Pretty maids all in a row

23

The first thing Chief Poldaski heard from his wife Mary when he got home that night was, “Get the butter?”

John, having had a very hard day, perhaps the hardest of all the many long crime-busting days in his entire career, was in no mood for such pleasantries, no matter how much he loved her, and how hungry he was, incidentally.

“What butter?” He growled, forgetting all about what a mean fuck she threw, without a doubt of it.

“What butter?” Mary fired back, definitely riled, “Are you being funny? Boy?"

The Chief, a dim recollection in the back of his mind, was aware of himself wondering, at the same time: How would this finish up? He was apprehensive.

That part sank from view as he answered, with another growl, “What in hell you talkin’ about?”

“Christ! Oh Keerist!” His wife’s response was to that, “Didn’t you even open your dumb book today? Huh? Boy? Didn’t you see it on the very first page? The First PageI Hey! Plain as your monthly pay?"

“ What The Hell’s Wrong With My Pay?" John blasted off, stung to the quick by that one.

“You could be pulling in more just sweeping the floors up at the Electronics Plant—that for a start—if you want to know—But You Don’t Want To Know! Do you, Bo? You just want to play big—Big BIG—Big John The Frig! Oh You Frig! FRIG!" She handed him, in one go.

“ARE YOU KIDDIN’ ME?” John roared.

And Mary belted him across the face with the long, damp rag she had in her hand. It made a resounding smack. What a blow.

“Don’t holler at ME^-YOU BUM!” Mary made herself heard, and belting him once more, “I’ll pound you black and blue, I’ll kick you all over the floor, I’ll mop the house up with you—AND MORE! YOU CRUMMY BUM!” She belted him more. It was a steady downpour.

The Chief tried to cover up, dance around, duck, and o-therwise evade the blows, now raining in from all directions, it seemed. He felt he had twenty wives, or more.

“Christ!” He yelled, “Holy Christ!” He yelped and yelled, “Hey! Knock it off! For Christ Sake! Jesus Christ! Wo! What’s Up? What The Hell’s Up? What’s Up With You? Don’t You know—WHAT HAPPENED TODAY?”

"You Didn't Get The Friggin' Butter Today!" She told him, definitively, bombarding him more.

“LISTEN! GODDAMIT! HEY! LISTEN—WILLYA! Where Ya Been? What You Been DOIN’ Today? LISTEN HERE! HERE! HEY!⁵’ The Chief tried, in vain, performing quite a dance.

“When I say Butter—I mean BUTTER! Mo. I’m SO goddamn sick of you! GO! Your Whole crummv family— TOO! How’d I ever get MIXED UP with you? GODDAMN POLAK YOU! Bunch of NO GOOD DUMB POLAKS. All of you! YOW! YO! OH MO!” She maintained her assault.

"A GODDAMN SCHOOL KID WAS MURDERED TODAY!" Poldaski roared out, shaking the house.

“Who?” Mary asked, slowing down her barrage.

“That Fairbunn girl—you know the girl—that gal— Hell, you know the girl—That Cheerleader Chief—Jill, that’s her name—Know her? Now?" John shouted out, taking advantage of the lull and springing a brilliant tactical surprise, to wit, snatching the rag out of her hands.

"Gimme that rag!" She cried out, infuriated by what looked like a ruse, “Are you kiddin’ me? What the hell are you talkin’ about? GIMME! You Crummy Cop! YOU POLAK! You Dumb Crumb Of A Polak!” She hurled herself at him, wrestling him for the rag.

“Where the hell you BEEN today?” Poldaski fired, hanging on for dear life.

“YOU MEAN ME?”

“Didn’t ya see the papers? THE RADIO? You always hear the RADIO! What about TV? Jesus, you been under the FLOORBOARDS? Hey?”

She delivered him a terrific blow, to the side of the face* It sent him staggering back, against the chair, which he fell over. He hit the floor like a ton. She stood over him.

“YOU STINKГ Mary roared. "YOU ALL STINK!” You Friggin’ Crumb! YOU BUM! SELMO BUM!”

She picked up a loaf of bread from the table nearby and threw it at him. He got it in the face.

“OWWWI" The Chief roared. “WOW!” He went on to roar. "You Whore I AINT KIDDIN’ YA!” He implored. “WHO’S KJDDIN’ WHO?” Mary asked.

“This kid was MURDERED Today! HEY! Turn on the NEWS! GO ON! You whore of a WHORE! You busted my NoseV

“Don’t bleed all over the floor! GET OFF THE FLOOR! Go in the bathroom—CRUMB! Get Your Hankie Out—YOU POLAK BUM!”

“Her head was stuck down the head—LISTEN—Don't Think I'm Kiddin' YouГ "Who?”

“I TOLD YA ALREADY! This FAIRBUNN gal—I’m TELLIN’ ya!”

“HOLD THAT HANKIE TO YOUR NOSE!”

“I’M NOT KIDDIN’ YA!”

Silence. At last. John daubed his nose.

“What’s her name?” Mary asked, ten tones lower.

“Jill Fairbunn—I think—”

“I know her!”

“Well sure you know her! Well, they found her—

“What didya do?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you—”

“What?”

“I'm not kiddin', you shoulduv seen it—"

“Who did it?”

“Who knows?”

Pretty Maids All in a Row 125 “Murdered? Jill Fairbunn? That Fairbunn girl? She’s a beautiful girl! You better not be kiddiri me around, no kiddin’, Boy—”

“Listen, I’m not kiddin’ at All! Well Just turn on the News! Go on! Paper come yet?”

“I’ll get it—Mustuv—by now—”

“You’ll see if I’m kiddin’ or not! And Your Friggin⁹ Butter! HUH!”

"Jesus Christ! It takes a lot less than a murder to make you forget my butter! That’s AllI"

“Well Stop Writin’ In My Goddamn Pad!’’

“LISTEN, I’LL MURDER YOUГ “Get the goddamn paper—Go on—”

“Did you do it? Crumb?”

“HUH?”

“You’re about the only guy in Sawyersville who could do it! I know! Tell the truth, Polak! I don’t give a frig/ Think I’d turn you in?”

“You ain’t funny!”

“Who else could do it? Where’s The Paper?’’

She searched around the room, she left the room, she banged a few doors, he heard the front door, she came back, she had the paper, she was just opening it up. Her eyebrows shot up a mile. She whistled.

“Didn’t I Tell Ya?” Poldaski said, triumphantly, the handkerchief still to his nose.

“It’s got your name in here—” Mary said.

“Yeh?"

“Don’t tell me you’re workin’ on it!”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Oh man! How come you didn’t call me? You coulduv put in a phone call to me! No? Hey—”

“Listen ”

“Who’s Ponce de Leon?”

“Don’t it say? The kid that found her—”

“I’ll bet he did it? What a name!”

“Naw. Uh Uh. I got some ideas—”

“You shoulduv called me—”

“Take a look at my nose—” He whined at her.

“Get up—you stayin’ there all day? Look at what it says —the whole front page—And You Never Called Me! Or Got The Butter! Listen, Safeway’s still open—Get Down There!’’

126 Pretty Maids All in a Row "With my nose like this?"

“Get up—”

“Take a look at it—”

The Chief got to his feet. He stood before her. She glanced up from her paper, cursorily examined his face. “It’s alright”

“Where’d ya get that hard loaf?”

