prout’s Neck. Other side of the state. My dad was a fisherman and so was his father before him. My great-grandfather, too. They trapped lobsters and threw nets, they didn’t cut trees. ” All that was true, and yet my mind tried to fix on something. Some memory connected to what she was saying. Perhaps if I slept on it, it would come back to me.

“Could he have been talking about someone in your wife’s family? ”

“Nope.

There are Arlens in Maine—they’re a big family—but most are still in Massachusetts. They do all sorts of things now, but if you go back to the eighteen-eighties, the majority would have been quarrymen and stonecutters in the Malden-Lynn area. Devore was pulling your leg, Mattie. ” But even then I suppose I knew he wasn’t. He might have gotten some part of the story wrong—even the sharpest guys begin to lose the edge of their recollection by the time they turn eighty-five—but Max Devore wasn’t much of a leg-puller. I had an image of unseen cables stretching beneath the surface of the earth here on the TR—stretching in all directions, unseen but very powerful.

My hand was resting on top of my car door, and now she touched it briefly. “Can I ask you one other question before you go? It’s stupid, I warn you. ”

“Go ahead. Stupid questions are a specialty of mine. ”

“Do you have any idea at all what that “Bartleby’ story is about? ”

I wanted to laugh, but there was enough moonlight for me to see she was serious, and that I’d hurt her feelings if I did. She was a member of Lindy Briggs’s readers’ circle (where I had once spoken in the late eighties), probably the youngest by at least twenty years, and she was afraid of appearing stupid.

“I have to speak first next time, ” she said, “and I’d like to give more than just a summary of the story so they know I’ve read it. I’ve thought about it until my head aches, and I just don’t see. I doubt if it’s one of those stories where everything comes magically clear in the last few pages, either. And I feel like I should see—that it’s right there in front of me. ”

That made me think of the cables again—cables running in every direction, a subcutaneous webwork connecting people and places. You couldn’t see them, but you could feel them. Especially if you tried to get away.

Meanwhile Mattie was waiting, looking at me with hope and anxiety.

“Okay, listen up, school’s in session, ” I said. “I am. Believe me. ”

“Most critics think Huckleberry Finn is the first modern American novel, and that’s fair enough, but if’bartleby’ were a hundred pages longer, I think I’d put my money there. Do you know what a scrivener was? ”

“A secretary? ”

“That’s too grand. A copyist. Sort of like Bob Cratchit in A Christmas Carol Only Dickens gives Bob a past and a family life. Melville gives Bartleby neither. He’s the first existential character in American fiction, a guy with no ties. . . no ties to, you know. . . ”

A couple of loggers who couldproduce millionaires. They shit in the samepit. “Mike? ”

“What? ”

“Are you okay? ”

“Sure. ” I focused my mind as best I could. “Bartleby is tied to life only by work. In that way he’s a twentieth-century American type, not much different from Sloan Wilson’s Man in the Gray Flannel Suit, or—in the dark version—Michael Corleone in The Godfather. But then Bartleby begins to question even work, the god of middle-class American males. ”

She looked excited now, and I thought it was a shame she’d missed her last year of high school. For her and also for her teachers. “That’s why he starts saying “I prefer not to’? ”

“Yes. Think of Bartleby as a. . . a hot-air balloon. Only one rope still tethers him to the earth, and that rope is his scrivening. We can measure the rot in that last rope by the steadily increasing number of things Bartleby prefers not to do. Finally the rope breaks and Bartleby floats away. It’s a goddam disturbing story, isn’t it? ”

“One night I dreamed about him, ” she said. “I opened the trailer door and there he was, sitting on the steps in his old black suit. Thin. Not much hair. I said, “Will you move, please? I have to go out and hang the clothes now. ” And he said, “I prefer not to. ” Yes, I guess you could call it disturbing. ”

“Then it still works, ” I said, and got into my car. “Call me. Tell me how it goes with Je, hn Storrow. ”

“I will. And anything I can do to repay, just ask. ” Just ask. How young did you have to be, how beautifully ignorant, to issue that kind of blank check? My window was open. I reached through it and squeezed her hand.

