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a Novel by Varkel
Summer, 2001



Chapter 3:  Planning to Escape


"Gail Nance."

"Here!"

"Robert Miller."

"Here!"

Miss Pierce, the English teacher, was calling the roll at start
of class.  She was a predictable elderly woman who ordinarily did
everything by the book.  I don't know if the book specified how
to do roll call, but Miss Pierce liked to call the names
alphabetically descending one day and ascending the next.  Today
she was going backwards.

"Carmen Lutz."

"Here!"

"Harvey Loringer."

"There!"

That was worth a few titters.  Every few days some boy, always a
boy, would essay that minor example of wit or rebellion.
Reliably a few girls would reward it with giggles -- which I now
saw as an interesting reflection on female motivation.

"Timothy Kimball."

I had an inspiration.  "Everywhere!" I shouted.

Crash of laughter.  Teacher's glare.  "Very clever, Timmy.  See
me after class."

But I was a hero.  All the girls were smiling at me, even some of
the boys, though not Harvey.  I felt proud of myself too.  At
last I had managed to do something genuinely sophomoric.

When everyone else had filed from the room, I moved to a front
row seat and waited.  Miss Pierce stopped shuffling papers into
her folder, looked up at me and said to my surprise, "I cannot
approve your review of Edna St. Vincent Millay."

"_Approve_ it?"

"I mean, I can't give it the A-plus it deserves on compositional
grounds."

I thought about that.  "You objected to its content, then."

"Well, you're right of course; some of her later poetry is quite
gloomy.  I certainly don't mark off just for stating an opinion.
You reported her economy of words, her imagery and power most
acceptably.  You are becoming a perceptive writer yourself,
Timmy."

"Then what did you disapprove?"

"Not just I.  Mr. Schiffman is particularly concerned.  A-plus
papers are supposed to be read to the class, you know, as
examples.  He is adamant that this one not be."

"What's wrong with it, Miss Pierce?" I asked more firmly.

She took a paper from the back of her folder.  I saw the flash of
my name in the upper corner.  "This quotation."

She read it aloud:

"My candle burns at both ends;
"It will not last the night;
"But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends --
"It gives a lovely light!"

I frowned.  "It's an exact quote, fully documented."

"It wasn't in your textbook."

"Well, no."  I arched a brow.  "Are we restricted to our
schoolbooks then?"

She didn't answer that.  "Timmy, I'm instructed to give you an
A-minus on this."

"For what error?"

"Inappropriate content."

"Inappropriate to who?"

"Seventh graders.  It's a message they don't need to hear.  And
you should say, 'To whom.'"

I took a breath, stood up and tucked my books under my arm.
"That's only one of Millay's unconventional poems.  What do you
think of her prescription for sleep postponed to the end of life
or her hints at lesbianism?"

She shook her head vigorously.  "I'm positive Mr. Schiffman
wouldn't like any of that either."

"Then perhaps he should remove her stuff from the textbook."

"Oh, no!  She's a great American poetess!"

"Oh, yes!"  I grinned sarcastically.  "Never better than:

"Safe upon the solid rock
"The ugly houses stand.
"Come and see my shining palace,
"Built upon the sand."

Her eyes widened.  "That ... that's ..."

"Improvident?  Irresponsible?  Maybe.  It's about goals.  I've
always thought of it as a bellwether."

"A ... what?"

"How a person feels about that little poem says a lot about his
personality."

Her eyes had rounded, but suddenly she smiled crookedly.  "You've
_always_ thought of it as a bellwether, eh?  Who told you to say
that, Timmy?"

Beside the dictionary on the corner of her desk was a Christian
bible.  I pointed to it.  "God or the devil, take your pick."

I knew that disputing the A-minus was pointless.  Her stare
followed me as I turned out of the room.

English was my last class for the day.  I thought over
Schiffman's argument as I strolled down the exit hall, already
almost empty.  Should one never suggest to seventh graders that
the straightest line, while always the shortest, might not always
be the most satisfactory distance between two points?  My old man
chuckled.  That was a conclusion most of them had long since
reached!