“Don’t worry. It’s alright.”

“Look at it bleedin’ though—”

“Just hold the hankie to it—”

“I had a rough day. Rough. No kiddin’, Mare. What a day. And you bust my nose—”

“You should of phoned me—”

“Jesus, I thought sure you’d heard it—”

“Who did it?”

“I got some ideas—”

“Yeh?”

“Can’t tell у a yet though—”

**A w—"

“What ideas?”

“Can’t tell ya, Mare—"

“Waddaya mean? Why not?"

“Can’t—that’s all—”

“Want your supper? Bo?”

¹¹ Aw—Mare—”

“Better tell me—”

••Стоп—"

“Honest! I was!”

“Alright! No supperГ “Want the butter?”

“Tell me—"

“Jesus Christ!”

“Did you do it?”

“NoГ

“What ideas?”

“I’ll tell ya later.”

••Now."

Chief Poldaski, still holding the handkerchief to his nose, looked down at his wife. She waited to hear from him, the newspaper in one hand, her other hand on her hip.

“One of them Jigs.”

Mary stood quietly, taking it in. She kept her eyes on her husband, letting it sink in. Looking at her, he wondered if he would get anything tonight. He touched his ear, which was flaring red. She had teased the hell out of him—last night.

“Get the butter.”

She said, finally.

Very quietly.

24

Tiger, after supper, which was delicious, as usual, for Looby Loo certainly could cook, and a browse around in his den, left the house, for although he had had a full day, more or less, he wasn’t quite set to turn in. He told Hilda he was just going to “check around,” which meant, as she knew, he was going to visit the various high-school hangouts in town, juke joints, pizzerias, and the like, and see what his athletes might be up to, if anything, after their curfew hour (imposed by Tiger). He kissed his sweetie of a daughter Jane goodnight, admiring her pretty face, which was a lot like Looby Loo’s, and her steadily developing elegant little body (she was eleven), and her cute personality and character structure, to boot. He certainly was fond of her. He said, “See you later,” to Looby Loo, and set off, not without a little kiss for her too. He loved them both. He glanced at his watch as he climbed into his Mustang, for he had an appointment at nine-thirty of course with the most interesting, in many respects, of all those on his interesting list. Rochelle Hudson. No less. Tiger smiled, warmly, thinking of her, almost seeing her, before him. The back of his neck and head tingled, his shoulders and back, his arms felt a certain surge in them. Without a doubt, he was fond of her. He started the car and rolled away from his house on Maple Avenue, one of the nicest of Sawyersville’s very nice avenues. His car radio was on, in fact it came on automatically, and a soft tune was playing for him, it was a soft jazz rendering of “Georgia” and it was great, just perfect and great, it had the smoothest beat. He and Looby Loo liked to dance to that tune, played this way, sweet and slow, low. He remembered their courting days, they used to dance a lot, they would hold close, and drift around the floor, their arms about one another. It was out of this world, dancing that way, to a great tune like this. They didn’t dance all that much nowadays of course, but in his mind, right now, hearing the tune, Tiger was dancing with Looby Loo, holding close, loving it, loving her. He had never known anyone who could dance like her. It was just one of the reasons he had married her. On that dance floor they were one. Warmly, he thought of his loved one. She used The Pill to contracept, and he loved her for that too. It was great. She always had a plentiful supply on hand. In fact, more than enough. Just now, before coming out, Tiger had filled up a number of little bottles. He did this about twice a week. He had a few of these bottles in his pocket right now, as a matter of fact. Though, before the evening was over, he might well have one less. He had to check. He grew warmer, thinking of Rochelle, that unique girl. All in all, he felt good. Pretty good. For of course there was the matter of that tragic disastrous event of the morning nudging its way in, from time to time, in fact, a good deal of the time. It saddened him. He felt bad. But that’s life, Tiger thought, sadly, driving on, his headlights cutting the night. Korea. That had been life. To date, probably his saddest, hardest experience in life. Looking back now, to what seemed a long time, a far-off time, tucked far away, in time, he could definitely say it, and see it: the saddest, the hardest—bar none. And all through it she had waited. That sweetheart, that darling, that only one. . . . He would love her, treasure her, forever. Looby Loo. When had he first given her that pet name? She had loved it, right from the start. It was part of her. Sometimes, signing checks, he knew, she had told him, she almost wrote it down. They laughed over it. They had soft little laughs over it. He loved her blond hair. It was natural. He couldn’t stand blond hair that wasn’t natural. He could spot it a mile off—anytime. Any old time. In Korea, all through it, her picture was in his pocket. During lulls, when he wrote to her, he would take it out, and lay it down, before him. His Company knew all about her. She was there, when he got back, waiting for him. She loved him. Who else had so loved him. And loved him? His mother, passed away now, had loved him. But a different love, certainly, wasn’t it? This was complete love, total, wasn’t it. For him, all of it. He adored her. He drove through a patch of light mist, thinking of her, warmly, he drove down Maple Avenue, along Tenth Street, across Linwood Drive, down Sawyers Avenue, the main business section of Sawyersville, lined with neon-lit stores, two moviehouses, baTS and grills, and into Twelfth Street, cruising easily, steadily, thinking, as always, looking out at a group of kids hanging around Jimmy’s Juke Joint, glancing at another group walking along possibly toward Giannari’s Pizzeria & Jump Joint. Certainly, their activities didn’t appear to be curtailed tonight. It surprised him, slightly. He wondered if any of his star athletes might be among them, hoping not, hoping if so they would have sense enough to get themselves home early, as per his curfew, for tonight would be pretty much of an impossibility for him to check up properly. That's life alright, Tiger thought, sadly, driving along, listening now to the next great tune coming out of the radio, introduced incomparably smoothly and soothingly by Bill somebody or other, Night Owl, and Prowler, self-styled. There's no explaining it, Tiger thought, the tragedy, the disaster, the sheer hell that all of life essentially is, look around you. Tiger thought, sadly, and especially for kids, for any kid, my kid, my own sweet kid, that kid, and the kid I once was, I was a kid, long ago, hell I'm getting old, long long ago, running around, in the summer sun, that good Sawyersville summer sun, what a sun, who else has such sun, thinking it was all one long summer sun, I hated winter, that was an intrusion and a half in my life which I couldn’t understand, long ago, no matter how often I saw it, it was all such a long time ago, my mom, my pop, Mom, Pop, on the porch, the summer sun. . . . For kids are full of hope and life and dreams, most kids anyhow, I rarely have met a negative kid, a genuinely antisocial kid, rarely, in all my long experience working with kids, and beauty and truth and good, most of all they want to grow up and fulfill all their dreams. . . .

