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THE
JOYS OF YOUTH
I
have been thinking about the joys of youth, fondly remembering them now, after
a long time. For guys, the joys of youth refer to women, sports –
basketball, baseball, football, hockey, and anything else you can pass hit or
kick; guys care about women, shooting rabbits, catching largemouths so big they
almost break a fishing rod, women, and, of course, women.
I
want to tell the story of one woman, Kitty O'Donnell, my cousin. She's a
character in a new novel that's out. It's called
Smart Boys Swimming in the
River Styx
, and
it's selling well on Amazon (www.amazon.com) in the U.S. and the U.K. The joys
of youth are precious at any time, but especially in time of war. The
back-cover copy – what's literally written on the back of the novel
– says, "A woman's love, a brother's hand, a father's faith, this is
a story that will make you laugh and cry, and remember how it was."
MARY McHUGH
The story of Kitty OÕDonnell begins, as it must for
all of us, with the story of her mother. And the story of Mary McHugh, for
McHugh was Mary OÕDonnellÕs maiden name, begins in the Roaring Twenties during
the last century. Bear with me now, because this is important, if you want to
understand my cousin and her story, famous as she is in the new novel
Smart
Boys Swimming in the River Styx
(
www.amazon.com
).
Anyway, two men loved Mary McHugh, for she was a
beauty, and lively on the dance floors and in the saloons of that time. The
first was Del Searfoss, who met her at John White's Tavern, on a Labor Day
weekend in 1928, when White was still selling his draft beer out of coffee mugs
because of Prohibition. She was the prettiest girl in the room, and she had a
look about her. Her black hair was fashionably bobbed. Her white teeth flashed
into a broad and laughing smile with everything she said. And she had a way of
tilting her head to the side when she talked to him. She accepted his invitation
to dance, even though she was an inch taller than he.
And, as they moved about the
floor, she focused her deep blue eyes on him and smiled, tilting her head to
one side or the other in a way that made him believe she was hanging on every
word he said.
They danced several times that night, and, for
weeks thereafter he would stop for her at seven o'clock when she finished her
shift at the General Hospital. It was the first year of FordÕs new Model A;
and, only a few weeks before he met Mary McHugh, Del had paid $460 for a
cream-colored four-door phaeton, with forest-green fenders and a fold-back
canvas roof of the same color. On the fine fall evenings they would fold back
the top and drive across Market Street through Westmoor to the lake highway, or
up Wyoming Avenue to Howard's Barbecue, where huge haunches of beef turned
slowly on the rotisseries in the window. There, with curb service, they could
get two beef barbecues and two bottles of beer for half a dollar and sit in the
car, talking, for an hour or more.
After that, Del would drive her home. Mary McHugh
would kiss him lightly on the lips before skipping up the steps and into the
house. Then Del would stop at John WhiteÕs for an hour before driving to work
all night in the Dupont powder mill. Mary McHugh never pretended that she was
seeing only Del, but, to him, she was the only girl in the world he could love.
Then
Joe OÕDonnell came on the scene. He stood over six feet tall. He had broad
shoulders and black hair that he parted in the middle. He was 30 and had taken
over his family's speakeasy in the Hill Section of Scranton. He also met Mary
McHugh at John WhiteÕs, and he also fell in love with her.
Then
began their rivalry. Some evenings, Del would pull up to the hospital entrance,
only to find OÕDonnell already there. Other nights, if Joe OÕDonnell was
delayed on his trip down from Scranton, he might arrive just in time to see
Del's Model A whisking her off. If he saw them, he would follow in his Sainte
Claire, and he often pulled in beside them at Howard's or showed up on the
dance floor at Fernbrook Park.
They battled back and forth that
way through the winter and spring, jockeying for position with Mary McHugh, who
never gave one or the other any indication of her favor until a Saturday night
in early May when she was dancing with Del to the music of Rudy Vallee at
Fernbrook Park.
ÒJoeÕs asked me to marry him,Ó she
said.
Del stopped dancing. ÒHeÕs
what?Ó
ÒHeÕs asked me to marry him, and I
think IÕm going to.Ó
ÒOh, no.
No!
You know
I
want to marry you. WeÕre right
for each other, Mary McHugh. WeÕd be happy together.Ó
ÒI just have this feeling for him,
Del,Ó she told him, tears forming in her eyes.
ÒAnd you donÕt have it for me?Ó
ÒI just donÕt know what I feel.
JoeÕs asked me to marry him, and I think IÕm going to.Ó
MARY
McHUGHÕS WEDDING
They were married in July at St.
JohnÕs Church, and, after an outdoor reception at the Garden Restaurant in
Forty Fort, they drove to Scranton and caught the Phoebe Snow to Niagara Falls.
DelÕs heart was broken. Right up
to the wedding, he called her every day and begged her to marry him. On her
wedding day he got drunk and missed work. He stayed at home four days and
almost lost his job. John White tried to arrange dates for him with several
pretty girls, but he would have none of it. Mary McHugh, now Mary OÕDonnell,
had settled in with her new husband in an apartment over his Scranton tavern.
Del began a custom that he would maintain for several years. Every night,
before he went to work at the powder mill, he would drive up to the mountains
above Scranton and, parking at an overlook, he would gaze down at the cityÕs
lights, knowing she was there. Then he would begin to cry.
In December, he learned that she
was expecting her first child. The baby girl, Marian, was born the following
June. Through all the months, DelÕs routine never varied. He ate. He drank. He
slept poorly. He went nowhere. He walked in the woods behind his motherÕs
house, where he lived with his two unmarried sisters. Every night he drove to
Scranton and gazed down, hopelessly, at the city lights.
Del had not seen her since her
marriage. From mutual acquaintances, he
heard, occasionally, that she was happy. In another
year, she had a second child, also a daughter. Later he heard that she was expecting
again.
Then, one night at the bar, John
White began talking about Joe OÕDonnell.
ÒSurÕn heÕs breakinÕ the rules,Ó White said. ÒIf
youÕre tendinÕ bar, you canÕt drink with the customers. You canÕt keep it up,
night after night.Ó
ÒIs there a problem?" Del asked.
ÒThey say heÕs been doinÕ it for
years. Now the DepressionÕs hit everyone, itÕs catchinÕ up with him. He has his
worries, same as we all do. People have seen him fall down behind his bar.Ó
ÒAnd what about Mary McHugh?Ó
ÒShe loves him, Del,Ó John White
said. ÒFor better or worst, yÕknow.Ó
That night, before he went to
work, Del wrote her a brief note saying, in the simplest possible words, that,
if she ever needed help, she could count on him.
JOE OÕDONNELL
In three more years, Joe OÕDonnell was dead. Between the cost of his
final illness and his debts, his widow had nothing left. Forced to give up the
tavern, Mary OÕDonnell took her three young daughters back to Wilkes-Barre and
moved in with her sister. True to his promise, Del visited her and her
daughters every Saturday that she would allow him, always bringing with him a
bag of groceries or something for the children. When she wasn't in her nurse's
uniform, she wore black in mourning for her husband.
And so it continued. She was the only woman for Del. For a long time
she wanted no man. By the time she was able to think of a man again, though,
she no longer had any dreams. His presence had become a comfortable habit. On
her part, perhaps out of gratitude – and on his, out of devotion –
they began a relationship that they carried forward through the years. She was
protective of her children. She had no interest in seeing other men. He helped
her with the food bills, and she set a place for him at her table every night.
When Kathleen fell ill, Del was as devoted as any father could have been. But
Mary OÕDonnell would not allow him in the house if the children were not there,
and she would not let him sleep with her. They went to John White's on Saturday
evenings, to the Mayfair roadhouse on special occasions, and to the 115 Club
with friends from her old neighborhood. Before Del went home at night to his
mother's house, after the children had gone to bed, he would go down to the
cellar to help Mary shake the grates of the coal fire and damp it for the
night. She would let him kiss her there, before they went back upstairs. And
that way it went on.
A BEAUTIFUL BABY
IÕve told you that, and now I can bring on Kitty OÕDonnell, my cousin,
who, after all, is the reason IÕm writing this.
IÕll not go through all the ups
and downs with her, when she was a baby and in kindergarten, or whatever,
except to say that she
was
a beautiful baby, as everyone said. But one day when she
was twelve, she came home from Gate of Heaven Elementary School with a terrible
sore throat. She didn't like school. She didn't like the nuns who taught there.
She hated Sister Mary Margaret, who, at the beginning of the year, had forced
her to stand with her nose against the blackboard one morning when she forgot
her homework. She often made up excuses to stay home: she had an upset stomach;
she had a headache; she was having bad cramps from her period.
But her sore throat was different.
It had begun after the morning recess, and by noon her throat felt as if two
white-hot coals were burning at the back of her mouth, on each side.
ÒKathleen OÕDonnell, is this
another story of yours?" Sister Mary Margaret asked sternly when my cousin
wanted to be excused.
ÒNo, sister," Kitty told her.
"My throat hurts awful.Ó
"I seriously doubt that,
Kathleen OÕDonnell," Sister said. "You have no idea what pain is. Now
you go back to your seat and think about the sufferings our Lord had to
endure."
Kitty tried to do that, but her throat became more
and more sore – so sore that she could barely swallow. Her face burned,
and her eyes watered so that she could hardly see to the front of the room.
Midway through science class, the water in her eyes became hot tears. Putting
her right elbow on her desk, Kathleen supported her head with her hands,
covered her eyes, and began to cry.
The figure of Sister Mary Margaret
in her black habit loomed over her.
"Kathleen OÕDonnell, what
is
the matter?"
My poor cousin couldn't answer. She tried to stifle
her tears, but the hot coals in her throat burned all the worse.
"Stand up, Kathleen!"
Sister commanded. "Come over here to the window and let me look at your
throat."
There was a titter of nervous
laughter in the c1assroom.
"Silence!"
sister commanded. "Get busy,
class, and do the next five questions at the bottom of the page."