Two concrete lions flanked the main door of the school.  A girl
was half-sitting, half-leaning on one when I exited the building:
Carol Ann Wittersheim, classmate and neighbor, renowned for
bird-like shyness, now catching my eye with uncharacteristic
pluck.  She still played with dolls, it was said, despite the
fact that she was taller than most of the guys and had tits more
noticeable than those of any other girl in class.  Though she was
ripe, her face and usual demeanor were those of an innocent
child.  The naturally thick and dark ringlets that dangled from
her head had always fascinated me, but otherwise I had ignored
her for the most part.

"Hi, Timmy," she cooed.

I smile politely.  "Hello, Carol Ann."

I started past her but she fell in beside me as we tripped down
the steps.  I looked around in surprise.  She was grinning.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"'_Every_where!'"  She laughed uproariously.

"Ah.  Did you enjoy that?"

"We all did, Timmy."

"I'm glad you liked it."

"Did Miss Pierce give you detention?"

"Not exactly.  She wanted me to know that I was inappropriate."

"'Inappropriate,'" she repeated as if tasting the word.  She
laughed again.  "I guess you were, but she said it right the
first time.  You were clever.  Oh, Timmy, you are so smart!"

Apparently she meant no sarcasm.  When I studied her, she
blushed.

"Thank you, Carol Ann," I said gravely.

She smiled brightly at me, blushed again and looked away.

We pushed through the rear gate, left the school grounds and
embarked on the path through the weeds that was a "shortcut" to
our neighborhood.  It meandered through a thick stand of birch
and in fact was longer than the route on paved sidewalks.  Its
advantage of course was privacy from the adult world.  An adult
would be concerned about trespass: this was private property that
was likely under the plough five years ago, judging by brush
hardly more than waist high.  But a kid cares nothing for such
issues.  Truly the whole world is his oyster, so long as the
adults aren't looking.

Inexplicably she kept close to me.  "Were you waiting for me,
Carol Ann?"

"Yes."  She blushed once more, eyes lowered.

I grinned wryly.  "To find out what our pierced lady wanted to do
to me?"

"'Our pierced --'"  She giggled but said, "No."

"Why, then?"

She took a deep breath.  "To tell you ... not to feel bad.
You're still the smartest boy in the school."

Now her face was bright red.  She clasped her hands before her,
shoulders becoming more rounded, but continued to march along
beside me.  The old man reminded the distracted boy that this
very nubile female would be worthy of close attention even if she
hadn't waited to comfort him!

We were about a hundred yards from the first birches.  I said,
"Race you to the woods!" and leapt ahead but purposefully held
myself in.  Shortly she passed me but fell back abreast.  Our
breathing was hardly affected when we reached the darkness under
the trees.  Ah, the advantages of youth!

"You could've beaten me," I pointed out.

"Did you ... _want_ me to?" she inquired in sincere curiosity.

"I wanted to see if you would."

She looked puzzled for only a moment before blushing once more, a
curious phenomenon on her face: reddening only momentarily, the
color fading as quickly is it came.

I chuckled.  "That's the fourth time, Carol Ann."

"What is?"

"That you've blushed.  You're not ashamed of your feelings, are
you?"

I was treated to the fifth blush.  She looked away without
answering, hands again clasped before her.

I said, "I'm sorry.  I never realized how sweet you are."

"Sweet?  Do you really ..."  Her voice trailed off.  Now her
flush endured.

"I've always loved your ringlets," I told her sincerely.

Her eyes lit.  "Oh, have you?"

"Sure.  I'd love to twist them around my finger."  The old man
had another destination in mind!

"You would?" she breathed, staring into my eyes.  "Do you really
think I'm sweet?"

"When a girl cares about a boy's feelings ...  Hardly anything is
sweeter than that!"

"I do care, Timmy."  Now her blush faded, which surprised me.

"Since when?" I asked.