For there, Tiger thought, ever more melancholy now, there is the essential heart of the greatest disaster and tragedy on earth bar none, this Hell-Earth, Tiger thought, the utter fiasco, the fraud, the bitter mouthful of ashes it all turns out to be, for these kids, any kid. ... All parents, well most parents, certainly, hope that for their kids it will turn our differently, another way, in fact, it's what they mainly work and sweat and go through sheer hell for, another way, as if there ever was or ever could be another way, What way? I myself, looking at Jane, that little doll, feel the same way, it’s only natural, it can’t be helped, that’s how we are, watching her, loving her, hoping for her, working for her, it's all part of that sad, mad game. . . . For it all turns out the same. . . . Only the same. . . . Poor Jill, that sweet kid, that lovely, luscious, honey-kid. . . . Think of her when you think of the timeless moment of truth, suspended, cold, forever more, for all of us in store, think, J knew her so well, so well. . . . That kid. . . . Tiger shook his head, sadly, the closest yet to tears, filled with the heaviness of the loss. . . . Gone, she was gone, and really gone, and never again, never, not ever again. . . . How could he balance it, accept it? Where wav the perspective? Figure. Ground. It was all ground. . . . Tiger’s thoughts hit a bleak terrain. For a while, he merely drove, like a zombie, thinking nothing at all. He passed the Episcopalian church, his church. Something was going on in the hall, all the lights were on. Was it a dance? He wondered. How cotdd it be? Looby Loo hadn’t mentioned it to him. Tonight? Just how could it be? It couldn't be. Maybe the electricians were working in there. He would ask Looby Loo. He slowed down, he didn’t see any kids. . . . Kids are my life, the voice in Tiger went on, alive again, through them I live, I know. My football teams. My classes. My work. My own kid. I know it's the spirit of kids that keeps me alive. Just as in Korea, there, Looby Loo kept me alive. I know. It wasn't until / hit thirty that I began to feel the full impact of the disaster that life in the adult world, our world, really was. It was then that I started going though the crisis which nearly took me out of it all. It lasted several years. I know. I came close, so close, to saying goodbye to it all. Until I found the way. I found my way. The only way, so far as I know, or can tell, to hang on. to stay around, for a while, anyhow. For. anyhow, you never know, you just never know—who ever knows? Did those guys in your Company know? Did Jill know? That warm, wonderful girl, that tremendously vital, living girl. What did she know? Ten, fifteen seconds —and no more. Nothing more to know. No. Do you know? The brutal core of life. That’s it. The dark forces swarming around, all around, within, and out there, only waiting to put out the light. And yet—and here’s the most agonizing part of it—part of the light, yes, that’s it, absolutely, and mocking it, ever attacking it, insidiously, brutally. ... In myriad ways. ... Yet always„ essentially, the same way. . . . This is life. The tragibeauty, Life. . . . Never would I talk this way to Jane. I couldn’t bring myself even to mention any of this to Jane, I couldn't bear it. A nd yet—there she is, before me, my own, my very own, given me by Looby Loo, the best a fellow could ever hope to have, how did I ever land such a gem, how could she be my own. ... In for it, my Jane, the grotesque world of Adults. . . . What am I supposed to do? As I watch her play, and grow up, I have this dark, stark truth hidden away, pushed out of the way—What can 1 do? Does it show through? When? At what point? When she’s especially happy and thrilled about something? In the way that kids are and only kids can ever be? 1 don’t know. Maybe. I feel it, certainly. I try not to show it. I don’t show it. I play the game. It’s all a game. To the end. . . . Tiger sighed, turning up Schooley Road and slowing down to a crawl, just at its intersection with Sycamore Street on or near the comer of which, if all went according to plan—

He saw her, just running toward the corner, and he began to climb out of his deep, dark melancholy, as soon as he saw her young form, that exquisite form, running, easily, toward that corner.

He pulled up beside her, and opened the door. The fresh, sweet fragrance hit him and filled the car, almost at once. She sat beside him and pulled shut the door.

“Hi,” she said, snuggling up to him.

“Hi," he said, pulling away from the curb, aware only of her, the wonderful fragrance of her, beside him, near him, her hand, her fingers now playing with his ear.

“Maybe tonight's a bad night,” she said, in her low, astoundingly beautiful voice, that unique voice, which he loved. “But I just couldn’t wait anymore.”

“I know,” he told her, murmuring to her, and placing a hand on her lap, where her hand promptly clasped it, eagerly, yet tenderly.

“You're great,” Tiger said, “You’re always on time,” He said, already beginning to feel fine, in fact quivering a little inside, at the thought of what lay ahead, with his breathtak-ingly unique Rochelle, that astonishing maid.

“That was just awful, wasn’t it?” she said, raising his hand, the hand, to her cheek, and her lips, caressing it with a kiss.

“And how,” he said, driving ahead. He was heading out of town, he would take the road up to the hills which overlooked the town, and the valley. From there they could see the whole valley. It was marvelous, the view was unbeatable. At night, in particular.

“It’s really scared everybody.” she said, continuing to caress his hand, “That poor kid,” she said, cuddling the hand.

“You like that hand?”

“I love it.”

“That’s your hand.”

“Ummm—I know it—”

Tiger turned into the highway. The traffic was very light tonight. It usually was—around this time. Tiger was thinking about the girl beside him. Rochelle had two more years at the high school, this year, and next. She was, as a matter of fact, in the same class as Ponce, that great kid, Tiger’s unofficial right-hand man, his future full-time assistant and eventual successor, he hoped, fondly. She was seventeen, and terrific. Really uniquely terrific, Tiger knew, murmuring it to himself, within. That first encounter in the Guidance/Counseling office had truly astonished him, putting it mildly, and he had then and there created the new category of stars, blue, i.e., especially for her, and no other. He had also decided, then and there, that she was to be catered for in the car on all future encounters. It was the least he could do. He knew it. He had missed her most of all, the truth be known, during the long summer vacation, which Tiger, each year, dreaded more and more. He suddenly recalled, for she had gone out of town, away to

Pretty Maids All in a Row 133 some seaside resort, or camp, was it, and he hadn’t had one single opportunity to contact her, the whole while. It was a spectacular affair, their reunion. Tiger recalled, warmly. She was certainly a great kid, with a phenomenal intelligence, second only to none, well, to Ponce, maybe. On the Stummper, the truth be known, they were level. Somehow, though, Tiger felt Ponce was ahead—by a shade, only. He had no objective proof of this. It was intuitive, purely. For when he had first administered the Stummper to her last year, in the middle of her sophomore year, when in fact he had first met her, face to face, there in the Office, she had soared spectacularly, truly amazing him, for the blunt truth was: he hadn’t expected it. She had, up to the time, seemed so normal. Truly amazing. It had amazed him, and taught him a lesson he would never forget, one each and every Guidance Counselor should learn. Not unlearn. In some instances. He had mentioned it in one of his papers. Since then, of course, subsequently, as a matter of course, having had the opportunity to really get to know her, thoroughly, more or less, he had come to realize the girl’s performance in other life-areas was little short of phenomenal also. He had, in short, come to realize that he had on his hands in that school a genuine phenomenon, of no mean order, no less. She was, for example, probably the finest natural actress Tiger had ever encountered in all his years as Adviser, Director, Coach & Teacher of the school’s Drama Department & Club. She had fine presence, a natural ability to fall into each role, however diverse or difficult indeed, she did this with vigor and zest, and passionate intelligence, to boot. She was a gem. He was not only proud of her, he was crazy about her, and she knew it. With her intelligence, Tiger mused, and had always mused, how could she help but know it. She was great. Great. She astounded him. They were out of town now and heading into the hills. All around them was darkness, except straight ahead of course where the lights played. Yes, Tiger thought, feeling her snuggling beside him, no doubt dying for him, her face just against his shoulder and from time to time lifting and kissing him all about the ear. Yes, Tiger thought, as he had on many previous occasions, this was the girl he would most like to have by his side, his partner in life, should anything ever happen to Looby Loo, his true blue. Out of the blue. For it could, well he knew, in this uncertain life, this tragic, and utterly baffling, this only life. It was true— “Tiger,” the girl murmured, “I forgot to tell you—” she went on to murmur—“Oh, don’t get scared, Darling, are you scared?” She paused, smiling, he knew—“It’s not too bad,” She paused once more, teasing him, he knew—“I’m running a little low, that’s all—Lovely—” She told him, sweet and low.