She squeezed back, and hard. “You miss your wife a lot, don’t you? ” she said. “It shows? ”

“Sometimes. ” She was no longer squeezing, but she was still holding my hand. “When you were reading to Ki, you looked both happy and sad at the same time. I only saw her once, your wife, but I thought she was very beautiful. ” I had been thinking about the touch of our hands, concentrating on that. Now I forgot about it entirely. “When did you see her? And where? Do you remember? ” She smiled as if those were very silly questions. “I remember. It was at the ballfield, on the night I met my husband. ” Very slowly I withdrew my hand from hers. So far as I knew, neither Jo nor I had been near TR-90 all that summer of ’94. . . but what I knew was apparently wrong. Jo had been down on a Tuesday in early July. She had even gone to the softball game. “Are you sure it was Jo? ” I asked. Mattie was looking off toward the road. It wasn’t my wife she was thinking about; I would have bet the house and lot on it—either house, either lot. It was Lance. Maybe that was good.

If she was thinking about him, she probably wouldn’t look too closely at me, and I didn’t think I had much control of my expression just then.

She might have seen more on my face than I wanted to show. “Yes, ” she said. “I was standing with Jenna McCoy and Helen Geary—this was after Lance helped me with a keg of beer I got stuck in the mud and then asked if I was going for pizza with the rest of them after the game—and Jenna said, “Look, it’s Mrs. Noonan, ’ and Helen said, “She’s the writer’s wife, Mattie, isn’t that a cool blouse? ’ The blouse was all covered with blue roses. ” I remembered it very well. Jo liked it because it was a joke—there are no blue roses, not in nature and not in cultivation.

Once when she was wearing it she had thrown her arms extravagantly around my neck, swooned her hips forward against mine, and cried that she was my blue rose and I must stroke her until she turned pink.

Remembering that hurt, and badly. “She was over on the third-base side, behind the chickenwire screen, ” Mattie said, “with some guy who was wearing an old brown jacket with patches on the elbows. They were laughing together over something, and then she turned her head a little and looked right at me. ” She was quiet for a moment, standing there beside my car in her red dress. She raised her hair off the back of her neck, held it, then let it drop again. “Right at me. Really seeing me.

And she had a look about her. . . she’d just been laughing but this look was sad, somehow. It was as if she knew me. Then the guy put his arm around her waist and they walked away. ” Silence except for the crickets and the far-off drone of a truck. Mattie only stood there for a moment, as if dreaming with her eyes open, and then she felt something and looked back at me. “Is something wrong? ”

“No. Except who was this guy with his arrfi around my wife? ”

She laughed a little uncertainly. “Well I doubt if he was her boyfriend, you know. He was quite a bit older. Fifty, at least. ” So what? I thought. I myself was forty, but that didn’t mean I had missed the way Mattie moved inside her dress, or lifted her hair from the nape of her neck. “I mean. . . you’re kidding, right? ”

“I don’t really know. There’s a lot of things I don’t know these days, it seems. But the lady’s dead in any case, so how can it matter? ” Mattie was looking distressed. “If I put my foot in something, Mike, I’m sorry. ”

“Who was the man? Do you know? ” She shook her head. “I thought he was a summer person—there was that feeling about him, maybe just because he was wearing a jacket on a hot summer evening—but if he was, he wasn’t staying at Warrington’s. I knew most of them. ”

“And they walked off together? ”

“Yes. ” Sounding reluctant. “Toward the parking lot? ”

“Yes. ” More reluctant still. And this time she was lying. I knew it with a queer certainty that went far beyond intuition; it was almost like mind-reading. I reached through the window and took her hand again. “You said if I could think of anything you could do to repay me, to just ask. I’m asking. Tell me the truth, Mattie. ” She bit her lip, looking down at my hand lying over hers. Then she looked up at my face. “He was a burly guy. The old sportcoat made him look a little like a college professor, but he could have been a carpenter for all I know. His hair was black. He had a tan. They had a laugh together, a good one, and then she looked at me and the laugh went out of her face. After that he put an arm around her and they walked away. ” She paused. “Not toward the parking lot, though. Toward The Street. ”

The Street. From there they could have walked north along the edge of the lake until they came to Sara Laughs. And then? Who knew? “She never told me she came down here that summer, ” I said. Mattie seemed to try several responses and find none of them to her liking. I gave her her hand back. It was time for me to go. In fact I had started to wish I’d left five minutes sooner. “Mike, I’m sure—”

“No, ” I said. “You’re not.

Neither am I. But I loved her a lot and I’m going to try and let this go. It probably signifies nothing, and besides—what else can I do?

Thanks for dinner. ”

“You’re welcome. ” Mattie looked so much like crying that I picked her hand up again and kissed the back of it. “I feel like a dope. ”

“You’re not a dope, ” I said. I gave her hand another kiss, then drove away. And that was my date, the first one in four years.