She took Kathleen to the window at the back of the
classroom and told her to open her mouth. Then, tilting Kathleen's head back
and using the end of a ruler as a tongue-depressor, Sister Mary Margaret peered
into her throat.
"It
is
a little red, Kathleen OÕDonnell,
but nothing to make all this fuss and commotion about. What would our Lord
think of all this, Kathleen OÕDonnell? However, you may get your coat from the
cloakroom and go straight home. And for disrupting the class this way, you may
do the twenty questions at the end of the chapter for homework.Ó
It was a raw March afternoon.
Kitty carried her books and her uneaten lunch as if they were the heaviest of
burdens. She imagined herself bearing a cross, and she staggered haltingly
under its heavy weight as she made her way over the uneven slate sidewalk. When
finally she turned the corner onto Sharpe Street and saw her home, she began to
cry again.
Her mother worked as a nurse at
the General Hospital and wouldn't be home until after four o'clock. Her two
sisters were still at school. Kitty had her own key. She dropped her coat and
her books on the livingroom floor, went straight through the narrow first-floor
rooms to the kitchen, and took two St
Joseph's aspirin tablets. Then she turned on the parlor radio, pulled
down her mother's brightly crocheted afghan from the back of an armchair and
drew the afghan over her as she curled up on the bumpy davenport to listen to
Young
Widow Brown.
The OÕDonnells did not think of
themselves as an impoverished family, but they were not well off. Mary
OÕDonnell, at 42, had been raising her three daughters almost alone since their
father died. IÕll fill that in for you. After living with her sister for a
year, Mary OÕDonnell had used the little bit of her husband's insurance and
what she made at the hospital to put a down payment on the small frame house in
Westmoor. Her parish, St. Ignatius, helped her keep the girls in Catholic
schools. They ate macaroni and cheese at least once a week, fish on Mondays and
Fridays, and toasted-cheese sandwiches on Saturday nights. When they had pork
chops, Mary OÕDonnell cut the meat for her children and took what was left for
herself. "The sweetest meat is close to the bone," she would say. She
was a loving mother and a principled woman. Only Del Searfoss had paid
attention to her since the death of Joseph OÕDonnell. Yet she had never allowed
him to be alone in the house with her when the children were absent. ThatÕs a
lot different from what it is today, of course, but those were different times,
and IÕll make no excuse for it. On Saturday evenings Mary OÕDonnell and Del
would walk down the block to the 112 Club and sit with neighbors, smoking,
talking and drinking beer from short, clear glasses. Mary liked Old Gold
cigarettes and collected the coupons for merchandise prizes.
"Playin' hooky!"
Kitty's younger sister cried when
she came in the door at 3:30. "I waited for you after school, until Sister
came out and said you went home early. I knew you were playin' hooky."
"I'm not!"
Kathleen shot back. "I have
an awful sore throat."
Elizabeth Ann
was eleven. She had her father's black hair and dark eyes. He had called her
Betsy.
"If Mom wants to go to the
movies tonight, I bet you don't stay home," Betsy taunted her sister,
taking off her coat as she headed for the kitchen
"And you better pick that stuff up off the floor Ôfore
Mom sees it," she said, turning back for another jibe.
"Oh, Betsy. I feel so sick. I
ache all over. Won't you please hang it up for me?" Kathleen begged her.
"I'm not your
servant,"
Betsy said. Then she thought a
moment. "What'll you give me if I do?"
"I'll do
the dishes for you tomorrow night."
"All my turns for two
weeks?"
"Please,
Betsy!"
"All my turns?"
Kathleen slid
off the davenport. Her knees, her elbows, and her wrists ached. She got her
books and her coat, and, turning toward the stairs, started up to her room.
"You'll be sorry!"
she cried.
RHEUMATIC FEVER
Finally, it had turned into
rheumatic fever.
The sore throat had been a
streptococcal infection and had led, as strep throats often did then, to the
even more serious condition that had damaged Kitty's heart. Three weeks after
she had the sore throat, she awoke on a Thursday morning with searing pain in
her left shoulder. She had never felt such pain, and she cried out for her
mother, who called Doctor Carey as Kitty writhed in agony.
"I'll have to take blood
tests," he told Mary OÕDonnell downstairs after he had finished examining
Kitty. "But it's rheumatic fever. I can already hear the gurgling in her
heart."
Mary OÕDonnell put her hands to
her face. "She has heart damage?"
"It's typical of rheumatic
fever," Dr. Carey said. "The disease causes inflammation in the
heart, and that inflammation causes a narrowing and thickening of the heart's
valves, especially the mitral valve. The pain in her shoulder comes from the
rheumatic or joint symptoms of the disease. She'll have intense pain there for
several more days. It will go away, but it will come back somewhere else
– in her elbows, or her wrists, or her ankles. The thing we have to be
especially careful about is that she doesn't have relapses. Rheumatic fever
does its worst damage when it recurs. Thank God we have penicillin now. I'll
start her on it today. I'll be coming in every day to see her. She'll need to
stay in bed. That's important. She mustn't do anything or have any physical
exertion that would strain her heart."
Altogether, Kitty spent nearly a
year at home, much of the time in bed. For a 12-year-old, the months were an
eternity. Outside, the world was alive and spreading itself in every direction.
From her bedroom window she could see cars, trucks, and trackless trolleys
hurrying up and down Wyoming Avenue. One morning the sun shone brightly on
new-fallen snow: The snow clung to the branches of the maple tree, tracing lacy
white patterns against the hard blue sky. Children she knew threw snowballs and
skated along the sidewalk as they made their way to school. She wanted to open
the window and call to them, but Del had nailed it shut so that she wouldn't be
in a draft.
EASTER
Easter came.
Her girlfriend, Barbara, helped her color eggs on a scarred oak table next to
the bed. Then they cut triangular patterns out of thin cardboard and laughed at
the funny costumes they made for the eggheads. Two old-maid sisters who lived
next-door came over and brought her a huge chocolate butter cream Easter egg
from the Candy Cottage Shoppe. Her mother took the trackless trolley to
Wilkes-Barre to do her Easter shopping. When she came home, she had three baby
chicks, one for each of the girls. Kitty's was dyed rose red; Marian's was
blue; Betsy's was purple. Holding the fuzzy red ball against her cheek and
feeling its softness, Kitty named her peep Elmer.
On Easter morning, Del arrived
before dawn to take her sisters for spring water. It was a ritual they had
always observed. Mary OÕDonnell would wake them silently in the darkness. They
would dress without speaking a word and go out to the car where Del was
waiting. Then they would drive in silence to his home on the mountain, where
they would draw clear gallon bottles of pure water from the spring on the hill
behind his house. The day before, Del would have cleaned the spring of every
leaf and twig. The sparkling water, in which they would wash their faces and hands
at home that morning, held special power: It would bring them health and good
fortune.
When Kitty heard the door close
and the car drive away, she felt utterly alone and forgotten. Always before she
had been the first one her mother had awakened. Kitty had been the one of the
three girls who had most appreciated the solemnity of the moment. No sound or
word was to be uttered, and anyone who made an audible noise was disqualified
from going. The year before, Betsy had felt too sleepy to get up and had spoken
deliberately, her mother pushing her back down beneath the warmth of the
covers. They would arrive at the spring as the first light of the new day broke
though the trees. Sometimes, if Easter came early, they would have to break the
thin skims of ice on the spring's surface.
She envied Betsy, who was taking
dance lessons. Her body was well-shaped, and she had special costumes for the
dance recitals. Del had bought her sister a small turquoise case to carry her
tap shoes and the tutu she would change into at the studio. The shoes were
shiny black patent leather and had silver buckles. She had pink and yellow
ribbons for her hair, and she could wear lipstick and make-up for the shows.
Kitty's rheumatic fever ebbed and
flowed. Her joints would become swollen and so painful that her mother couldn't
touch them: first one joint, her right thumb; then a joint
on her left foot, then others. Her mother would rub
the joint carefully with an analgesic that burned and smelled strongly of
wintergreen. Rheumatic fever had acute and dormant stages. The joint would
swell painfully for a week or so. She would lie in bed and cry into the pillow,
until it became wet with her tears, begging for the pain to go away. Then there
would be no pain, yet she would have to endure absolute bed rest, even though
she felt perfectly normal and wanted to go downstairs and eat breakfast with
her mother and her sisters. She would call down to them and ask them to bring
something upstairs for her.
Her mother carried all of her
meals to her on a polished wooden tray spread with a thin flower-print
dishtowel. Mary OÕDonnell fried delicious chicken, and they had smashed
potatoes and canned asparagus, with chocolate cake for dessert. Or sometimes
they had a supper of sausage that Del bought from a farmer to circumvent the
wartime rationing, and golden brown pancakes that her mother flipped on a
black, cast-iron griddle.
OLD MISS RUDDY
Often old Miss Ruddy, one of the
visiting teachers who came to her house every day after school, would stay for
supper. Miss Ruddy taught her arithmetic and science on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
She was fat, and Kitty dreaded to hear her wheezing as she made her way up the
steep staircase to her room. She wore flowing suits that were at least a size
too large, even for her. And her thin gray hair always seemed to be caught in
the act of escaping, a strand here and there held back by the bows of her
glasses. Miss Ruddy would arrive close to five o'clock. She would sit,
spread-kneed and sweating, on the chair next to Kitty's bed and drill her in
long division. She would finish at sometime after six, and, putting her books
and tablet into her worn leather briefcase, she would start down the stairs.
"My,
that smells like pork
chops," she would say at the bottom as Mary OÕDonnell came out of the
kitchen to fetch her coat.
"Yes, it is," her mother
would reply politely. "Would you like to stay? We have more than
enough."
"Oh,
no.
I wouldn't want to put you to
any trouble," Miss Ruddy would say, beginning her charade.
"It's no
trouble at all," Mary OÕDonnell would respond. "You just sit right
down and rest. I'll have it on the table in a minute – just as soon as I
fix Kitty's tray."
"I hope she's not gaining
weight. I've been thinking to myself the last few times I've come here that she
might be putting on a pound or two, lying in bed all day doing nothing."