Tiger grinned, turning his head quickly to give her a little kiss. He was a careful driver. He kept his grin, looking ahead again, this was one he never had to worry about in any way, shape, or form, or remind, at all, she was so much on the ball. He adored her.

“My coat pocket,” he said, giving her one more peck. “Ummmm—” She said, dipping her hand into his coat pocket, as instructed. She found the little bottle and curled her fingers about it, withdrawing it, finally.

“Enough,” he told her.

“Hold them for me.”

“O.K.—Lovely.”

" You’re so lovely—”

Her head on his shoulder.

“How’s everything?” He murmured.

“You’ll find out—” She told him, snuggling up to him, dropping the bottle back into his pocket, “Aren’t they marvelous—” She murmured, “A marvelous development —” She told him.

“I can tell you,” He told her.

“Yes, you’ll find out,” She murmured.

“I’d like to find out more often—”

“You’re so busy—busy busy—my Tiger—**

“What have you got on?”

“No bra—”

“Lovely—”

“They are lovely—”

“They must feel comfy—”

“They’re waiting for you, Lovely, comfy and lovely, all for vou—let me tell you—” She told him, murmuring.

“tell me—”

“Ummmm—comfy—”

“What are they doing?”

Pretty Maids All in a Row 135 “They’re under my dress, you haven’t seen my dress— it’s a new one—”

“What color?”

“Orange. A dusty orange. They call it.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“You’ll love it.”

“I’ll have a good look at it.”

“Oh you’ll love it.”

“Have a slip on?”

“Pretty one.”

“And they’re under it.”

“They are, Lovely, comfy, waiting for you, just for you, oh you Tiger you my wonderful you Tiger under it—” She said.

“Silkies?”

“Awfully pretty ones—”

“We’re almost there—”

“/ love it there.”

“The view’s great—”

"Isn’t it—”

“Working hard?”

“You gave so much Civics homework—Honey—”

“Don’t you like it?”

“I’ve got a theme to do for Miss Smith—you know Miss Smith, don’t you, Lovely?”

He grinned, at the same time wondering. He couldn’t help wondering. For her intelligence was phenomenal. But he let it ride, for the position was laudable. Laudable. He was lucky.

“When did you first wear a bra?” He asked her.

“Oh—” She murmured.

‘They start at nine nowadays—don’t they? Lovely?”

She laughed softly, “That’s a billion-dollar market, isn’t it, Tiger honey, to be exploited—ask Uncle Brucie—”

“He earns more than the President—doesn’t he?”

“He does—doesn’t he—”

“He ought to run for President—”

“He’d make it—”

“A Reagan-Uncle Brucie ticket—” Tiger chuckled. “They'd make it—”

“You know it.”

She was still laughing softly, near his ear. Her warm sweet breath, in his ear.

“America—’’ she murmured.

“The Beautiful—” He told her.. . .

Tiger turned off the road when he hit the top of the hill and pulled into their favorite hideaway. It was a nook completely screened from the road, over which little traffic passed at this time of night, in any event. Yet, they had a magnificent view of the lights of the entire valley, spread out before them, far below them. It was perfect. Tiger was in a warm, light, frolicking mood now. The height. The night The unique Rochelle. It always did it, and in fact kept him in it for a couple of days afterward, at least. It was his favorite mood. He wished all of life could be journeyed through in that mood. She was a tonic. Just the mere proximity of her. Just now they were nestled in each other’s arms, having just completed their first, marvelous, deeply passionate kiss. It was a kiss and a half, as only she could give. She was caressing his face, neck, and back of his head. She sighed, as only she could sigh. He was quivering within. Gently, adoringly, he brushed her sweet ear with his lips, and caressed her lovely, full breasts, unencumbered by any manner of trappings underneath. He loved caressing them. For a long while, through that new, lovely, dusty-orange dress, he did just that. He found the intoxicating tips. He lingered there, as she arched and moaned, clasping him ever closer to her.

“I could never marry anyone—” She murmured, in her remarkably lovely voice, “My only one—” She went on, “No one—” And on, “Not after you—Darling Tiger you—ⁿ She kissed him, “Except you—"

“I’m sorry I’m tied up, Lovely, I really am—” Tiger murmured in a brief moment of disengagement, "I’m crazy about you—”

“Anyway—” she moaned, kissing him, wonderfully.

“How are you?” He said to her, continuing to fondle her breasts, through that exquisite dress.

"My Darling—" She moaned, huskily, clinging to him. Her warm, sweet breath in his face.

“Someday—” He murmured to her, “What a day—” He told her.

"My day—” She whispered to him.

He unbuttoned her dress. She slipped out of it, smoothly.

Pretty Maids AII in a Row 137 “It’s a nice dress,” he told her, laying it down, carefully. “Like it?” she murmured.

“Love it,” he said, “Love your slip—” He also said.

“Yes, that’s nice too—” She said.

“Love it—”

“So glad—you love it—”

“You lovely honey—”

“Oh I love you, Honey—”

His hand was inside her slip, caressing and fondling her breasts. Softly she moaned, seeking his mouth,

“Tiger—"

“Lovely—”

. She was growing warmer and warmer, her hands caressed him, gliding over him. He slipped her breasts out of her slip, which itself was half off her, and slipping ever more. He kissed those superb treasures, all his. She fell back, slowly, onto the ample seat, taking him with her. He kissed her breasts, his mouth closed over the tips, wetting, suckling them. His hands glided over her, caressing her, searching for her—She helped him slip off what remained. Already she had discarded her slip. She was ever warmer, her body burned under his hand, though he was on fire as well, he felt her pounding heart, his own matched it, she moaned and whispered to him, over and over. Her hands found him, she fondled him. ... A long while, he kissed her thighs, her belly, he glided his tongue over her stomach, her belly, her thighs, he smothered them with his kisses, she was more than on fire, he realized. Her knees were rising. She was calling his name, again, and again. His head was between her thighs, he was kissing, gliding, tenderly, he murmured and whispered to her, constantly, she trembled, moving, moaning, near ecstasy at his exquisite caressing—she was ready—waiting—she was trembling— He mounted her, he glided into her trembling body, marvelously, deeply, stroking her tenderly, she pulled him on top of her, she was trembling violently, moaning his name, constantly, they kissed, their tongues intermingling, wonderfully, a long while, he stroked and stroked her, she was a hot river, deep, flowing, ever more opening— They were burning hot, drenched—both of them—

“Now Tiger—” At last she said—“Now My Tiger—” She gasped and said, trembling more and more.