Driving home I thdught of an old saying about how one person can never truly know another. It’s easy to give that idea lip service, but it’s a jolt—as horrible and unexpected as severe air turbulence on a previously calm airline flight—to discover it’s a literal fact in one’s own life. I kept remembering our visit to a fertility doc after we’d been trying to make a baby for almost two years with no success. The doctor had told us I had a low sperm count—not disastrously low, but down enough to account for Jo’s failure to conceive. “If you want a kid, you’ll likely have one without any special help, ” the doc had said.

“Both the odds and time are still on your side. It could happen tomorrow or it could happen four years from now. Will you ever fill the house with babies? Probably not. But you might have two, and you’ll almost certainly have one if you keep doing the thing that makes them. ” She had grinned. “Remember, the pleasure is in the journey. ” There had been a lot of pleasure, all right, many ringings of Bunter’s bell, but there had been no baby. Then Johanna had died running across a shopping-center parking lot on a hot day, and one of the items in her bag had been a Norco Home Pregnancy Test which she had not told me she had intended to buy. No more than she’d told me she had bought a couple of plastic owls to keep the crows from shitting on the lakeside deck. What else hadn’t she told me? “Stop, ” I muttered. “For Christ’s sake stop thinking about it. ” But I couldn’t.

When I got back to Sara, the fruit and vegetable magnets on the refrigerator were in a circle again. Three letters had been clustered in the middle: g d I moved the 0 up to where I thought it belonged, making “god” or maybe an abridged version of “good. ” Which meant exactly what? “I could speculate about that, but I prefer not to, ” I told the empty house. I looked at Bunter the moose, willing the bell around his moth-eaten neck to ring. When it didn’t, I opened my two new Magnabet packages and stuck the letters on the fridge door, spreading them out. Then I went down to the north wing, undressed, and brushed my teeth. As I bared my fangs for the mirror in a sudsy cartoon scowl, I considered calling Ward Hankins again tomorrow morning. I could tell him that my search for the elusive plastic owls had progressed from November of 1993 to July of 1994. What meetings had Jo put on her calendar for that month? What excuses to be out of Derry? And once I had finished with Ward, I could tackle Jo’s friend Bonnie Amudson, ask her if anything had been going on with Jo in the last summer of her life. Let her rest in peace, why don’t you? It was the UFO voice. What good will it do you to do otherwise? Assume she popped over to the TR after one of her board meetings, maybe just on a whim, met an old friend, took him back to the housejr a bite of dinner.

Just dinner. And never told me? I asked the UFO voice, spitting out a mouthful of toothpaste and then rinsing. Never said a single word? How do you know she didn’t? the voice returned, and that froze me in the act of putting my toothbrush back in the medicine cabinet. The UFO voice had a point. I had been deep into All the Wayjqom the 3p by July of ’94. Jo could have come in and told me she’d seen Lon Chaney Junior dancing with the queen, doing the Werewolves of London, and I probably would have said “Uh-huh, honey, that’s nice” as I went on proofing copy.

“Bullshit, ” I said to my reflection. “That’s just bullshit. ”

Except it wasn’t. When I was really driving on a book I more or less fell out of the world; other than a quick scan of the sports pages, I didn’t even read the newspaper. So yes—it was possible that Jo had told me she’d run over to the TR after a board meeting in Lewiston or Freeport, it was possible that she’d told me she’d run into an old friend—perhaps another student from the photography seminar she’d attended at Bates in 1991—and it was possible she’d told me they’d had dinner together on our deck, eating black trumpet mushrooms she’d picked herself as the sun went down. It was possible she’d told me these things and I hadn’t registered a word of what she was saying. And did I really think I’d get anything I could trust out of Bonnie Amudson? She’d been Jo’s friend, not mine, and Bonnie might feel the statute of limitations hadn’t run out on any secrets my wife had told her. The bottom line was as simple as it was brutal: Jo was four years dead. Best to love her and let all troubling questions lapse. I took a final mouthful of water directly from the tap, swished it around in my mouth, and spat it out.

When I returned to the kitchen to set the coffee-maker for seven A. M. . . I saw a new message in a new circle of magnets. It read blue rose liar ha ha I looked at it for a second or two, wondering what had put it there, and why. Wondering if it was true. I stretched out a hand and scattered all the letters far and wide. Then I went to bed.

I caught the measles when I was eight, and I was very ill. “I thought you were going to die, ” my father told me once, and he was not a man given to exaggeration. He told me about how he and my mother had dunked me in a tub of cold water one night, both of them at least half-convinced the shock of it would stop my heart, but both of them completely convinced that I’d burn up before their eyes if they didn’t do something. I had begun to speak in a loud, monotonously discursive voice about the bright figures I saw in the room—angels come to bear me away, my terrified mother was sure—and the last time my father took my temperature before the cold plunge, he said that the mercury on the old Johnson 8: Johnson rectal thermometer had stood at a hundred and six degrees. After that, he said, he didn’t dare take it anymore.