Kitty's
mother had bought her a red buckram diary with a brass clasp and a lock to help
her pass the time, and on many pages, as the months crept by, Kitty would
write:
"Miss Ruddy stayed for supper again
tonight.
I HATE MISS RUDDY
!!!"
In the evenings Del often sat with
her and played game after game of Parcheesi, rolling the dice and intentionally
losing. After he went down the stairs to bank the furnace for the night and go
home, Kitty would turn on her radio and lie in bed listening to the
Lux
Radio Theater
or
to Minnie Pearl on the
Grand Ole Opry.
FIRST
LOVE
Or she would share
secrets with her sister Marion, about boys. There was one boy she loved. She
didn't tell Marion about the pledges she made to God if he would only let
Michael Starenski love her. Michael had rich black hair, dark eyes, and a cute
little mouth. Walking from English class, before she got rheumatic fever, she
had heard Michael say,
"Hi,Ó
and her heart had raced like a motorcycle. Even now, she
was sure he had said it to her; he was looking at her as they passed in the
crowded hall. Night after night, she dreamed that Michael kissed her and
embraced her. He told her he loved her. "Oh, God! If it were only
true," she thought. She imagined them dancing on air. It was
wonderful
. The orchestra was beautiful.
There was a crisis
in July. Two of her girlfriends, Barbara and Eileen, had begun going to the
Catholic Youth Center dance every Saturday night. The CYC was on South
Washington Street in Wilkes-Barre. Barbara and Eileen took the trackless
trolley across the bridge to Public Square, then walked the remaining two
blocks. The next day Barbara would report every detail to Kitty. They danced
most of the dances; Westmoor girls were popular with the Wilkes-Barre boys.
They had to leave at 10 o'clock, but usually one or two of their dance partners
would walk them back to the Square; sometimes they would even stop at the Betsy
Ross and share a chocolate ice cream soda.
One Saturday night, after 11
o'clock, Barbara called on the telephone. Michael had been at the CYC dance.
Kitty felt her heart leap into her throat.
"Did he
dance
with anyone?" she asked.
"Mostly he stood on the side
and watched. Eileen and I talked to him a little."
"You
did?Ó
Kitty felt the pangs of jealousy.
ÒWell there wasn't anyone else he
knew. He didn't seem to be having a very good time."
Kitty was satisfied. She imagined
herself dancing with Michael.
"Eileen asked him to dance
once," Barbara told her.
KittyÕs heart fell.
ÒHe wouldn't do it. He said he had
to catch the streetcar. He was staying overnight at his aunt's house, on
Blackman Street. Then he left."
When she put the phone down, Kitty
wept into her pillow. Her mother had bought her a padded training bra that day,
and later, after she had stopped crying, Kitty tried it on again, and sat up in
bed so she could see herself in the dresser mirror, looking first at one side
and then at the other.
That fall, every time the doctor
came, she would ask, week after week, when she could go back to school. Dr.
Carey, at 38, was a still-handsome man, though lines that bespoke fatigue were
beginning to creep into his face and across his brow. He chain-smoked
Chesterfield cigarettes, and their ashes clung to his always-rumpled suit.
Kitty loved his brilliant blue eyes and the gentleness of his hands.
"I wish I
would
die!" she sobbed to him one
day when the pain was gnawing at both her wrists.
"Kitty," he whispered,
holding her as she cried, and soothing her tears. "This won't last much
longer."
"But it'll come back!"
Kitty sobbed.
"It may, but soon there will
be a time when it won't come back. It's almost run its course. I
promise,Ó
he told her.
"But it hurts so, Dr.
Carey!"
FIGHTING
A WAR
"Kitty, we're fighting this
together. I come here to see you, and we make our plans. Overseas, thousands of
men are fighting for our country. We need to fight the same way they're
fighting. You hear H. V. Kaltenborn on the radio – doesn't he have a
funny voice?" Kitty giggled between her tears. "He talks about our
men working together to destroy the enemy on the land, on the sea, and in the
air. We have to do the same thing, Kitty. You're the soldier fighting the
enemy, and I'm the general making our battle plans. I'm telling you that we've
almost won our battle. You can't retreat now. If you do, Kitty, all our men
overseas will have to turn back too. Why should they fight on, if we don't?
Each time you feel the pain, I want you to remember that you're stronger than
the rheumatic fever is. I want you to say it, over and over. Say it now,
Kitty."
"I'm stronger than the
rheumatic fever is."
"Say it again, Kitty."
"I'm stronger than this
rheumatic fever is."
"Again,"
Dr. Carey urged her.
"I'm stronger than this darn
rheumatic fever. I
hate
it!"
"That's the girl, Kitty. This
war of ours will be over soon. And we'll
win
. I promise you," he said,
hugging her gently.
**
Well, my cousin isnÕt a schoolgirl
anymore, of course. SheÕs the beautiful woman who falls in love in the novel,
Smart
Boys Swimming in the River Styx,
that everyoneÕs reading (
www.amazon.com
).
But, before I go on to that, I want to tell you about the night the powder mill
blew up.
THE EXPLOSION
Years after the explosion, Del Searfoss could
remember exactly how it had sounded.
ÒBoooooooooommmmmmm!Ó
he would cry out after drinking
four or five glasses of his favorite beer, which we called Stegmaier in our
town. I heard him tell it many a time myself:
ÒBoooooooooommmmmmm!
Like
that,
only louder than thunder.Ó
He was lucky to be alive. ÒI had to take a piss,Ó
he would say, and then, seeing the reproof in Mary OÕDonnellÕs eyes (for she
would tolerate no bad language at her table), he would change his story: ÒI
mean, I had to go to the bathroom.Ó This quiet little man who loved her and had
courted her more than 25 years had worked all that time in Dupont at the
dynamite plant, as I said earlier. The night of the explosion, he had felt the
need and had turned to Walter Kissak, his partner in the mixing block, and had
said, ÒWalter, IÕm goinÕ down the hill for a minute. I gotta take a piss.Ó
Kissak had not looked up from mixing the
nitroglycerin but had waved his right hand, acknowledging the call of nature.
They worked with two other men, Charley Andrews and Tom Gruvers, mixing the
ingredients of dynamite in one of the separate concrete blockhouses that made
up the plant. All of the Dupont Chemical plantÕs departments were in separate
and widely spaced blockhouses –
ÒblocksÓ
the men called them – so
that an accident in one would not kill everybody at the plant. There was no
toilet in the blockhouse. There was nothing in it that might throw a spark. The
men wore anti-static overalls without zippers or snaps, and gum-rubber boots to
minimize the chance of static electricity.
The
toilet was at the office, and Del had walked quickly down the hill on that warm
September night. He was in the menÕs room when the blast struck. ÒI had my . .
. pecker in my hand,Ó he later told his friends in a shaken voice, hardly able
to get the words out. The explosion had thrown him to the floor, but the walls
of the office – like the walls of the other buildings – were
foot-thick concrete, and they had saved him. ÒI pissed my pants though,Ó he would
say, if he were telling the story at John WhiteÕs Tavern on Pennsylvania
Avenue.
ÒI
think I was knocked out for a minute,Ó Del would continue. ÒThen I heard
everyone shouting. I had a cut on my head, from where I hit the floor, but I
got up and ran outside, and,
Jesus Christ!,
there was smoke everywhere, so
thick you couldnÕt see anything. And the powder smell was so bad I choked and
couldnÕt get a decent breath. All the men from the night shift at the office
were out there, and men were runninÕ towards us from all the other blocks. We
couldnÕt see the mixinÕ block at the top of the hill – we couldnÕt see
anything in the smoke – but fine bits of something were fallinÕ on us
from up above, like dry rain. It was like a drizzle. I donÕt know what they were
– I guess pieces of the roof.Ó
ÒYouÕve told this story a hundred times, Del,Ó Mary
OÕDonnell admonished him.
ÒWell, I'll
tell it again if I like," he said
bristling and a little drunk.
ÒI don t want the girls hearing it," she told
him with finality. "It's not good for them."
ÒI don't have a thing to say in this house, do
I?"
"You donÕt pay the mortgage. I
do.
And, until I say you can, that's
the way it is.Ó
He got up and took his hat.
"IÕll be goinÕ to John WhiteÕs Tavern then,Ó
he told her. ÒGood night to the girls," he said, leaving.
JOHN WHITE
I
need to tell you a word about John White, since IÕve mentioned him and his
famous tavern a few times: John White was the dean of the old school
tavern-keepers. He had been a city policeman many years earlier, and one of his
two sons was a city councilman. He had white hair and a long, ruddy-cheeked
Irish face, and he loved people, politics, music, and dancing. He had been
known to break into a soft-shoe shuffle behind his bar on more than one
occasion.
Like the good tavern-keeper he was, he remembered
the name of everyone who had ever been in his saloon, and he was one of the
last who conducted the old brewery establishment houses, holding strictly to
Stegmaier Brewing Company products on tap. His had been a Stegmaier house from
the time he opened it before Prohibition, and, from the day it opened, John
White's was the place to be for anyone who liked big drinks, bear hugs, and
boisterous conviviality. For three decades, the magic pull of his personality,
and his endless fund of stories, had brought a long and faithful list of old
friends flocking to him.
"Women
is one thing," Del told him at the crowded bar after White had brought a
short glass of Stegmaier. "But a club like this is somethin' else.Ó
"Ah,
and has herself been after you again?" White
inquired solicitously.
ÒDrove me out of the house."
ÒWell, they have their moments. And their times of
the month, if you know what I mean."
"No. It's not that. I was telling her about
the time the powder mill blew up, and she didn't want to hear it."
"We
heard the blast that night all the way down here. I wonder you survived it with
any ears left at all," White commiserated.
"It
was a terrible thing to see," Del said. "We went up the hill, and
there was nothing left standing but the walls. The roof, the mixing tables, our
equipment, and poor Walter Kissak and the others – nothing left of them.
Only the damned smell of burnt powder and the little pieces of things floating
down from above. The only thing they ever found of Walter was his shoe in a
tree and his foot still in it."