“Alright, Lovely—” Tiger said, withdrawing his shaft,

exquisitely, slowly, as she moaned, murmuring— He eased himself downward, gliding over her form— His entire body pounded at the impending, approaching, spectacular finale, the most unique and glorious he had ever heard of or known, unfurled for him by her, only, this unique one —and only—

"Now Lovely—” She gasped out, barely, ready, totally.

“Wow, Lovely—” He told her, making his hand into a fist and easing it between her divine thighs, and upward, slowly, ever upward, gently, entering her, marvelously, sliding upward, ever, deeper, seeking her, as she groaned, and moaned, trembling violently—

“Yes Lovely—" Her voice came to him somewhere near a scream, it seemed, as a hot, white spinning haze began enveloping him, “Yes, YES LOVELY—” She said— His arm was gliding, penetrating, he was almost up to his elbow, he was drenching wet, nearly out of his head, he began to stroke, he stroked and stroked, she was writhing under it, it was a pumping stroke, he stroked more rapidly, feeling the very depths of her meeting his loving fist, each time it thrust home in her, he stroked and stroked, she began to scream, he was in a wild dream, the sweat poured off him. she couldn’t have been drenched more, he plunged and stroked, up to his elbow.

“T I G E R!” She screamed, wildly, reaching for him, clutching him—He withdrew his arm, fully—“OH— T I G E R!” She pulled him onto her, he plunged his throbbing shaft into her, she clasped him tightly, a fiery vise, she kissed him. passionately, her legs wrapped around him, her body jerked and jerked, fabulously, he plunged massively, all the way, wildly, jolting, spilling within her, violently, a tributary to the vast, convulsing, flowing hot river she now was . . . totally— They rolled off the seat, rapturously jerking spasmodically. . . . They were on the car floor, still entwined. . . .

“Tiger—"

She moaned, over and over, in his ear, kissing it—she was still twitching.

“Lovely Honey—”

He murmured to her, in her ear, a long while, coming back to this world, gradually, caressing her, tenderly.. . .

Ponce, floating on clouds at least ten miles high, got back home about eleven that night, just about the time Rochelle, and Tiger, and seventy-seventh heaven, were parting. Ponce had passed a truly inspiring, exciting, breathtaking evening at his dream’s apartment. They had talked and talked. Ponce never knew he had so much to talk about, that there was so much two people together could talk about. How had he done it? It just seemed to flow out of him, all sorts of things, subjects, topics, intoxicating him. He was intoxicated. She had inspired him, without the slightest doubt of it. Sitting there, especially after they had finished their cocoa, he was aware of a definite, gradual, most gratifying and welcome melting away of the powerful forces which had, up till then, to all intents and purposes, paralyzed him. His dream had probably smoked about a pack of cigarettes, at least, Ponce reflected, thinking back on it, attentive to detail, as always. She had made toasted cheese sandwiches with olives and pickles as a side dish and potato chips too, to boot, for both of them. It was delicious. And more cocoa too. Before the evening was through. She made him feel right at home. It was wonderful. He still saw her, sitting there, on that sofa, not all that far from him. Her fragrance surrounded him. Even though, Ponce floundered, dipping downward, he hadn’t kissed her, or caressed her, or laid a hand on her, as much as he had been dying to. Screaming within to. He loved her, he was utterly and desperately in love with her. Even though, Ponce further floundered, she had held his hand, on that walk to the kitchen, and back again. Even though, Ponce really floundered, crestfallen, she had stood before him, and touched his face, with that heavenly hand, that hand . . . so tenderly . . .

But how they had talked! At least they had established a rock solid relationship there, in that sphere, no doubt of it. First, of course, Milton. They had gone up and down, and across and down, and in and out, all the lanes and byways, not to mention highways, of that great English poet. Ponce had learned more in one evening from her than he would, he knew, from all the reading he could do in the next five years, at least, on the subject. It was great. She had gone right to the heart of it. He had felt right in tune with it. His theme would show it. Would such a theme, at Sawyersville, ever be seen again? Ponce doubted it. He was excited about it. Perhaps they would publish it. Yes, ii could well be, possibly, his first published work, he thought of it. Inspired as he was, aware of his abilities as he fully was, the idea seemed not too far-fetched at all to him. Ponce pondered. He’d be thrilled no end. His mother would. Certainly, Miss Smith, and of course Tiger, would. What about Peppy? Ponce grinned. . . . Then, Democracy. Passing over, somehow, into the realm of Social Studies, they had thoroughly explored the cherished ideals and practical practices of that much bandied and living concept. They had come to the conclusion, more or less, and however reluctantly, that in the great and powerful country in which they after all did happen to reside and were part and parcel of, the concept, in fact, up to now, had been, and was, somewhat of, or something akin to, a fiasco. More unkindly, and only mentioned in passing, a floperoo, a first-class one. Miss Smith had pointed out how in fact the great democracy was almost totally, and purely, in the control of, and hands of, "The Industrial-Military-Right,” as she termed it, and Ponce, on reflection, concurred in. A vast, banal complex, it ran the show. In fact, banefully, it was the show. That was the crudest fact. The hardest. Who disputed it? Miss Smith, for the life of her, couldn’t imagine anyone trying to. Ponce didn’t try to. The nation was a monolith, one hundred percent, almost, behind it How couldn’t it be? It was it. It saddened him. And really they didn’t know or have in mind anything that could replace it. For they agreed that it was the characters and personalities of the vast majority of citizens that needed replacing. Or altering. And how could that be accomplished? Could it ever be? Caught as they were in the vicious cycle of heredity-social-personal-intra-and-inter-personal pressures, factors, and processes, all interrelating and interacting, relentlessly, what possible chance did they have? Could they have? Plus intelligence. Ponce certainly was aware how that was distributed. Totally undemocratically, and unalterably, at birth no less! What was the answer? It was baffling. Perhaps, one day, The Bomb would take care of it. Though of course they hoped not. Certainly. For when it came to that, they knew the side they were on. Life, imperfect, flawed, general floperoo or fiasco though it might be, was the only one, to be on. They knew it. They agreed. Completely. For there was hope in it. . . . Next, integration. Civil Rights was the only and proper approach to the matter, and it would take a long, long time for the Negro citizens to reach their goal. The problem, Miss Smith had told him, was in fact a psychological one, based on the equation of black citizens in the minds of a very substantial majority of white citizens with feces. That was exactly how she had put it to Ponce, and though startling at first, on reflection it made a good deal of sense to him. He accepted it. This vast majority, Miss Smith had gone on to tell him, had never really evolved or developed beyond an early anal structure, rooted in infancy. Their characters, however mature in many ways, still were under the influence of powerful split-off parts of themselves, anal totally. They were made sick, in short, they were horrified by the thought of (though they weren’t in the least bit aware of it) having to rub shoulders on equal terms, in short, to mix with what were, in their primitive minds, chunks of living, walking, talking feces. In short, shit. This vast majority would certainly have to grow up, integrate those split-off parts of themselves, before the Negro really had a chance in this country. And the Negro would have to haul himself up by his bootstraps also, somehow, so he could help these primitives by showing them that certainly he wasn’t at all what their minds equated him with, despite his color. It was a two-way process, without a doubt of it! Ponce had been fascinated, in fact almost staggered, by this revelation and interpretation of the sad situation. And the high esteem in which he held Miss Smith rose even higher, if that was possible, for clearly she was sophisticated in areas other than Literature, and without a doubt of it. Ponce had expressed his concern that possibly in the present circumstances of the tragic situation which had hit Sawyersville square in the eye, i.e., the demise of Jill Fairbunn, there would be strong pressures brought to