I don’t remember any bright figures, but I remember a strange period of time that was like being in a funhouse corridor where several different movies were showing at once. The world grew elastic, bulging in places where it had never bulged before, wavering in places where it had always been solid. People—most of them seeming impossibly talldarted in and out of my room on scissoring, cartoonish legs. Their words all came out booming, with instant echoes. Someone shook a pair of baby-shoes in my face. I seem to remember my brother, Siddy, sticking his hand into his shirt and making repeated arm-fart noises. Continuity broke down.

Everything came in segments, weird wieners on a poison string.

In the years between then and the summer I returned to Sara Laughs, I had the usual sicknesses, infections, and insults to the body, but never anything like that feverish interlude when I was eight. I never expected to—believing, I suppose, that such experiences are unique to children, people with malaria, or maybe those suffering catastrophic mental breakdowns. But on the night of July seventh and the morning of July eighth, I lived through a period of time remarkably like that childhood delirium. Dreaming, waking, moving—they were all one. I’ll tell you as best I can, but nothing I say can convey the strangeness of that experience. It was as if I had found a secret passage hidden just beyond the wall of the world and went crawling along it.

First there was music. Not Dixieland, because there were no horns, but like Dixieland. A primitive, reeling kind of bebop. Three or four acoustic guitars, a harmonica, a stand-up bass (or maybe a pair). Behind all of this was a hard, happy drumming that didn’t sound as if it was coming from a real drum; it sounded as if someone with a lot of percussive talent was whopping on a bunch of boxes. Then a woman’s voice joined in—a contralto voice, not quite mannish, roughing over the high notes. It was laughing and urgent and ominous all at the same time, and I knew at once that I was hearing Sara Tidwell, who had never cut a record in her life. I was hearing Sara Laughs, and man, she was rocking.

“You know we’re going back to MANDERLEY, We’re gonna dance on the SANDERLEY, I’m gonna sing with the BANDERLEY, We gonna ball all we CANDERLEY- Ball me, baby, yeah, t”

The basses—yes, there were two—broke out in a barnyard shuffle like the break in Elvis’s version of “Baby Let’s Play House, ” and then there was a guitar solo: Son Tidwell playing that chickenscratch thing.

Lights gleamed in the dark, and I thought of a song from the fifties—Claudine Clark singing “Party Lights. ” And here they were, Japanese lanterns hung from the trees above the path of railroad-tie steps leading from the house to the water. Party lights casting mystic circles of radiance in the dark: red blue and green. Behind me, Sara was singing the bridge to her Manderley song—mama likes it nasty, mama likes it strong, mama likes to party all night long—but it was fading.

Sara and the Red-Top Boys had set up their bandstand in the driveway by the sound, about where George Footman had parked when he came to serve me with Max Devore’s subpoena. I was descending toward the lake through circles of radiance, past party lights surrounded by soft-winged moths.

One had found its way inside a lamp and it cast a monstrous, batlike shadow against the ribbed paper. The flower-boxes Jo had put beside the steps were full of night-blooming roses. In the light of the Japanese lanterns they looked blue. Now the band was only a faint murmur; I could hear Sara shouting out the lyric, laughing her way through it as though it were the funniest thing she’d ever heard, all that Manderley-sanderley-canderley stuff, but I could no longer make out the individual words. Much clearer was the lap of the lake against the rocks at the foot of the steps, the hollow clunk of the cannisters under the swimming float, and the cry of a loon drifting out of the darkness.

Someone was standing on The Street to my right, at the edge of the lake.

I couldn’t see his face, but I could see the brown sportcoat and the tee-shirt he was wearing beneath it. The lapels cut off some of the letters of the message, so it looked like this:

ORMA ER OUN I knew what it said anyway—in dreams you almost always know, don’t you?

NOV& tar SPERM COUNT, a Village Cafe yuck-it-up special if ever there was one. I was in the north bedroom dreaming all this, and here I woke up enough to know I was dreaming. . . except it was like waking into another dream, because Bunter’s bell was ringing madly and there was someone standing in the hall. Mr. Normal Sperm Count? No, not him. The shadow-shape falling on the door wasn’t quite human. It was slumped, the arms indistinct. I sat up into the silver shaking of the bell, clutching a loose puddle of sheet against my naked waist, sure it was the shroud-thing out there—the shroud-thing had come out of its grave to get me. “Please don’t, ” I said in a dry and trembling voice. “Please don’t, please. ” The shadow on the door raised its arms. “It ain’t nuthin but a barn-dance sugar/” Sara Tidwell’s laughing, furious voice sang. . .