ST.
PATRICKÕS DAY
Now
I think of it, there was another time that Mary OÕDonnell drove him out of the
house, for, as good as she was, she had a terrible Irish temper, God rest her
soul. It was on St. PatrickÕs Day, as a matter of fact.
St.
Patrick's Day, of course, was important. Del would buy Mary OÕDonnell the
largest, reddest brisket of corned beef he could find, along with two very
green heads of cabbage, and he would parade into the house with them, as if he
were a king.
"This is for you, Mary McHugh," he'd announce, and of course
it was a mistake.
"It's quite a way you have. Is His Holiness behind you?" she
would say.
"His Holiness is
not
behind me. There's no one behind me. I've had no one
behind me all my life," he would retort in anger. "I've had no one
behind me as long as I've known you, woman."
"Mind your tone, gentleman," she would tell him then.
"Mind
your tone!Ó
It
was important to her that she had raised her own family, and made the sacrifices
she had made, and owed no one, as she thought.
And on such days, again, Del would spend his evening at John White's,
thinking about the world and his tribulations. Nevertheless, the next morning
Mary OÕDonnell would unfailingly call his house and make it clear that she
expected him on the seventeenth. She would boil the corned beef all day in her
blue-speckled pot and then, late in the afternoon, add the cabbage and
potatoes. She would bake the Irish soda bread, with its crown of rounded crust,
and he would be there at five o'clock sharp.
By that time, now you understand, Kitty was no longer the little girl.
She was a woman, a beautiful young woman, 19 that year as I would calculate it,
with lovely brown hair and lustrous green eyes. So it was no wonder that the
boys would come around, if they were smart. And one who did was Rhys Lewis.
They had met, in fact, on ValentineÕs Day, just a month before. Now,
Rhys was Welsh. You pronounce his name ÒReece,Ó if you donÕt know. There were a
lot of Welsh in our old coal-mining valley in Pennsylvania, for the Welsh
– as well as the Irish, like me – were strong, coal-mining men, if
I hate to admit it. And Rhys was a coal miner, though he disliked it
thoroughly. He was 19, the same age as our Kitty, who was in her last year of
nursing school.
He had
pointed toward the door with his left arm that had been draped across the bare
shoulders of his date, Annie Sullivan. Next to her sat Sue Gray, in a green
taffeta dress. The next three around the table were Harry Dunne, Ed Jones and
Ginger, his wife, who I told you about. The fifth couple were Peggy Brokenshire,
who was Ginger's lifelong friend, and her husband, Moe, a senior at the same
college Harry and Ed attended.
"Well,
the gang's all here," Rhys
said as he and Kitty came up to the table. She and Rhys took the two seats next
to Boots, and a fat, middle-aged waiter in a tuxedo appeared with menus.
For Kitty's
benefit, Ed Jones made quick introductions. Rhys knew everyone at the table.
"Shit,
it's cold, isn't it?" he
said. "Had trouble getting my dad's car started, even though it was in our
garage.Ó
ÒWas he
late?" Ginger asked Kitty.
"A
little, but that was all right," she smiled. "I wasn't quite ready
anyway."
Fogarty's
had a liberal policy about drinking; the fat waiter didn't ask anyone's age.
Rhys ordered bourbon for himself and a vodka collins for Kitty.
The women
ordered chicken in several guises, the most inexpensive entrees on the menu.
All but one of the men decided on either chops or Salisbury steak. Ed Jones
ordered a Delmonico steak, and his wife looked at him severely. They had been married
since September, just before the start of Ed's senior year. In the first six
months of their marriage, making ends meet had been harder than Ginger had
expected. As a special treat, in fact, her parents had given them the money
they were using for FogartyÕs. She and Ed lived in a three-room apartment,
sharing the bathroom with the owners, a retired couple who lived downstairs.
Ginger worked as a teller at the Miners Bank, Wilkes-Barre's largest, where her
father was a vice president. She and Ed had been sweethearts since their
sophomore year at Westmoor High School. He had been a high school wrestler,
progressing upward from the 118-pound to the 165-pound class as he grew bigger
and stronger from his sophomore to his senior year. At wrestling matches,
Ginger had watched him from the crowded second-floor balcony of the boys'
gymnasium, where she could gaze down on him as he defeated one opponent after
another on the spotlighted gray mat with the maroon circle. The muscles in his
bare shoulders had bulged through his one-piece wrestling uniform of sleeveless
gray athletic shirt and maroon tights, and she had fallen in love with him
almost before she had known what love was.
They
were finishing dessert – vanilla ice cream with hot chocolate sauce
– when the band
appeared.
Most of its members were in their fifties, and they were well known throughout
northeastern Pennsylvania. Bandleader Skits Downing, who played the saxophone,
had toured with the Harry Morgan band, until his wife had given him the
ultimatum that he choose between the road and her. And its lead singer was the
famous Jack Gallagher, an Irish miner who had only one arm but a voice that, as
more than one newspaper writer had said, could charm the angels out of heaven.
He was featured in the second number,
Mona Lisa,
and all five couples moved out
onto the gleaming oak floor.
They danced most of the numbers,
until it was almost midnight, the men exchanging partners from time to time
until they had danced with all five women. They jitterbugged to the swing tunes
and danced close when the band played a slow song, and the men laughed with
glee and beat their hands on the table when they heard
IÕve Got a Lovely
Bunch of Coconuts.
DREAMLAND
They had ordered another round of
drinks and were sitting at the table.
"Remember when we used
to go up to Dreamland?" Ginger asked Peggy. Dreamland was a four-room
furniture display on the top floor of the Boston Store, Wilkes-BarreÕs largest
department store. Ginger and Peggy and hundreds of other high school girls over
the years had spent afternoons wandering through the completely furnished
rooms, dreaming about their future lives.
"I'll tell you," Peggy
said quietly, "I'm finding out what Dreamland was really all about."
"What do you mean?"
Peggy turned slightly and glanced
over her shoulder at her husband. Moe had been drinking steadily through the
evening. His voice had grown louder; his face was flushed, and his hair was
slightly out of place. He had run his right hand through it twice in a half
hour, as he emphasized points he was making in a conversation with Rhys and
Boots that, Ginger could tell, was growing more intense.
"It isn't what I thought it would be,"
Peggy said, turning back to her friend and inclining her head a little more
toward her.
"We were . . . ," Ginger reached for the
thought.
"Naive,Ó
said Peggy, looking at her
directly.
ÒI guess we were," Ginger
continued. "But that wasn't exactly what I meant. ItÕs . . . itÕs never
what you think it will be. IÕm not sure thereÕs anything in life that is.Ó
ÒI thought we would do things
together, and have time to be together, and
talk.
I thought when we got married
we'd have a wonderful little place, and I'd be there waiting for him when he
came home at night. But he goes to school during the day and works at the gas
station nights. And I work all day at the Boston Store. Three or four nights a
week he doesn't come home until I'm already in bed, and he's in the condition
he's in now. The little time we do have together we're trying to figure out how
to pay the bills."
"My mother used to say that
when the bills flew in the window, love . . . ," Ginger stopped herself.
"Yes, I know," Peggy
laughed soundlessly, a bitter laugh. "That's what I meant about
Dreamland."
Moe might have heard what she was
saying, or perhaps, in some form, he sensed it. He turned toward Peggy, put his
arm around her bare shoulders, and pulled her close against him.
ÒAnd
I have the best little wife in all
the world," he said, looking around the table and raising his voice so
that everyone could hear. "Pardon, pardon me, Ginger, I know that you're a
wife. You're a great wife – not that you're
my
wife. Now, Ed, believe me, I
don't know anything about her
that
way.Ó
The men all laughed, including Ed Jones.
Peggy was alarmed. Moe was encouraged.
"But I know a
secret.
It's supposed to be a secret. ItÕs a
ValentineÕs
secret; that's what it is. But I
know I can tell you, because you're all our friends, and I'm so happy about
– w
e're
so happy, I mean, Peg. We can tell them, can't we? It's Valentine's Day. I want
to tell everbody here how much I love my wife."
"No, Morgan, don't.
Please,Ó
Peggy begged,
looking at him and pulling back a little from him in her embarrassment.
"Oh, it's all right, Peg. I'm
gonna have a baby." The men laughed again
. "Oh-Oh.
I guess it slipped out,
Peg." There was general laughter around the table, and even the table next
to them. Only Peggy and Ginger didn't laugh.
ÒI mean
weÕre
gonna have . . .
baby,Ó
Moe added quickly, pulling his
wife back to him and kissing her wetly on the left cheek. ÒYou're gonna have a
baby! Our
baby.Ó
Peggy was furious. Her face was
crimson with embarrassment, and she felt as if she might burst out in tears.
The men were offering Moe their
congratulations, leering, and slapping him on the back.
"Mighty man!Ó
she heard Rhys tell him.
"It's wonderful," Annie
said, leaning across the table toward her. Ginger took Peggy's hand and
squeezed it.
"I think it's time for us to
go," Peggy said in a tone that Moe had come to recognize over the past few
months. He felt suddenly cold. "Please ask the waiter for our check,"
she added.
"Well, I guess I. . . done
it," Moe said to no one in particular.
MOE IS IN TROUBLE
When the waiter came, he said, ÒMy
wife's not feeling well. Get us our damn check!"
They got up and walked to the
cloakroom. Ginger and then Annie followed. Ed, Boots and Rhys accompanied Moe,
a step behind.
"Don't worry," Ed told
him. "These things happen. She'll be fine tomorrow. And, hey, it's great
news! You're the first."
When Moe and Peggy had left, the
others started back to the table. The band was playing a slow tune. Boots
stopped at the edge of the dance floor, and then led Annie out on it. Ed put
his arm around Ginger, and they, too, took a few waltz steps, but she didn't
want to continue.
Rhys sat down next to Kitty.
"That was nice, wasn't
it?" he said.
"I think he had too much to
drink,Ó she replied.
"Yeah, I guess he did. Seems
like you
oughta
be able to celebrate something like that though."