bear in support of the theory that the culprit must have been one of the handful of Negro students not so long ago introduced into the school system—unless, of course, the real culprit was quickly found. And, Ponce had added, wistfully, he certainly hoped to God that it didn't turn out . to be a colored boy! Miss Smith had agreed, sharing his anxiety, adding only that in view of the apparently high caliber of the person handling the matter, to wit, Captain Surcher, the culprit would be found—for how could such an undoubted monster remain undiscovered for very long? How? Just how? How could he? She pressed it. And she assumed, she added, with a little laugh, it was a he, naturally. Ponce shared the little laugh, briefly, unexpectedly. . . .

Next, Education. And Miss Smith had let it be known how terrible in her view many of the present trends and so-called developments in that area were. For example, the encroachment of mechanization into the teacher-pupil relationship, in the shape of, just for example, teaching machines, computers, TV classes. Miss Smith said it was very bad, outrageous, and based principally on the desire to attack the very heart, the essence of the educational process, viz., the teacher-student relationship. The answer was to supply more teachers, more classrooms, not mechanical gadgets, she emphatically stated. She happened to have known some of the characters who had played a part in “developing” certain of these gadgets, in particular, the Teaching Machine, that blatant horror, and she could tell Ponce categorically what perverted souls they were, to a man, of no mean order. Ponce believed her, for he couldn’t agree more, regarding Teaching Machines, ‘and Computers. A number of the former had been installed at the high school on an experimental basis, and he hated them. He hoped it would flop, dramatically. Certainly, he would do all he could, toward that end. He told Miss Smith. She smiled at that. Tiger, he knew, didn’t think much of them. Who did? Mummer. That queer of queers, that possible murderer. Ponce once again had run into it He resolved to built up the guts to talk to Tiger about him. Or Surcher. Maybe Surcher. Certainly. And that would take more than guts. He knew it. He mused over it, painfully. He veered back to teaching machines. He saw

them for what they were. He agreed with Miss Smith, completely—they were part of an attempt to dehumanize the whole process of Education. The goal was to break the links, destroy the very essence of Education. Would it happen? Ponce, for one, vowed he would do his best to see that it didn’t. . . .

Then, Foreign Affairs. Vietnam, of course. Miss Smith’s view was that America was too unsophisticated a country to go around trying to decide and act on moral issues in remote parts of the world whose problems were quite beyond our comprehension. It was all pretentious. So far as she could judge, as a matter of fact, it would be no great harm at all if the whole of Southeast Asia was turned over to the Communists. They could have it. Certainly they had the required energy and drive and organizational ability if nothing else to get things moving and all those millions and millions off their hopeless behinds. Certainly they would awaken them. That part of the world had a vast potential. If left alone. Look at China! Just what in God’s name we were doing in Vietnam, other than giving the Industrial-Military Pots something to do, she never knew. Bombing, burning, uprooting that already miserable people—back to the Stone Age? To quote someone. In Aid Of What? She wondered. Ponce, growing unhappier, also wondered. He certainly agreed with her when she put out the unique suggestion that if Uncle really wanted to act on a genuine moral issue he should pull out all those troops and planes and what have you and send them along down to South Africa—and Rhodesia—plus a few other such places—there was an Issue! A real issue! What were we doing with it? On the other hand, what could we do with it? Since a substantial majority, or certainly a large enough minority plus armies of silent followers, of good Americans shared the hateful Apartheid doctrine totally, Sharpsville and all, and more even. Here was the paradox, the essential core of hypocrisy which was the reality behind the facade of Wholesome American Democracy, of course. It was a highly undemocratic, conservative bordering on reactionary Society, the Great American Democracy, on the whole, no less. And corrupt to the nth degree, more or less. Who didn’t know it? All intelligent people, outside of America, certainly knew it. Those within, fogged as they were, conformism, cowardice, alL the rest ... It was a sad affair. No doubt of it. How would it end?

Then, Culture. Miss Smith had said that the appreciation of Culture would always of natural necessity be restricted to a relatively small proportion of humans, since this appreciation and understanding required a certain level of intelligence and intellect and emotional maturity and character structure—and certainly this level could not be reached by very many, in the present context of things, and not ever by too many, in view of the highly unequal distribution of certain basic gifts at birth, by the Maker, she smiled, wryly. . . . Ponce, reflecting, certainly had to agree. . . .

And other subjects, and topics, and areas, of course. God how many of them! One of them hitting him in the face now as he entered the house and saw his beloved little brother Rusty Joe glued to the radio in his room listening to that latest innovation in the National Escalation toward Total Lunacy, all in aid of Exploitable Markets. Uncle Brucie. ... He's a lunatic, Ponce thought, glumly, hearing the manic voice. He gazed at his brother.

“Rusty Joe—”

“Shhh—Ponce—I’m listening—”

“Aren't you supposed to be asleep?’*

“C'mon, Ponce—let me listen—”

“I think you better go to sleep.”

“Mom and Dad are asleep—”

“I know it.”

Ponce crossed over to the transistor beside the boy’s bed and turned it off. He knew Rusty Joe at that moment hated him.

“Are you going to bed?” The boy asked, not in the friendliest way.

“Yeh.”

“Well, take Peppy.”

And reaching under the covers he hauled out Ponce’s favorite cat, the purest joy of his life, outside of Miss Smith. He wondered how that crazy cat had managed to survive under all those blankets, anyhow. They really did have nine lives, Ponce fondly pondered. He took the gray-and-white darling in his arms and stroked her, murmuring to her. She started purring. Rusty Joe smiled. He too loved that cat, without a doubt of it. Now he doesn’t hate me. Ponce thought, grinning at him. That cat was a bond, alright.

“Where you been, Ponce?” the boy asked him.

“Out.”

“Got a girl friend?”

Ponce didn’t answer that. He was aware of the agent provocateur lurking behind that one.

“Don’t put Peppy under the covers again.,” he told the boy.

“She won’t die.”

“Don’t do it.”

“She likes it under there. No kidding. Read me a story.” “How many did Mom read you?”

“None.”

“Liar.”

“I'm not a liar.”

“And Dad?”

“Read me опеГ*

“Got a girl friend?”

“Aw, good night.”

Ponce started to withdraw from the room with his Peppy draped in his arms, purring away, loving it. Rusty Joe jumped out of bed.

“Where you going?” Ponce asked.

“To the toilet.”

“And then right back to bed. Don’t forget it.”

“Aw, Ponce, gee, you’re as bad as Mom, no kidding. Uncle Brucie—”

“Hurry up now,” Ponce interrupted, stiffening at the mere mention of the name.

