The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 1 Read online

  “Why—!” he could have exclaimed. “What gives you the idee I’m married?”

  “I haven’t yet met a good-looking man who wasn’t.”

  He might have blushed and have asked, “You think I’m good-looking?”

  “Oh, yes indeed,” you could have affirmed, but have cautioned yourself, Easy, girl. You are supposed to let him do the courting.

  He would have blushed even deeper, and coughed, and hemmed and hawed, and said, “Well, let me tell you something, honey, and I don’t keer if you believe it or not, but you are the most scrum-didliumptuous lookin creature I ever seen in all my born days.”

  You could have laughed at length and have said, “Nobody ever called me that before.”

  And he could have joined your laughter and have said, “Well, they just aint any words. You’re cute as a bug’s ear.”

  So saying, he, Bug, would have been the first to sense your bugness.

  You could have liked him from the word go. Whether he was married or not—and that could not have mattered anyway because you could have been lying to him—you could have sensed something in the simple kinship of the situation: that he and you alone could have happened to be fishing at this spot on this morning when all God-fearing people were getting ready to go to church.

  There would have been an easiness about him that could have helped you feel at ease. This would have been important. For you could have begun to entertain a thought, a thought so serious that the only way to tinker with it would have been with easiness.

  Your problem, Bug, your long-standing and nearly hopeless problem could have been this: that being a woman, and a woman still relatively young, you possessed a woman’s body, and a woman’s reproductive system with all its nerves in full function, a woman’s sex and a woman’s (no average woman’s, granted) desire, and capacity for passion. It had gotten you into difficulties in the past…the distant past. Now, what opportunities could there have been in Stay More? Tearle Ingledew, one night when he was so drunk that he would mercifully have forgotten it the next morning had slipped his hand up your dress and toyed briefly with your pudendum. Colvin Swain, after writing out a prescription for some anodyne to help you sleep better, one time, had questioned you in a halting and roundabout manner as to whether or not your life had enough “satisfaction” and then he had taken a heavy swallow of some nerve-giving medicine and announced, “By God, Latha, I may be gittin on in years but I swear I can still coax a respectable stand out of the ole dingbat down here, so if there ever comes a time when you feel like you just got to have it, then I’ll gladly be at your service.” But the effort of this announcement had cost him so much—he grew red as a beet all over and had a terrible coughing fit—that you never got a chance to answer him, even if you had been able to.

  Oren Duckworth had tried for two years to seduce you, but had given up several years ago. Shy, homely Stanfield Ingledew had broached the subject in a very tentative and inconclusive way. Six assorted drummers, two traveling salesmen, a county road agent, and three random “tourists” had all, within the last eight years, flirted with you with intercourse as their object.

  Had you submitted to any of these, Bug, you might well have achieved some of that “satisfaction” that Doc Swain had alluded to, but the price you would have paid for it would have been the disrepute of a “loose woman” and all the concomitant opprobrium that would have ruined you as far as Stay More was concerned.

  A man who needed it badly could have gone up to Eureka Springs and bought it at a whorehouse. There was nothing anywhere for sale for women, and even if there had been you could not have paid cash money for it, Bug.

  The only way open to you, and this is what you could have been thinking about on this morning at Ole Bottomless, would be a chance encounter with a stranger in some remote place, under an assumed name, so there would never be any fear that he might tell on you or that anyone might ever trace it to you if he did. This situation, now, this meeting with Dolph Rivett, could have been virtually perfect—the answer, if you’ll pardon the expression, Bug, to a maiden’s prayer.

  It has been so long! you could have been shouting to yourself. I can’t even remember what it’s like.

  Dolph Rivett, by this time, could have seemed to have lost his interest in fishing, and could have appeared to have been more interested in talk, a loose, easy, bantering kind of chitchat.

  “I declare,” he could have remarked, with a wink in his voice if not in his eye, “aint you a little bit skeered to be way out here in the woods all by yoreself?”

  “No more scared than you,” you could have rejoined.

  “Some old goat might could come along and try to lead you astray.”

  “I expect he’d find me hard to lead.”

  “Never kin tell when there might be one of these here sex fiends a-runnin around loose.”

  “Life is full of dangers.”

  “Why, for all you might know, I might even be one of them myself.”

  “You sure don’t much look like one.”

  “Caint never tell. Them that don’t look it is probably the most likely.”

  “Do you feel like a sex fiend?”

  “Well, by nature I gen’rally feel pretty harmless, but any man would get to feelin kinda roosterish after lookin at you long enough.”

  “Now that’s too bad, because roosters can’t last more than a poke or two.”

  He would have blushed, but have said, “Haw! I happen to know one particular rooster who kin shore last a lot longer than that.”

  “Braggart,” you could have teased.

  “I’d be right glad to prove it to you.”

  Your wit could not have come up with a good retort for that.

  “How about it?” he could have asked, no longer joking, and you would have had to say something to that.

  “Fast, aren’t you?” you could have managed finally.

  “Thank you. Folks up home is always sayin that Dolph Rivett is slow as molasses in January.”