"I suppose so. I think I
would have been a little embarrassed." She blushed. "I mean . . .
when I'm married."
"Want to dance? The band's
gonna quit."
After that, the evening broke up. Each of the men
paid his own check. The women waited, then accompanied the men to the cloakroom
to get their coats and hats. From there, they went out into the cold.
"We're stopping at
McDermott's on the way home," Boots said as they started across the
parking lot. "What do you say? Ed?
Rhys?Ó
He had left his car at Annie's,
and they had driven to Fogarty's with Harry and Sue, because the two girls
worked together and were good friends.
"Kitty has a curfew. I have to get her back to
the nurses' home," Rhys said. "We'll catch you another time."
When they left the others at
Fogarty's, after the Valentine's dance, Rhys Lewis drove down Union Street to
Wyoming Avenue. A few blocks farther on, when they came to the Top Hat Diner,
Rhys asked her if she wanted to stop for coffee. He asked her because she was
pretty and warm, and he wanted to show her off and spend a few minutes more
with her before he had to take her back to the nurses' home. She smiled shyly
at him, and, taking that for an affirmative, he parked his father's Ford on the
southbound side of Wyoming Avenue, almost across from the Westmoor Theater.
They were in front of the Little Candy Shoppe, and, as Rhys helped her out of
the car, Kitty's glance fell for a moment on the display of Valentine hearts
and candy in the window.
A ROMANTIC GIRL
She was a romantic girl, an Irish
girl, as you can probably imagine. The months she had spent alone in her room,
listening to the afternoon soap operas on the radio and dreaming of boys and
imaginary loves, had opened her heart to a yearning that made her whole body
ache more than when she had the fever. Even though it was a first date, a blind
date on Valentine's Day arranged by Ginger Jones, Rhys had somehow touched
Kitty's heart. Her green eyes shone brightly, and her skin seemed to glow with
the warmth of what she was feeling.
As they crossed Wyoming Avenue to
the diner, with its big top hat in lavender neon out front, Kitty clung to his
right arm. Inside, stainless steel cases and counters gleamed. Men in suits and
women in dresses sat talking in a half dozen leatherette-upholstered booths.
Most, like Kathleen and Rhys, had been out to Valentine's dances and were
savoring a last moment before going home. Rhys guided her to a booth facing the
window, and they ordered coffee.
Kathleen had a special late curfew because of
Valentine's Day, and they still had half an hour.
"I had a great time tonight," she said.
"The band was really good, wasn't it?"
"You're a good dancer."
"You're the most beautiful girl I've ever
seen," Rhys blurted out.
Kitty blushed, heightening the color in her cheeks.
"I'm not beautiful," she said. "I
was an ugly duckling in high school."
"I think you're beautiful," he told her.
"Would you go out with me again?"
She looked down at her hands, shyly.
"Oh,
yes,Ó
she said.
**
Well, in fact, thatÕs the way it
began. Kitty agreed to go to the movies with him the following Monday. So, on
Monday night Rhys called for Kitty at the nursesÕ home shortly after eight
o'clock. It was an old frame building whose walls knew many secrets and had
watched nearly three generations of girls become women, listening all the while,
sympathetically but without comment, to their laughter and their tears.
"You
look beautiful," Rhys told her when she came down the stairs to the
livingroom where the student nurses were allowed to meet their dates.
Kitty was wearing a tailored green skirt and a jacket with
a narrow, turned-up collar, whose flared cuffs stopped just below her elbows.
On Saturday, to go with the skirt and jacket ensemble, she and Barrie Mascioli,
her roommate, had walked up to the Public Square and bought a new beige print
blouse without a collar. She had worked a 12-hour shift at the hospital, until
seven o'clock. Then she had just enough time to shower, do her nails and fix
her short brown hair, which was back from her face and brushed up on the sides.
Rhys helped her with her coat. It was soft gray with a
high, wide collar and cuffs. Kitty signed out, and they went down the steps to
the car.
"Did you have a good day?" Rhys asked as they
drove down Hazle Street to South Main.
"We're having OB classes," she told him. "I
helped with two deliveries."
'You mean, you were helping deliver
babies?"
"Well, I was the circulating nurse with Mrs. Francis.
I was just there to observe with Mrs. Zoner."
"What's it like to see a baby born?" Rhys asked
her.
"It's
wonderful.
I really like OB. One minute there's nothing, and
the next minute there's a new life."
"Don't the women have a lot of pain?"
"They do in labor, especially at the end, but they
forget it later. Once they go into the delivery room, they get anesthesia. We
try to do it just before the baby is born, so it won't be sleepy and have
trouble breathing."
THE PARAMOUNT
They had reached the Public Square. To park in the lot
behind the Paramount theater, Rhys had to go past it on the Square, then drive
a short block across East Market Street. Then he would turn right at Washington
Street, which was one-way, and pull into the lot.
"I'll drop you off here in front of the theater and
park the car," he told her when they came around the Public Square.
"I'd be glad to walk back with you," she said,
glancing at him.
"That's okay. Look, the line's pretty long.
Would you mind saving us a place until I get there?"
The movie was
"Never a Dull Moment"
with Irene Dunne and Fred
MacMurray. Rhys parked and, taking a shortcut, jogged through an alley that
came out two doors up from the theater. When he reached the place where Kitty
was standing in line, there were still nine couples ahead of them.
ÒWhy don' t you go into the lobby and sit down?" he
suggested, hoping that she wouldn't. "It will only be a few minutes. I'll
be right in.Ó
ÒItÕs
okay,Ó
she said, smiling and putting her arm through his.
"I'd rather be with you."
The Paramount theater was a palace. Even the sidewalk on
which they were standing was intricately patterned pink Italian marble. The
marquee overhead spanned 50 feet and had thousands of crystalline lights, all
of them moving in sequence, like flowing water. The theater's front facade was
bronze and stainless steel, as was the ticket booth, which stood under the
marquee as an island on the Terrazzo sidewalk. Behind it was a 50-foot expanse
of 10 polished bronze and glass doors that moviegoers passed through on their
way into the theater.
The line had brought them up to the ticket booth. Rhys
paid $1.50 for two loge seats. After buying their tickets, he and Kitty paused
for a moment at one of the gleaming display windows on either side of the
entrance to see the coming attractions.
"Look," Kitty said,
"'All About Eve'
is coming. I'm dying to see
that."
"You don't have to die," he laughed.
"I'll take you."
She blushed. "I didn't mean. . .
.Ó
"Will you go with me?" Rhys continued.
"Yes,Ó
she said, looking up at him and holding his arm tighter.
A doorman in a brass-buttoned uniform, wearing a long
maroon coat, opened one of the heavy bronze doors. Plush maroon ropes guided
them through the first lobby, the promenade with itÕs fluted columns, past blue
upholstered benches and rose-tinted mirrors, to a second, almost identical set
of bronze doors. There a uniformed usher took their tickets, handed Rhys the
stubs, and opened the door for them, passing them into the theater's
three-story rotunda.
The rotunda was decorated in a Byzantine style, with
pastel colors laid over walls of gold. Red tones predominated in its deep pile
carpeting. Above, an immense glass chandelier with facets of emerald, sapphire
and ruby illuminated the huge room. At one side was a popcorn and refreshment
stand. Behind it and on the other side, wide, carpeted staircases with bronze
and chromium railings rose to the mezzanine. Even moviegoers who would sit on
the orchestra level often went up to the mezzanine to lean against the bronze
railings, gaze down on the crowded lobby, and enjoy the romance of their
evening out.
Loge seats were off the mezzanine, at the front of the
balcony. The low-ceilinged mezzanine was darker than the Paramount's outer
lobbies, as if the theater's architect had intended to prepare the eyes for the
darkness of the auditorium. There were couches and banquettes upholstered in
blue velour. A water fountain on the wall was black onyx. Men waited there
while their dates went into the women's lounge to fix their make-up. The lounge
was a lovely room, finished in natural birch with mohair furniture and closed,
silver-gray Venetian blinds set in the windowless walls. Herons and fawns also
decorated the walls, and there were rose-tinted mirrors and velvet-upholstered
chairs and couches
When Kitty
returned, a uniformed usher with an Eveready flashlight guided them to the
loge, where the seats were wide apart and restful as easy chairs. Rhys helped
Kitty with her coat and pulled off his own brown topcoat.
"This is
wonderful!"
she said.
THE EYES AND EARS
OF THE WORLD
When the movie began, the curtains
pulled back electrically from the wide screen – the Paramount had been
completely remodeled the previous September. They watched a Paramount newsreel,
"The Eyes and Ears of the World.Ó
The newsreel opened with the devastation tornadoes
had wrought in four southern states – Arkansas, Louisiana, Tennessee, and
Texas. The camera swept across scenes showing blocks and blocks of houses torn
apart like the Plasticville houses under a Christmas tree. The narration said
the storms had killed 44 people, including six members of one Tennessee family
– and pointed out the irony that the name of the town where it had
happened was
Hurricane Hills.
Observing Lincoln's birthday, President and Mrs. Truman
had laid a wreath at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington. Next the newsreel
showed the Jersey Joe Walcott fight with Harold Johnson; Johnson had taken a
controversial dive in the third round, and the state athletic commission had
held up the purse for both fighters. Finally, John L. Lewis, the
bushy-eyebrowed president of the United Mine Workers, celebrating his
seventieth birthday in Arlington, Virginia, said that he had told striking
soft-coal miners to return to work.
Next came the cartoons, and they
laughed at Bugs Bunny – Kitty liked the way Rhys laughed. He had slipped
his arm across the back of her seat, and she glanced at him when he wasn't
looking.
Then came the feature. It was a
romantic comedy. Beautiful Irene Dunne met and married Fred McMurray. She had
come from New York, where she was a successful songwriter; and, as the movie
went along, she had to adapt to her husband's flannel shirt and blue jeans life
out west in the mountains of Wyoming. There were ups and downs, and she got
into a lot of trouble, but it worked out all right in the end.