“Boss Ponce!” Rusty handed him, scooting into the toilet. Ponce went downstairs with Peppy and deposited the little darling of a creature, still purring, in the kitchen, where she slept in a comfortable foam-pillow-lined basket. He spoke to her for a few seconds, petting her, sweet nothings, really. She loved them. He gave her a final caress and took off, heading for bed. He peeped in his brother’s room to make sure he was in bed. He was.

“Good night, Mike,” Ponce kidded him.

“Good night, Spike!” called out the boy, “See you at breakfast!” Ponce nodded, grinning. He loved the boy.

In his room. Ponce lay in bed, and all he could think of was Miss Smith. He had knocked gently on his parents’ bedroom door, then gone in. His mother was still awake, and she had hugged him and kissed him good night. His hand had accidentally brushed her breast. It was so soft. She didn't mind. She wore a light nightdress. He had felt her breast under his hand, he had been excited by it, for his mother had beautiful breasts. If there had been more light in the room he might even have seen them, as sometimes he did, through a light nightdress. They were nice, soft breasts. Like Miss Smith’s Ponce reflected, thinking of that dream, the dream of all his dreams, forever more. He grew warm, lying there, in bed. He thought of her, and couldn’t get to sleep. He felt such a tremendous longing for her, there just was no one else in the world he had ever longed so much for. If only he were older, and working, Ponce thought, he could date her and get engaged and marry her. He knew she liked him. He would give just about anything and everything he had or ever would have to be married to her. He tossed and turned on the bed, utterly unable to sleep. His heart pounded, he was in some state. He would see her tomorrow, she would be there in front of the class, she would be there, smiling, talking, moving. He saw her moving. He saw her near him, in that dress she had on tonight, moving. He clenched his fists, angry that he hadn’t been able to do a thing, anything, over at her place tonight. She had held his hand and stood near him and caressed his face. He had seen her breasts rising, he had seen the whiteness of them just rising out of the top of that dress, before him, as she leaned toward him. That had thrilled him. He had done nothing. Well why hadn’t she done something? Suddenly, Ponce found he was angry with her—a little. Certainly, she had seen the state he was in, his organ protruding a mile and nearly bursting out of his pants, no less. She had seen it! She hadn’t even mentioned it! Ponce’s anger faded quickly though. For he was aware that although she thrilled him physically and he would give just about everything to be able* to relate to her physically, she meant much much more than that to him, of course. Even in the lavatory, at school, when he jacked off over her, he knew. He always knew. Now he knew. He would always know, no matter what finally became of her. He was blue. She would probably be

Pretty Maids AII in a Row 147 meeting some guy one of these days and marrying him, Ponce thought. How long could a dream like that keep from being snatched up? Maybe she even had a boyfriend now, Ponce thought—he should have asked her. How could he ask her? Why hadn’t he done something? Lying there, once again growing warm, he felt sure he could have done something. Would he ever again get the chance to? He was sure she wouldn’t have stopped him, in fact, probably, maybe, there was just the chance, yes, she might have liked it. Certainly, she liked him. What other kid had ever been up there? Ponce didn’t know of any. He just couldn’t sleep, pondering all these things, seeing her, before him. Beside him. He was dying for her. He was just about burning for her. His organ was stiff and large, throbbing, screaming out for his hand. Should he stroke it? There was certainly plenty of it, enough to satisfy anyone, anyone, anyone. Ponce murmured her name. “Betty—Darling—” He was murmuring. He throbbed with longing for her, he was dying for her. He fought the wild desire to move his hand to the organ. He didn’t want that. He wanted to go beyond that. The real thing. Tonight, he had muffed the golden opportunity, he hadn’t done a single thing. Not a thing. What good would this do, knowing what he had missed? It didn’t matter though. The golden day would come! Ponce was throbbing, starting to sweat now. He could smell his dream. Without a doubt, her fragrance was in that bed, with him, and smothering him. He didn’t mind, it could smother him. Ponce fought. He closed his eyes. He forced himself to lie still, though his whole body hammered away. He saw her there. He could almost feel her, under him, there. Ponce sweated. His clenched fist pounded the bed.

His hand was dying to meet, to stroke, to stroke and stroke, his red hot. He fought. The fragrance of roses filled the room. He kissed her. . . . Ponce, in a state of supreme anguish now, fought and fought. . . .

Tiger didn’t get back home all that late that night, despite all. It must have been around twelve or a quarter to twelve, not much later than that. He felt pretty good. The world and life seemed not only tolerable again, but fresh, even somewhat challenging, once again. Like they used to be all the time, Tiger mused, or practically all the time. Once upon a time. He mused and mused. Long ago. How long ago? When, though? He roamed around the house. He didn’t feel like going to sleep right away. Not right away. Still poignantly aware of the presence and fragrance of the unique Rochelle, he walked through the house looking for something to nibble on—an apple, anything at all to nibble on. An apple, in fact, would do. And he found one. A big red one. He took a big bite out of it. Absolutely delicious. Was it Italy Betty said grew apples even bigger than this? She had been there. He would like to have seen them. She had raved about them, and only was sorry she hadn’t brought back at least one for him. He remembered. He grinned. He certainly was fond of her. An apple always brought her to mind for him. He stood there in the kitchen eating away at that apple and looking out into the night through the big kitchen window. He hadn't put the light on in there, it was a pretty clear night and wasn’t necessary. There was a moon somewhere, though he couldn’t see it Not from there. He liked to stand there sometimes in the darkness especially on such a night and look out that kitchen window. Anytime, in fact, he had been out late at night, on the prowl, checking up on his athletes, such things. Rochelle had remarked on the moon. From there, they had seen it, not too long ago, suddenly emerge out of the clouds as the night cleared. Now Tiger could see how it lit up the back yard so softly, and the woods beyond the back yard, for Tiger’s house was situated in that pan of town which gave an unobstructed view of them. It was some view, alright. They stretched for miles, part of the hills. It was a great part of town, and Tiger loved it. As a kid, he had often played in those woods, though he had lived in another part of the town. He moved here not long after he got married, when his teaching career began. He had been lucky enough to buy this great little house. He loved it, as did Looby Loo. It was perfect. All they wanted, and perfect. He remembered a moon like this in Korea. One such night, looking out, he suddenly saw what seemed like the whole Chinese army pouring out of the hills. In the moonlight, which had broken through. His Company had been overrun. Their sector of the front smashed. It was the end. How had he survived? Everything? To this day, he couldn’t understand. Was it luck, purely, that handled such things? What was he supposed to do with that medal—upstairs? At any rate, he thought that’s where it was. Somewhere, upstairs. He had lost track of the thing. He stayed there quite a while, looking out that window, until he had completely eaten the apple, and thrown the core away. Then, giving the fabulous scene one last look, and thinking once again of Rochelle, that unique and wonderful girl, and Betty Smith, thrown in, he left the room, and headed upstairs. He thought of Jane. It was too late probably to go into her room and tuck her in and say good night to that cutest kid. He headed for his den. Looby Loo probably would be asleep, or pretty nearly asleep, certainly. The door to their room was slightly ajar, and as he walked past he heard his wife’s voice murmuring to him, out of the night.

“That you, honey?”

“Yeh, hon,’’ he replied, softly.

“Everything alright?”

“Right,” he replied, into the opening of the door, “I’m gonna read a little while—O.K.?” He said.