  You might have been desiring to say, “Then let’s see if you can be slow enough for you and fast enough for me!” Why am I being coy? you could have been asking yourself, in view of your decision to go through with it. What did it matter? Perhaps you simply could not have wanted to seem too easy. Or perhaps there could have been still some reservation in your mind, which, however, would have been dispelled when you now remembered that it had only been the night before when Sonora came home and confessed to you that she had lost her virginity and you, after assuring yourself that the girl was smart enough to have been careful against the possibility of impregnation, had received from her a rather frank sketch of the experience, which not only had cemented forever a bond between the two of you but also had left you feeling for the first time envious of her youth and position and popularity.

  “All right,” you could have said.

  He could have looked at you strangely, not understanding, uncertain, and then have asked, “All right what?”

  “All right prove it.”

  “You honestly mean it?”

  You could have nodded.

  “You mean…” he would have been suddenly uncomfortable, not expecting you to give in so readily “…you mean me and you…I hope you understand what I’m talkin about…now do you honestly mean that it’s all right with you if I…if you would…if me and you were to…to sleep…”

  “Not sleep.”

  “Naw, I mean…you know…”

  “I know.”

  He could have stared at you for another moment, and then asked, “You’re not a…you aint…you’ve done it before, have you?”

  You could have nodded.

  “I—” his voice would have been apologetic, “I aint got no…none of them…them things, you know, them safes…you know, them rubber—”

  “It’s all right,” you could have assured him.

  “Are you sure?” he could have persisted. “If you wanted me to I could…I could…stop beforehand…before…
the seed…”

  “I just finished my monthlies,” you could have prevaricated.

  “Well now, that’s just jim dandy,” he could have said, beaming, and begun to look around him, as if looking for a nice spot to do it on. He would not have noticed that a fish had taken his bait and was pulling it down into a hole at the bottom of Ole Bottomless.

  “You’ve got a bite,” you could not have helped pointing out to him.

  “Huh?” he could have said, a little panicky, perhaps thinking you had made some accusation which precluded the anticipated tumble.

  “There,” you could have said, pointing out the line being unreeled and disappearing into the water.

  “Shoot fire!” he could have exclaimed, and grabbed up his rod and begun reeling it in. After a minute’s work, a large fish could have appeared at the surface, a gollywhopper, the biggest catfish you’d ever seen, thrashing around and trying to pop the hook loose from its lip. Dolph Rivett would have been as a man torn. He would have wanted to land that prize cat, but have feared that during the several long minutes it took him to play the fish out you might change your mind. You could have been tempted to assure him, “Take your time. We’ve got all morning,” but somehow this would not have seemed a decent thing to say.

  Dolph Rivett could not have taken his time. “Aw dad hackle it,” he could have said, and jerked the line hard in order to remove the hook from the fish’s mouth. “What’s a ole fish at a time like this?”

  He could have reeled in his line and have put down the rod, and have asked you, “What about that willow thicket over there?”

  You could have shaken your head. “The chiggers’d chew us alive.” Then you could have pointed up at a ledge on the side of the mountain, “There’s a little cave up there,” but have regretted this: being from Demijohn, you would not have been supposed to have been familiar with the local terrain.

  “Just lead me to it!” he could have enthused.

  The two of you could have climbed up to the ridge, a hundred feet above the creek, and walked along beneath the overhanging ledge until you came to what was not actually a cave so much as a nook, a recession in the rock where ancient Bluff Dwellers had a shelter. The dirt floor of this cavern was still littered with the fragmented relics of this strange non-Indian tribe that had owned the Ozarks in the time of Christ. With his foot Dolph could have swept an area clean of bones and shards.

  His black and tan mongrel could have followed you. “Go tree a bird!” Dolph could have commanded it, but it could have sat firmly on its haunches with its head cocked to one side, curiously watching these two crazy people. You would not have minded, but Dolph would have, and eventually he could have thrown a piece of 2000-year-old pottery at it, and have hit it, and it could have yelped and dragged itself out of sight.

  You could have unbuckled your belt and unbuttoned your jeans and sat down on the dirt floor to tug them off your legs, and then have sat upon them as a mat of sorts.

  The light in the cavern would have been dim, but not dark, not really dark enough. For this reason, Dolph Rivett could not have removed his trousers; he merely could have unbuttoned his fly.

  You could have had a fleeting glimpse of his privates before he knelt before you: one of the heavy hirsute stones would have been still inside the fly, the bolt swollen and bolt upright, taut and straining.

  He would not have bothered with any preliminaries, assuming you were already aroused and ready. The sight of his equipment would have anointed your passage with some erotic dew, but not enough, not enough to ease his sudden hard deep entrance.

  It could have hurt. You might even have cried out. It would have had been so long since you last harbored a bloated penis within you that there simply would not have been room.

  He could have stopped. But only for a moment. Yet a moment of welcome respite that would have given you time to expand and to lust and to seep.

  Then he, having groaned repeatedly and having mumbled “Ah, Lord Jesus,” could have begun to pump, from the first stroke driving at full speed, an unvarying tempo of banging jolts. You, Bug, would have wanted to churn in response, but because of his weight upon you and the hard earthen floor beneath you you could not have. So all the work would have been his.