There was a circular clock,
lighted with lavender neon, on the right side of the theater, and it was almost
eleven when the movie ended. They had an hour before Kitty had to return to the
nurses' home. They walked back to the car with Rhys's arm around her.
"I'd
like to live out west," Kitty said as they were walking.
"So you liked the
movie?" Rhys asked her.
"Yes. It was
good.Ó
"That was nice country, out
west. I could live there."
"ThereÕs nothing like we have
here, with all the burning culm banks. I 'd learn to ski, and IÕd hike in the
mountains."
"We could go hiking here. I
could take you up to Buttermilk Falls."
"Where's that."
HUNTING RABBITS
"On Russell's Mountain. It's
not a bad hike. The water from the falls comes down – it must be 150
feet. Boots and I go there sometimes when we're rabbit hunting."
"Do you have a dog? You need
a dog to hunt rabbits, don't you?"
"Yeah, I
have old Pudge."
"What kind of a dog is he? Is
it a he?"
Rhys laughed. "Oh, yeah.
Pudge is a
he.
He's a hound dog. He's a good hunter. He has big old floppy brown ears. He
flushes rabbits out like you can't believe."
"Do you eat them?" Kitty
looked at him.
"Yeah, I like rabbit. Didn't
you ever have it?"
"Oh, yes. I like it too. I
haven't had it too often. No one in our family hunts. I guess Del did years
ago. But I only have two sisters."
"You
could go out with us next fall, if you wanted to."
They
were at the car. Rhys opened the door for her, then went around to the driver's
side. She leaned over and unlocked it.
"Do you
want to go for a barbecue?" he asked her, starting the car and turning on
the heater.
Kitty smiled and slid across the
seat next to him. She wanted to be with him as long as she could.
"Mmmmmmmm!
A ham barbecue and french
fries," she said.
He drove down Washington Street,
then over to South Main, and from there to Carey Avenue. They passed Myers High
School, where he had scored two touchdowns in the last game of his senior
season. It seemed like a million years ago.
The Half Circle Barbecue had curb
service, and it was famous for its large barbecue sandwiches. They were 35
cents. Rhys asked for two ham barbecues, an order of french fries, and two
cokes. Even at 11:15 there were a lot of cars in the parking lot.
"I hope we get served
fast," Kitty said, glancing at the green dial of the dashboard clock.
"I have to be back by twelve."
"Like Cinderella," Rhys
teased her.
She blushed. They looked at each
other for a long moment, and he kissed her. It was a tentative kiss, a gentle
kiss. He only just touched her lips. There was soft music on the radio.
She inched closer to him, and put
her arms around his neck. She kissed him and pulled him closer. He was warm and
he smelled of Old Spice aftershave, like Del's. Her face felt flushed. She felt
as if she were going to melt, as if all of the things she'd ever hoped for were
coming true. She was beautiful. She was Irene Dunne in the arms of Fred
MacMurray.
She was sorry when the barbecues
came.
"Would you like to go up to
Buttermilk Falls?" Rhys asked her as they were eating.
"I'd like to. Yes," she
told him.
"When?"
"How
about Saturday?"
"What if it rains?"
"There's an old cabin up
there. We can get in out of the rain if we have to. Maybe Boots and Annie would
go too."
"We could pack a picnic
lunch."
A LAST KISS
They
came up Dana Street at eight minutes to twelve.
"
There's
a place to park," Kitty
pointed a few doors below the wintergreen-colored nurses' home. It was the
residence of a city judge in the early years of the century, before the
hospital had bought it to train nurses. There was an empty space directly in
front of the building, but no girl coming home ever had her date stop there,
where Mrs. Morgan, the housemother, could see them from the wide front window.
Rhys turned off the key, and
reached over to kiss her one more time. Kitty relaxed in his arms, enjoying the
kiss and running her left hand up behind his head and into his black hair. She
felt a wonderful warmth below her diaphragm.
"You take my breath
away!" she told him.
"I'm sorry . . . ."
"No, I like it.
I like
it!"
She brought her face close to his,
and they kissed again. She opened her mouth a little and touched the tip of her
tongue against his lips. He hugged her tighter, touching his tongue to hers.
She twisted slightly in the seat and slid her upper body in front of him, so
that he was holding her. He pulled her tightly against his chest, and they
kissed even more deeply.
"I have to go," she
finally told him, her voice shaking a little. "I don't want to, but I have
to. It's almost twelve."
She sat up and straightened her
skirt.
"I had a really good
time," she said, feeling almost as if she would cry.
"So did I. I love being with
you. Do you want to go to Buttermilk Falls on Saturday?"
"I'd love to. I'll make some
sandwiches."
"Or we could build a campfire
and cook hot dogs and buns, too."
"I'll bring some hot dogs and
buns."
They got out of the car, and Rhys
walked with her up the steps to the front porch of the nurses' home. There was
a place beyond the window, just before they got to the door, where a girl and
her date were out of sight of Mrs. Morgan. They stopped. She lifted her face to
him. Rhys put his arms around her, and they kissed one last time.
ANOTHER TIME
After that, the two of them got more serious. In their time, of
course, I couldnÕt have told you what happened next. But weÕre not in those
times anymore, and, with people having hook-ups and such things now, IÕm going
to tell it like it happened, even though you might not approve.
I
might not approve.
Anyway, Del Searfoss had read the
Joe Palooka comic strip, and he was reading Major Hoople in the
Times Leader
, as he did every night, when Rhys
Lewis knocked at the door.
"Is Kitty at home?" asked the young man standing on the
porch, when the door opened.
Del backed a step into the living room.
"Kitty!"
he called up the stairs.
"Ask him to come in, Del. I'll be right down."
"Come in, Mr. . . ?Ó
"Uh,
yes. Thank you. I'm Rhys Lewis."
Dressed in his brown topcoat, his hat in his hands, Rhys stood in the
small livingroom.
"Cold out, for March," Del observed.
"Yes sir. It is. And there's still some ice in the streets."
"You need to be careful driving."
Mary OÕDonnell had come into the room. "This is Mrs.
OÕDonnell," Del introduced her.
"You're
Rhys!"
she said, smiling with approval and a distant memory at
his black hair and his ruddy cheeks.
"Yes, ma'am. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Kitty told us you'd be by." She gestured toward the other
upholstered chair. "Why don't we sit down? Let me take your coat and
hat."
Rhys heard Kitty's high heels on the stairs. Then she was in the room,
her face beaming. She held her coat out to Rhys. He could smell her perfume.
"Don't you want to sit down for a moment?" KittyÕs mother
asked her.
"We're a little late, Mom. We're going to Hottle's to get
something before the show. Rhys, you met my mother and Del?"
"Yes," he said amiably, reaching for the doorknob. "It
was a pleasure meeting you."
Kitty slipped through the door in front of him, and they went down the
four steps from the porch. She could see her mother and Del standing together
in the doorway, looking after them. Then Del turned to get his coat. Her
sisters were at a basketball game.
When they were in the car, she pulled herself close and kissed him on
the cheek.
"Mmmmmm!
You look great!" he told her, pleased at the kiss.
She was wearing a rust-colored velveteen pleated skirt and weskit combination
with an ivory blouse under the weskit. Rhys turned on the radio, driving down
North Main Street and halfway around the Public Square. He could see a
Saturday-night line in front of the Paramount for
"Pardon My
Sarong,"
the
Abbott and Costello movie. Four long avenues led to and from the square: East
and West Market streets and North and South Main. Hottle's was in the third
block of South Main. After dinner, he would leave the car in Hottle's parking
lot and they would stroll a block back up South Main to the Penn Theater.
HOTTLEÕS RESTAURANT
Hottle's was one of the city's treasures, a place where people had
gathered since the 1930s when Ray Hottle, a short man with glasses who had been
a miner since his boyhood, opened his narrow restaurant at 243 South Main
Street. A long line of dark wooden booths faced the bar, and Hottle was always
there, making sure everyone was satisfied. Beer drinkers at the bar ate
Limburger cheese sandwiches with onion slices, but patrons in the booths
ordered steaks or seafood. Hottle would scurry down into the cellar himself to
slice the three-quarter-pound cuts of filet mignon. The most famous item on his
menu was the Buckaroo, an open-faced soft-shelled crab sandwich with two slices
of crisp bacon and the sharpest cheddar cheese he could find.
Rhys and Kitty ordered scallop platters, a mound of deep-fried
scallops with french fries, cole slaw, tartar sauce, bread and butter for
$1.25. Tall draft glasses of Stegmaier were a quarter each.
"How was your week?" Rhys asked her.
"How was yours?"
"Oh,
it's about the same in the mines, from one week to the next. We were opening a
new gallery.Ó
"A
what?"
"A
gallery. It's a big tunnel. We have to blast through rock. They think there's
another vein of coal about a hundred yards south of where we're working. We're
driving this gallery toward that area."
She
could see the fatigue in his face. "It's harder?"
"It's
always harder when we go through rock. Blast and load. Blast and load. Picking
up rock is a lot harder. Rock is heavier than coal."
She
smiled at him hopefully. "I wish I could rub your shoulders. I'd make you
feel better. They taught us how to give massages in training. I give a great
massage," she laughed.
"I'll
sign up for that! It would beat my dad's."
"What
does he do?"
"He
rubs wintergreen on my shoulder muscles, and I rub it on his. He has the
rheumatism. I've been falling asleep at seven o'clock every night."
"Well
I'll get you home really
early
tonight," she teased him.
"No
way!
I've been
looking forward to this. It's
Saturday!
Their
scallops came, and they ordered another beer.
ÒReally,Ó
he asked her, "what did you do this week?"
"We
had a terrible test. I studied and studied. But we all think we failed."
"What
was it in?"
She
frowned.
"Anatomy.
Bones and muscles. I know right where those muscles of yours are
sore, believe me."
She
reached out and gently stroked the back of his right hand. She could see
scratches on it, and black lines inscribed in his knuckles. As much as a miner
scrubbed his hands, he could never get the coal dust out of the creases.