“It ain’t nuthin but a round-and-round/” I lay back down and pulled the sheet over my face in a childish act of denial. . . and there I stood on our little lick of beach, wearing just my undershorts. My feet were ankle-deep in the water. It was warm the way the lake gets by midsummer.

My dim shadow was cast two ways, in one direction by the scantling moon which rode low above the water, in another by the Japanese lantern with the moth caught inside it. The man who’d been standing on the path was gone but he had left a plastic owl to mark his place. It stared at me with frozen, gold-ringed eyes. “Hey Irish! ” I looked out at the swimming float. Jo stood there. She must have just climbed out of the water, because she was still dripping and her hair was plastered against her cheeks. She was wearing the two-piece swimsuit from the photo I’d found, gray with red piping. “It’s been a long time, Irish—what do you say? ”

“Say about what? ” I called back, although I knew. “About this! ” She put her hands over her breasts and squeezed. Water ran out between her fingers and trickled across her knuckles. “Come on, Irish, ” she said from beside and above me, “come on, you bastard, let’s go. ” I felt her strip down the sheet, pulling it easily out of my sleep-numbed fingers.

I shut my eyes, but she took my hand and placed it between her legs. As I found that velvety seam and began to stroke it open, she began to rub the back of my neck with her fingers.

“You’re not Jo, ” I said. “Who are you? ”

But no one was there to answer. I was in the woods. It was dark, and on the lake the loons were crying. I was walking the path to Jo’s studio.

It wasn’t a dream; I could feel the cool air against my skin and the occasional bite of a rock into my bare sole or heel. A mosquito buzzed around my ear and I waved it away. I was wearing Jockey shorts, and at every step they pulled against a huge and throbbing erection.

“What the hell is this? ” I asked as Jo’s little barnboard studio loomed in the dark. I looked behind me and saw Sara on her hill, not the woman but the house, a long lodge jutting toward the nightbound lake. “What’s happening to me? ”

“Everything’s all right, Mike, ” Jo said. She was standing on the float, watching as I swam toward her. She put her hands behind her neck like a calendar model, lifting her breasts more fully into the damp halter. As in the photo, I could see her nipples poking out the cloth. I was swimming in my underpants, and with the same huge erection.

“Everything’s all right, Mike, ” Mattie said in the north bedroom, and I opened my eyes. She was sitting beside me on the bed, smooth and naked in the weak glow of the nightlight. Her hair was down, hanging to her shoulders. Her breasts were tiny, the size of teacups, but the nipples were large and distended. Between her legs, where my hand still lingered, was a powderpuff of blonde hair, smooth as down. Her body was wrapped in shadows like moth-wings, like rose-petals. There was something desperately attractive about her as she sat there—she was like the prize you know you’ll never win at the carny shooting gallery or the county fair ringtoss. The one they keep on the top shelf. She reached under the sheet and folded her fingers over the stretched material of my undershorts.

Everything’s all right, it ain’t nuthin but a round-and-round, said the UFO voice as I climbed the steps to my wife’s studio. I stooped, fished for the key from beneath the mat, and took it out.

I climbed the ladder to the float, wet and dripping, preceded by my engorged sex—is there anything, I wonder, so unintentionally comic as a sexually aroused man? Jo stood on the boards in her wet bathing suit. I pulled Mattie into bed with me. I opened the door to Jo’s studio. All of these things happened at the same time, weaving in and out of each other like strands of some exotic rope or belt. The thing with Jo felt the most like a dream, the thing in the studio, me crossing the floor and looking down at my old green IBM, the least. Mattie in the north bedroom was somewhere in between.

On the float Jo said, “Do what you want. ” In the north bedroom Mattie said, “Do what you want. ” In the studio, no one had to tell me anything.

In there I knew exactly what I wanted.

On the float I bent my head and put my mouth on one of Jo’s breasts and sucked the cloth-covered nipple into my mouth. I tasted damp fabric and dank lake. She reached for me where I stuck out and I slapped her hand away. If she touched me I would come at once. I sucked, drinking back trickles of cotton-water, groping with my own hands, first caressing her ass and then yanking down the bottom half of her suit. I got it off her and she dropped to her knees. I did too, finally getting rid of my wet, clinging underpants and tossing them on top of her bikini panty. We faced each other that way, me naked, her almost.

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