  And he could not have lasted very long. Just as you could have begun to hope that you might be plugged to that peak from which you could soar free, he, crooning “Goody” to the beat of each shuddering sock, could have disgorged his gob into you, you would have been able to feel the pulsing spasms of the unloading, the throbs shortening and weakening, until there was no movement or sound remaining but his breathlessness.

  He could have rolled off of you, and lay by your side.

  After a while, you could have said, not bitter nor even teasing, but dispassionate: “Rooster.”

  “I beg pardon, Sue,” he could have responded. “I reckon I just had it stored up too much.”

  Then he would have talked to you about his wife, who, it seemed, would only let him “bother” her about twice a year.

  The two of you could have lounged for a while on the dirt floor of that rock shelter, talking to each other about yourselves. You would not have learned much of consequence.

  Then you could have talked, idly, about various things. He could even have talked about politics. “I been readin in the papers about this here D.A. feller up to Noo Yark, fergit his name, but they say he could shore give old Franklin D. a run fer his money.”

  “Dewey,” you could have said.

  “Yeah, that’s the one. I heerd tell that one of them gallop polls says that Dewey’d git 52 per cent of the vote right now. ’Course, I’ve voted Democrat all my life.”

  By and by, Bug, you could have impulsively reached out and wrapped your fingers around his drooping piece. It would have been what you thought was the first time you had ever touched one. And because it would also have been what you thought was the first time you ever had an opportunity to take a good look at one in the light of day, you could have begun to study it while you fondled it. He would have been fidgety at first, because it would have been the first time anyone had ever fondled, let alone studied, his member. But then he would have become less fidgety and more fiery as he felt himself beginning to stir beneath your touch.

  You could have been thinking that it was a durn shame that society compelled a man to keep his genitals always covered, because there was something uniquely handsome about a smooth, sleek, sinewy, tall-standing stalk of healthily pink flesh. There was a carnal grandeur about it unequaled by any of Nature’s other deliberate inventions.

  And you could not have needed to have told him that you needed it.

  He could have started to bestraddle you again but you would have asked him if he didn’t mind taking off his pants. Blushing deeply, he would have.

  Then he would have been into you again, and this time, because there was no great pent-up gism thrashing to break loose, he could have lasted a good bit longer, his strokes steady and not quite so violent—a mechanical piston, a skin-sheathed ramrod. If you could have bothered to have counted, you would have found that he kept this up for nearly three minutes before reaching that point where he quickened, and his breathing began to puff “Goody, goody, goody” to the beat of his beats, and your cinctures expanded and contracted with the throbbing of his spewing.

  But this time, when he rolled off of you, you could have rolled with him and have pinned him down and have climbed aboard, and in the brief minute left to you before his magic wand lost its turgid magic you could have ridden upon him, tilting and pitching your hips, fashioning your own elaborate alternating measure, with irregular stresses that sung a cadence of touch and sensation your strings could be moved by. You would have been so busy constructing this great resplendent convulsion that you would not have noticed that Dolph Rivett could have been beginning to say “Goody goody” again. All that you could have been conscious of, as you closed your eyes and wildly wrenched your bottom, was the surge of your
substance merging with all nature, while in the background the cockles of your heart rollicked and roistered. I confess, Bug, it gives me one just to think of yours.

  When you could have come to, some time later, you would have found that Dolph had soaked his handkerchief in cold creek water and spread it over your brow and was fanning you with a frond of fern.

  “Why, I declare, Sue, darlin,” he could have declared when you opened your eyes, “if you didn’t just pass plumb dead out. Give me kind of a skeer. But, boy golly, I liked to of passed out myself.”

  You could have risen and put your jeans back on, and have gone down to the creek and found a spot along the bank where a spring flowed into it, and have cupped your hands and lapped up a refreshing drink.

  “You know somethin?” Dolph, at your side, could have said, “That there was the first time in my life I ever let off even twice, let alone three times. Holy snakes! Who would a guessed I had it in me?”

  You could have retrieved your fishing pole and your catch, and then have asked him a test question: “I wonder how far it is from here to Stay More?”

  “Couldn’t rightly tell,” he could have replied, to your relief. “If we was up on the road I might could spot a landmark, but it’s hard to say from here. I reckon it aint more’n maybe three, four mile at the most. You aimin to head that way?”

  “No, I’m just going on back over the mountain to Demijohn.”

  “Sue…could I…I got me a horse…could I sometime maybe ride down to Demijohn to see you?”

  You could have pretended shock. “Lord have mercy! Dolph, my daddy and my six brothers would shoot you on sight if they even caught you talking to me!”

  “Well.” He would have seemed dejected for a moment but then have brightened. “Is there any chance you might be comin back here fishin again?”

  “More than likely,” you could have replied.

  “Then maybe me’n you might could…might could get together again.

  “Sure.”

  “Then I’ll be lookin fer ye, Sue. I shore am much obliged. You’ll never know what a good turn you did me.”