The
vaudeville show at the Penn started before the movie, at eight o'clock. Rhys
paid the check, helped her with her coat, and they turned up South Main Street.
THE PENN
THEATER
The Penn Theater stood almost next door to the Orpheum,
separated from the city's only other vaudeville theater by a single narrow
building. Its facade was a wide arch of terra cotta flanked by fluted columns
and female figures representing comedy and tragedy. The ticket office was
inside the lobby, across from a huge mirror of French plate glass that made the
space seem twice as expansive. Waiting while Rhys bought their tickets,
Kitty
sneaked a glance at the mirror to see if her hair was in place. From the lobby,
they went through a long, narrow corridor of Carrara marble, and then, through
plate glass doors, into the grand foyer with its tile floors, its high-domed
ceiling, and its Italian Renaissance border.
More
than 2,000 people could sit in the Penn's main auditorium and balcony. An usher
found two seats for them on the right, halfway down the orchestra aisle. High
above the stage, curving around the proscenium arch, was a mural more than 50
feet wide representing the glowing dawn as the lovely Roman goddess Aurora.
Rhys thought she was not more beautiful than the young woman sitting beside
him.
His
father had told him of seeing Amos and Andy there in 1935. From the time he was
a child.
Rhys had been to many movies and vaudeville performances at the Penn. He had
laughed at Mitzi Green, the funny midget, and had been amazed by Blackstone the
magician. He had seen jugglers and contortionists, the Happy Hottentots, and
Ruth Etting (his father said she was famous) in an old-fashioned dress and
parasol, singing
"Pretty Baby."
Men,
women and children were streaming into the seats. At exactly eight o'clock the
pit orchestra began playing
"Bali Ha'i"
from
South Pacific
and continued for a few minutes
with a medley of other favorites, concluding with
"Bibbidi-Bobbidi-BooÓ
from the movie
Cinderella.
Next, the shimmering ruby
curtains parted and a handsome man in a tuxedo stepped to the center of the
stage.
"Ladies
and gentlemen," he began, "the Penn Theater welcomes you to an
evening of wonderful entertainment. We have singers, dancers, acrobats, and
comedians from every corner of the earth.Ó
Rhys sneaked a glance at Kitty.
She had a straight, smooth nose and high cheekbones. Her eyes were alight with
anticipation.
The
first act was a comedy dancer in bloomers and a bob, who pranced around the
stage, sang a few lines with the orchestra, and made Kitty laugh.
Next
came two cyclists, one man in a tuxedo and the other a clown in white face
make-up pedaling a unicycle. At one point, a girl in a flouncy skirt rode on
the clownÕs shoulders.
VAUDEVILLE
The star
act was Weber and Fields, a thin comedian with a pointed goatee and a derby
hat, explaining something at great length to a dimmer friend. The set behind
them was the embarkation plank of a steamship, implying that these two –
with their wide plaid vests and chin whiskers – had just got off the
boat. Both were obviously Jewish and had what sounded like German accents.
"You
shove the knife down the oyster's throat," the thin man said. He was
carrying a rolled newspaper in his right hand and he thrust it forward like a
knife to demonstrate.
"And
cut his teeth out . . . ," the dimmer man responded as the audience
howled.
"No,
we don't cut his teeth out," the taller man said quickly, punctuating his
instruction by slapping the portly man rapidly with his newspaper, on the chin,
the cheek, and the forehead. "You take him out of his overcoat. . . .Ó
"Out
of the overcoat. . . ?"
"Certainly."
"I
wish I had
mine. . . ,"
the other man said plaintively, pulling his thin jacket
closer against the cold.
"You
don't need it." He slapped the portly man rapidly again, trying to hold
his attention.
"You
lay the oyster down. . . .Ó
"And
dress it up?"
"No!
You don't dress it up. . .
." There was another round of slapping, and each time the audience
laughed. "You get a can . . . .Ó
The
dimmer man brightened. "A can full of beer?"
"No!"
His instructor slapped him rapidly again with the newspaper,
1,2,3.
"There is no beer in
it!"
"Say!"
the portly man pleaded, gesturing
toward the rolled newspaper. "What's that you got there?"
"This?
This is a
newspaper.Ó
"It
felt like
'rapping
paper. . . .Ó The audience howled.
"That's
the
Evening News. . . .Ó
"I
thought it was a Post
."
After two more acts, the vaudeville
show ended. The curtains parted to reveal the screen; the emcee reappeared and
urged the audience to follow the bouncing ball.
"Daisy,
Daisy, give me your answer. Do,Ó
they sang.
"I'm
half crazy over the love of you.
"It
won't be a stylish marriage.
"I
can't afford a carriage.
"But
you'll look sweet upon the seat
They sang a half-dozen songs, and Rhys, who enjoyed
singing, was unaware that, somewhere inside her, Kitty's heart was listening to
his voice. As the lights dimmed for
"Madame Bovary,"
she snuggled her head against
his.
FALLING IN
LOVE
It was almost 11:30 when they reached the car.
After the movie, to make the evening last longer, they had window-shopped up
South Main Street and around the Public Square. They had mingled with the
crowds coming out of the Paramount and the Comerford, the other theater that
stood on the Square.
They had been tempted to go into the Betsy Ross for
a late-night cup of coffee, but Kitty demurred.
"Let's go home," she had said quickly.
And so they had walked back to the car and made the
ten-minute drive back to her house.
There was a light in the front window.
"Would
you like to come in?" Kitty asked,
her heart beating rapidly,
afraid he would not want to.
"Your
family . . . ," Rhys began.
She
kissed him encouragingly. "They're asleep. They go to bed at eleven."
He
came around and opened the door for her and put his arm around her waist as
they crossed the porch. The front door was unlocked.
"Would
you like something warm to drink?" she asked. "It'll only take a
minute."
"Yes,"
he replied. "The walk got to me at the end."
"Cold?"
"A
little."
"Come
here and stand over our pipeless furnace."
There
was a grate in the floor between the parlor and the dining room. Even though
the furnace fire was already banked for the night, warm air was still rising
from it. He stepped onto the grate and immediately felt warm. Kitty stood
close, and put her arms around him. She lifted her lips to his, and they
kissed. Then she snuggled her head against his neck and felt the warmth of his
arms encircling her. "I have to put the kettle on," she whispered.
"I'll just be a minute. Why don't you find some music on the radio?"
From
where he was standing, he could watch her go to the kitchen. She reached up,
pulled the ceiling chain, and the globe light went on. He could see the white
enamel gas stove. She took a wooden match from the box, turned on the gas, and
the burner popped on.
She
had baked a rum cake that afternoon, carefully slicing across the two layers,
mixing the rum into the half full jar of homemade blackberry preserves,
spreading the mixture between the layers, and then putting the layers together
again. She stepped out onto the back porch, found the cake tin, and, bringing
it in, placed the cake on the kitchen table. The white confectioner's sugar
that she had sprinkled over it made the cake look like something elegant as it
sat on her mother's pink crystal plate.
In
the parlor, Rhys had turned toward the window and had lighted a Lucky Strike.
Kitty could smell the cigarette smoke and see his outline in the half-darkness
of the room. She could hear the radio playing softly.
Before
going out, she had set her mother's finely decorated Irish tea service and two
bone china cups and saucers on the cupboard. As the water boiled in the kettle
she filled the tea ball from the canister and sliced the rum cake. Then she
filled the creamer with milk and set it, along with two linen napkins and
teaspoons, on her mother's polished wooden tray. A brace of tiny shamrocks
decorated the teapot, the creamer, and the sugar bowl.
"Lace-curtain
Irish,"
Del
would laugh when – once or twice a year – her mother brought out
the tea service.
RUM
CAKE
Kitty
poured hot water from the kettle into the teapot, arranged everything nicely on
the tray, and carried it into the parlor. Rhys, who had been sitting on the
davenport, stood up when she entered and reached to help her with the tray.
"My
mother made a rum cake this afternoon," Kitty told him modestly. "I
hope you like it."
"I've
never had rum cake," he said. "It looks good."
His
family permitted no alcohol in their house. He had never tasted rum. The cake
smelled slightly overpowering.
Kitty
sat beside him on the davenport, reached for the teapot, and poured the
wine-dark tea into their cups. Then she passed him a slice of the rum cake and
spread the napkin on her lap.
She
was thinking about the movie. She had cried at the end when Jennifer Jones took
her life. But now the scene that kept coming back to her was a memory of the
ball, the gorgeous dresses, the mirrors, and the opulence of the room.
"I
liked the movie," she said, tasting the cake.
"That
guy was a real jerk," Rhys said. "She gave up a lot for him, and then
he just threw her over."
"She
loved him."
"But
she shouldn't have. He wasn't worth it."
"I
think that's the way it was for my mother," Kitty said
"My father drank himself to death.
But she loved him."
"How
old were you when he died?"
"Four.
I don't really remember him. Only one thing: he took us to Nay Aug Park and
tried to teach me how to swim. I remember laughing and splashing around. We
weren't in deep water, and I had fun. He was very gentle with me."
"That's
a nice memory." The cake's strong rum taste bit his tongue. After a few
bites, he found he liked it.
"Will
you have another slice?" Kitty asked him, noticing that he had finished
it.
"Oh,
no. I'm full. It was really
good."
"Do
you mind if I smoke?" Kitty asked him.
"No,
of course."
"Can
I borrow one of yours?"
"Sure,"
he replied, taking out his pack.
He
lighted the cigarette for her, and one for himself. They leaned back against
the davenport, relaxing.
"I
had a wonderful time tonight. I like . . . ," she hesitated.
"What?Ó
"I
like being with you," she said, blushing.
SEEMED
LIKE HEAVEN
He
looked at her, and then, pulling her close, he kissed her. She felt her face
flush. She put her cigarette in the ashtray and wrapped her lovely arms tightly
around his neck as he kissed her again. She felt a stirring deep inside her and
a warmth that seemed like heaven. She turned slightly so that she was facing
him and pressed tightly against his chest. She could feel the nipples of her
breasts hardening, and she was embarrassed.