"Since ..."  The blush returned and her eyes dropped.  "I
overheard you with Sara last weekend."  Her voice became little
more than a whisper.  "That's when I realized just how smart you
are."

I took her hand.  "Come on."  We strolled single-file down the
narrow path to a grassy clearing farther in the woods, now shaded
from the lowering sun though the air remained warm.  "Sit on this
log with me and tell me what you heard."

I took her books, added my geography tome and made her a smoother
seat than the wrinkled bark on the log.  We sat side by side, not
quite touching.

"Please don't get mad at me, Timmy.  I couldn't help hearing
you."

"Really?  When was it?"

"Saturday afternoon.  I went to the field."

"Alone?" I asked with a grin and raised eyebrows.  Among the
neighborhood teenagers and near-teenagers, "going to the field"
was the euphemism for having sex, especially in late summer and
fall when fields of chest-high weeds, densely packed but easily
crumpled by rolling bodies, shielded the rollers from distant
observers.

She blushed, though matching my grin.  "I lie on my back and
watch the clouds and, well, daydream."

"That's what you were doing Saturday afternoon?"

"Uh-huh.  I dream ..."  She hesitated, drew breath and continued,
"the world belongs to me."

"You want to own the world?"

"Not really.  But if it was mine nobody could make me clean the
house.  I _hate_ to clean house!"

"Saturday afternoon, was it?"

"Yes.  Some people came along and made themselves a place right
next to me.  I peeped through the weeds.  It was Ritchie, Sara
and you."

I probably should have blushed, considering what she had likely
seen and heard.  So I went on the offensive.  "Instead of saying
hello, you stayed and spied on us, did you?"

"Please, Timmy, don't think that!  I _couldn't_ say hello:
Ritchie had already pulled Sara's panties off.  And I couldn't
run away; you'd hear me.  I didn't know what to do."

"So what _did_ you do?"

"Nothing.  Turned my back.  But I still heard you."

"What did you hear?"

Her face flamed.  "_You_ know!"

Indeed I did know.  Sara had insisted that both boys fuck her,
one after the other.  I had agreed; it was implied when she
issued us the invitation, and after a lifetime of unrequited
dreams I wanted the closure afforded by a real experience.
Already aroused but unsatisfied by Ritchie, she had come soon
after I put in, leaving me the freedom to withdraw and decorate
her belly -- which had aroused anger.

I said to Carol Ann, "And that convinced you of my intelligence?"

"What you told her ... when she swore at you for ... wetting her
stomach."  Carol Ann lowered her head.

I chuckled.  "You don't agree with Sara that it feels better
internally?"

"I don't care how it feels; I agree with _you_."  Her voice
hardened and finally her eyes met mine.  "It's nowhere near worth
the chance of getting pregnant."

Indeed I had said something similar.  Sara had responded
revealingly, sneering, "A boy shouldn't care about that," before
turning to Ritchie with a sense of finality.  Her previously
unappreciated wantonness let me understand at last the cause of
her two yearlong visits to the aunt in Idaho that I recalled in
later school years.

To Carol Ann I said, "You thought that was smart, did you?"

"Yes, I did."  Her chin rose fractionally.  "My mama told me that
a _real_ man, like my daddy, plans for the future.  You were so
much smarter than Sara and Ritchie that ... that I ..."

The flush was gone.  She stared earnestly into my eyes and licked
her lips.

"You love your daddy," I commented.

"I did.  He didn't come back from the war."

"I'm sorry."  Thinking of Alice, I added, "A lot of daddies
didn't," and slipped my arm around her.

She leaned against me, blushing again.

I said, "Finish your sentence."

"My sentence?"

"I'm so much smarter than Sara and Ritchie that ... what?"

Her redness deepened.  In a low voice she averred, "You'll think
I'm loony."

"Try me."

"When I thought about it ..."

"Go on."

Her chin rose again and she stared, no longer blushing, into my
eyes.  "I went all soft inside."