“O.K.,” she replied, murmuring drowsily, he could see her drowsy smile almost, which he loved so much.

“Don’t be too long,” she added, falling away.

He nodded and left. He walked past Jane’s door. He peeked in and could just see her form in the bed. She was asleep. He entered the room and went up to her bed. He leaned over. He heard her breathing. He saw her pretty face, her mother’s face, and her blond hair spilling over the pillow. He kissed her on the lips, lightly. She gave a little sigh, but otherwise did not stir. Tiger felt warm, and good, toward her. He loved her. He was smiling, as he left the room.

Reaching his den, he flipped on the light and looked around. There was some school work to do, a batch of Health Ed test papers to peruse, some Guidance/Counseling stuff. But there was no great hurry, he could take care of that tomorrow. He picked up the latest Time magazine. It was open at the page he had reached earlier in the day. He sat down in his comfortable easy chair, near the desk, and began to read. He wasn’t exactly in love with the magazine, but sometimes it had useful information in it. Without a doubt. That was it.

He read—

—The Need For Laughter—

What Tiger was reading actually was a review of a book in the Education pages, a book in the field of Education, that is, by one Kenneth Eble, a Professor of Education somewhere, Tiger noted. It seemed interesting. It was something like this that made the subscription worthwhile, he knew, even before starting to read the review. He just knew. The letters weren’t all that bad either. Often, he was amused. Other times, intrigued. Once in a while, bewildered, also. Were they made up? Was some editor charged with the task? Tiger grinned, wondering. One of these days they’d be doing a little article on Sawyersville, the fabulous team. He knew it, without a doubt, they’d do it. He read—

—Love, learning and life are what education is all about. Yet somehow, US schools never get involved in any of them. Tiger halted, nodding his head, musing, smiling a little bit. He couldn’t agree more. From one end of the country to the other, he knew, and up and down, to boot, the situation was exactly like that, absolutely. It was sad. Here and there, of course, there were isolated patches to the contrary, those wonderful exceptions that always occurred, no matter how grim a situation. Tiger knew. He hoped Sawyersville was one of them. He liked to think it was. Certainly, it was his goal. He agreed, and completely, with the Professor’s wise words.

—“to learn,” writes Eble, “is to love**

Absolutely, Tiger thought, delighted. Of course it was.

That was a remarkable truth to read in this magazine, and no doubt of it, even if it was only quoting. Did everything, but everything, after all, serve a purpose? As Hetty Nectar so often told him? Tiger chuckled. She was so fond of saying it. He read—

—Students ought to revel in discovery, Eble says, but educators from grade to grad school—Tiger loved that— have a knack for taking most of the joy out of learning. . . .

Still grinning at the cute turn of phrase, a specialty of the magazine, true, he knew, Tiger nodded his head. Who was this Eble? Tiger wondered, did he know him, perchance? He kept on wondering. The name was vaguely familiar, but then that wasn’t enough. He examined the photograph of the man on the page. He could have known him. Through one of the corridors of learning somewhere their paths may well have crossed, possibly without their knowing it. Some conference perhaps, or other, it could have been. It was the smallest of smallest possible worlds, he knew. How right he was, Tiger mused, knowing or not knowing him. He read— ,

—Pupils should be in love with their teachers. . . . “It is no joke,” says Eble, “it's the way of learning.”

Certainly it was, Tiger knew. Anyone with any understanding of the human condition knew, and it certainly was a condition, well he knew. It was built into every good teacher, it was what made him or her tick, this love, this ability to elicit it. It had to be there. If it wasn’t, the result —Mummer. Tiger shook his head, over that one. Well, we couldn’t all be perfect. Once he got rid of him, he would certainly hold nothing against him. Maybe Proffer would take him on in the TV business. They could start a new line, selling Teaching Machines—to the public. Tiger grinned, over that one. Yes, Educators had to have this innate trait, the character and personality structure that went with it, to elicit love, to make pupils fall in love with them. Eble had hit it. Warmth. So many educators lacked it. Too many more were afraid of it. What was wrong with it? It was, basically, Mummer’s trouble. And Crisp-well’s. Tiger reflected further, on the former, the very teacher Ponce had apparently bowled over that morning in his flight from the lavatory. He certainly fell in that category. Tiger knew the kids just hated to go to his classes, they were bored stiff by them. How well it tied in with the man's fanatic belief in Teaching Machines, and other similar “educational aids,” so called, ironically. And the next paragraph—

“. . . that is the advantage of live teachers and live books—they can be fallen in love with, possessed—That is the whole secret of real educationEble says. . . .

The article concluded, leaving Tiger highly delighted, and contemplating writing a letter even to the fellow, Eble, congratulating him on his efforts. Maybe he would even send him reprints of some of his own papers, in case he hadn’t ever seen them. They had appeared for the most part in the State Educational Journal, which he may or may not have taken. They were specialized articles, in the sphere of Guidance/Counseling, for the most pan. Certainly, he would be interested in them. Tiger also made a note to get a copy of the book, through the usual channels, Hetty Nectar, that sweetheart of a Librarian, of course. She was a marvelous Librarian, the best Sawyersville had ever hired, no doubt of it. Tiger mused, over her. The kids loved her. They made full use of the Library.. . .

Tiger flipped through the rest of the magazine, all anticlimax, of course, and threw it aside, finally, after tearing out the page which had interested him. The magazine itself he had thrown in the wastepaper basket.

He sat back in his chair, thinking, a warm smile on his face. What would Rochelle be doing? Sleeping? Dreaming? How did she feel, that astonishing girl, and what was she dreaming? Tiger wondered. He hoped she felt wonderful, he had done his best to make her feel wonderful, he knew it. He always did. What more could he do? He didn’t know it. She was a dream, he hoped she was dreaming of him. . . . Tomorrow, in Civics class, he’d be seeing her. She and his Ponce as usual sparking the class. He smiled warmly, thinking of his two bright stars of the class. Often they tangled head-on, on certain issues, and how the sparks flew. It was neck and neck, nearly always, Tiger knew. Sawyersville was lucky, having two intelligences of that order, in one class, no less. Lucky. He was proud of them, as who wouldn’t be. . . . Tomorrow would be Jill plus one also, now Tiger mused, suddenly, sadly. The great search for the culprit would be swinging into high gear, if he

Pretty Maids A tl in a Row 153 knew. He felt it, and the very best of all possible luck to the man in charge of it all, Captain Surcher, that sober, earnest, intelligent, in short, definitely competent man, Tiger felt sure. He sat in his chair awhile longer. He was thinking of Jill. Of it all. Of Rochelle. He found himself wondering, suddenly, did that dream ever caress her own breasts? Just w'hat was it like, having such marvelous breasts? Perfect. The only word for them. In bed, perhaps, sometimes, did she play with them? Tonight, maybe? Lying there, before going to sleep, thinking of him— maybe? He knew that he would, he mused, certainly, if he had them. . . . Poor Jill. . . . She wouldn’t leave him. He shook his head, he sighed. That variation by Ponce on Т-Special Twenty-four Pass On Four Decoy Left And Center was something. Something. Tomorrow, he’d try it. He couldn’t wait to try it. . . . He felt sleepy. He yawned. Time to hit the hay, definitely, he mused. . . . Looby Loo...,