They
kissed and kissed again. His tongue began to explore hers, and, each time it
did, she felt the sensations shoot through her. He rubbed his right hand up and
down her back as if he were giving her the most wonderful massage. After a
while, he moved his hand farther down and found the gentle curve of her
buttocks.
She had
never let anyone touch her that way before, but she wanted Rhys to.
"Mmmmmmmm!"
she whispered softly. He kept
stroking his hand up and down over the curve and then, finally, he reached
farther down and, finding the soft hem of her dress, pulled it and her silk
slip slowly up the back of her legs. She closed her eyes, feeling the material
inch upward until her legs and then her bottom was exposed. He stroked her
buttocks, now covered only by her girdle and her panties, and her body tensed
as she felt his fingers working their way down between her legs. She shifted
slightly, and he found the way open. She could feel herself getting moist. Then
he kissed her harder and pressed her closer to him. His fingers touched the
secret part of her.
She
was frightened.
"Oh
Rhys! I want to! I want to so much! But we can't here. I've never done it.
There'll be blood, and I might cry out. Please, let's wait. I didn't intend to
go this far."
He
looked at her, seeming not to understand her.
"Oh,
I'm so sorry! I know this is bad for you, but we can't do it here. We
can't!
"Okay,"
he said slowly. "Just let me calm down a little.
A
GLORIOUS TIME
Well,
you canÕt make babies if thatÕs all the farther you go. I started off this
story telling you about St. PatrickÕs Day. Mary OÕDonnell, with her sister and
brother and Del Searfoss, and the three girls, sat around the table eating
their corned beef and cabbage, drinking their beer, and singing their Irish
songs. And whether it was then or whether it is now, I have to confess that in
our Irish families, on St. PatrickÕs Day especially, things occasionally get
out of hand: high spirits take the reins, yÕknow: words are said, feelings are
hurt, oaths are hurled, curses are flung back – Oh itÕs a glorious time,
bÕgora! And thatÕs the way it was that St. PatrickÕs Day.
One
thing led to another. Marian and Betsy slipped away and out the door –
for they had dates, and they knew what was coming. Rhys was picking up Kitty.
She made an excuse and went upstairs, as she had done often enough in her day.
She lay on her bed for a while and tried to block her ears against the horrid
things being hissed and shouted downstairs. And I canÕt but tell you she shed a
silent tear or two, her faced buried in her pillow, when she hear the last
curse and the door slam behind her aunt and her uncle.
Her
mother ranted and raved beneath the floor, but gradually, as he always did, Del
soothed her and calmed her and cajoled her into not ruining the night
completely and going as they always did on the night of St. PatrickÕs Day to
John WhiteÕs until he finally closed. Before they left the house, her mother
called upstairs to invite her, but Kitty, who had dried her tears as she had
done many times before, reminded Mary OÕDonnell in a calm voice that she was
waiting for Rhys and they would be going to a movie he was dying to see.
"Well,
lock up when you go out," her mother said as Del went out the door.
PLANS
When
she was sure they had gone, Kitty tiptoed down the hall to the upstairs linen
closet and found a pile of worn-out towels that her mother kept washed and
clean for their beds when they had their monthly periods. She took two and went
to her bedroom. Although she had lived in the front bedroom during her
rheumatic fever, so that she could see things and people in the world outside
the window during that long year, she now had the little bedroom that was
painted with pink Kem-Tone at the back of the house. It was cozy and always
warm. Kitty turned down the flannel sheet blanket and carefully laid the towels
in the proper place on the bed. Next, shaking slightly with nervousness, she
pulled up her skirt, undid her garter belt and took it off with her stockings.
Finally, she pulled down her cotton panties and put them with her other things
in the top drawer of her night table. Then, aware of the unusual sensation as
she walked, she went downstairs to put music on the radio and get two bottles
of Stegmaier from the only remaining case left on the back porch.
It
was but a few minutes before Rhys arrived. Kitty met him at the door, kissed
him, and turned the lock.
"Hi!Ó
she said. "Would you mind
very much if we didn't go out tonight?"
He
was disappointed. Then she continued:
"My
mom is out. Marion and Betsy are both out on dates. I'm sure they won't come
home until after midnight. I thought maybe we could just sit and listen to the
radio until I have to go back to the hospital."
"Fine,Ó
he said. "I
don't care what we do, as long as I'm with you."
"Would
you like a beer?" she asked, helping him with his coat.
"Yeah,
that would be fine." He followed her into the kitchen. She took the two
Stegmaiers out of the Frigidaire and found two tall draft glasses in the
cupboard.
"Would
you like to dance?" she asked him after a while, when they were back in
the parlor.
Rhys
took her in his arms and they swayed to the music. He kissed her and she put
her cheek against his. She felt wonderful to him, and he moved his hands up and
down her back. She kissed him again and touched the tip of her tongue to his.
He crushed her against him and moved his hands up and down her back again, and
then farther down until he was stroking the smooth curve of her buttocks. He
realized suddenly that she had nothing on underneath her green skirt.
"I
want to make love to you," she whispered. "Do you have a. . .
protection?"
"Yeah,"
he told her, holding her close. "But your family. . . .Ó
"We
have time. It's Friday night. Del doesn't have to work tomorrow. On St. Paddy's
Day they always stay until John White closes. I have to be back at the nurses'
home at midnight, but we have time."
She
took his hand and led him through the dining room and then up the stairs. The
hall was dark, but she guided him back along it to her room. Kitty had left the
lamp on but had draped a gauzy blue scarf over it. The light was very dim. She
kissed him again, encouragingly, and began to undo his tie. As they stood by
the bed, she began to unbutton his shirt.
Rhys
pressed her to him and kissed her passionately. Then there was no time: he
unbuttoned her blouse and groped blindly for the closure at the side of her
skirt. Kitty took his right hand and helped him find it. When he did, her skirt
fell to the floor and she stood there in her slip. She found his belt buckle
and started to open it, but he wanted her to turn around so that he could take
off her slip and her bra. She obeyed shyly, and, reaching down, he lifted the
rayon slip up and up, until it was at her throat. Then, as he worked to undo
the clasp of her bra, she pulled the slip over her head and took it off.
She was still standing with her back to him. He
pressed against her and she could feel the hardness of him against her bare
bottom. She felt sick with anticipation, and suddenly she was afraid she might
faint. Her legs felt like rubber. She let her body rest against his, and,
reaching around her, he put his hands under the loose bra and cupped them over
her warm breasts. He could feel her erect nipples. She slipped quickly onto the
bed and under the covers.
Rhys tore off his undershirt, kicked off his shoes
and pushed his trousers and underpants down together. Kitty looked and turned
her head quickly away.
"The . . . ?" she asked, afraid he might
forget.
"Rubber?Ó
he said. He picked up his trousers, reached into
his back pocket for his wallet, and found the rolled-up condom. He put it on
quickly and eased himself into the narrow bed beside her.
Kitty moved into his arms and raised her right leg
over his. He kissed her again and again and moved his hands up and down over
her body. He found her breast, and, bending his mouth to it, sucked on her
nipple.
"Mmmmmmm!Ó
she almost cried out.
"Ohhhhhhhh!
Darling!"
`Her
body tensed as he worked his fingers down between her legs. She buried her face
against his neck, feeling as if she were on fire.
"Ohhhhhhhh!Ó
she murmured, wanting him in a
way she had never felt before.
Then
his fingers touched her, going back and forth. His mouth was on hers, and she
had all she could do to get her breath. Even so, the sensations she was feeling
were wonderful and she didn't want them to stop. She felt her body begin to
grow very tense.
"Ohhhhhhhh!Ó
she breathed, clinging to him.
He
was licking her ear and moving his lips up and down the love line on her neck
that always made her shiver.
She
placed her hands on his arms, pulling him to her. "Please. . . .
now,Ó
she whispered.
"Are
you sure?" Rhys asked her. Then, "What about the mess?"
"It's okay,"
Kitty assured him. She drew up her legs for him. For a moment he saw a look in
her eyes that was partly fear, partly anticipation.
"Ready?Ó
he asked her gently a moment later.
Lying
beneath him, she nodded and covered her eyes with her forearm.
"I love you," Rhys murmured. Then he
moved forward. She spread her legs more and drew her knees up farther. Almost
immediately, as he thrust against her, she felt the sharp pain and knew he was
breaking her hymen. She gripped his arms and put her mouth against his shoulder
to keep from crying out. And suddenly, from something a woman at the hospital
had once told her, she remembered the words: ÒA woman must pluck the first
fruits of pleasure from the thorns of the rose."
Rhys suddenly withdrew. "Are you all right?" he
asked.
"Yes," she nodded.
"I can't quite get it in. You're very . . .
tight."
She tried to spread her legs wider.
Rhys moved his hand to his mouth. She could see her blood on
his fingers.
"Wipe it on the towel," she told him
quickly.
It went in easier then. She felt it again inside
her, a living presence. She realized she couldn't feel the penis itself, but
pressure between her hips, as if it were splitting her open. Despite the pain,
she tried to move with him as he pumped in and out, in and out.
"Ohhhhhhhh!Ó
she cried,
"Ohhhhhhhhh!Ó
Then she felt Rhys thrusting harder. She looked up
at him and saw in his eyes a look of satisfaction and helpless gratitude that
she knew she would never forget. She could feel his body stiffening as he
approached his climax.
"I'm coming!
Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!
Aaaaaaaahhhhhh!Ó
Rhys gasped.
He stiffened and began to jerk. One, two, three,
four, five, six, she counted his spasms and felt the pressure of his body
between her hips. She held him close until he stopped and lay still. Her legs
were shaking. Perspiration drenched both of them. Her throat was hot and dry.
She felt his lips softly against her cheek. Then
they lay together and were still for a long time.
**
Well, as you know, the novel from which all this comes is a love story
and you can read it on Amazon. The story of my cousin Kitty OÕDonnell and Rhys
Lewis is a
great
love story, and, by and by if you want, IÕll tell you more of it.
With respects, from her cousin Mike OÕDonnell.
TO BE CONTINUED