Was that a sexual indicator?  I've heard the like from females,
usually when they contemplate holding a newborn under their
breasts, though never before admitted by one at the thought of my
brilliance.  But "all soft inside" was certainly suggestive of
female receptiveness, whether for a babe or the cause of it!

How should I play this?  Here was an attractive and nubile
female, breast pressing into my side, waiting breathlessly for my
response to a declaration of feeling for me.  The boy wanted to
grab that tit.  The old man wanted to think about it.

"Carol Ann ..." I began.  Her face was just before mine.  The boy
won partially.  I leaned forward and kissed her.

Her arms went around me and she returned the kiss.  My tongue
touched her lips, which fluttered, then parted.  Her eyes closed
and her tongue met mine.

"Oh, Timmy," she murmured when our faces parted.  "Oh, Timmy!"

"Carol Ann, you are a sweetheart."

"Oh, Timmy!"  Her expression, brimming with love, suddenly
changed to one of consternation.  "Oh, Tim!"  Her tone was
anguished.  "Here it is Thursday.  And this is my last week at
Candlespot!"

I blinked at her, unable to recall her fate in the seventh grade.
I had hardly noticed her the first time around.  "Are you
moving?"

"To St. Louis.  My mother has a new job.  We have to go."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said with more truth than otherwise.

Her eyes glittered.  "Maybe you and I could ... could ..."

I smiled encouragingly.  "Maybe we can."

"Oh, Timmy!  Could you meet me at --"

A raucous voice interrupted her.

"Love birds!  Boy, what a pair: Timmy, the smart-ass and Carol
Ann, the sourpuss!"

It was two of them: the "there"-boy, Harvey Loringer, and Mule
Simpson, the biggest guy in our class.  They stood where the path
continued, leering at us.

"The sourpuss?" I asked Carol Ann quietly.

She shrank away from me, whispering, "He's called me that since I
wouldn't kiss him at May Day.  Oh, Timmy!  What can we do?"

I stood up and walked towards them.  Mule was tall, heavy and
clumsy, a dull boy easily led.  He stood slightly behind his
friend and blinked at my approach.  Harvey was my size and fast
on the track.  I had tangled with him the previous year, I
recalled, and come off second-best.

"The girl chooses, Harv," I told him.  "Didn't you ever hear
that?"

That wiped his grin.  "What're you talking about?"

By this time we were chest-to-chest.  "I know you remember May
Day."

He drew back, face flushing angrily.  "That silly bitch told?"

My twelve-year-old reflexes were untrained, but the old man had
not forgotten what he had learned so painfully in his twenties.
I stood with left foot leading, my weight forward.  The choice
was between chin and sternum.  Results in the former can be more
impressive because of the common presumption, fostered by boxing
rules, that a blow to the chin is the best way to knock out your
opponent, which may be true when administered through a padded
boxing glove.  But I possessed a pubescent boy's tender knuckles, 
easily broken on a sharp mandible.  My fist struck him in the 
center of the chest with all my weight behind it.

Whoosh!  Harvey expelled a lung full of air and flopped abruptly
onto his back in the grass.  His hands closed on his chest while
his eyes glared hugely up at me and his mouth gaped silently like
a fish.  Youthful chests are particularly vulnerable there.  Such
a blow paralyzes the diaphragm muscles briefly.  To those
unfamiliar with the effect it seems mortal.

I regarded Mule.  "Is that your opinion of her too?"

"Uh, uh ..."  He blinked at me, darting a glance behind me at the
girl.  "N-no."

"Good."  I turned away from him.  "Let's go, Carol Ann."

She snatched up both sets of books and came to me confidently.
As we started out of the clearing, Mule asked, "Wh-what about
him?"

"He'll be all right in a minute.  Just had the breath knocked out
of him."  I added over my shoulder, "Tell him to watch what name
he calls my girl."

I took my books from Carol Ann and we marched along the path.
She drew abreast when the path permitted it, looked into my face
and asked, "Am I your girl, Timmy?"

I smiled at her.  "You meant to comfort me when you thought I'd
been punished, and I fought for your good name.  Yeah, I think
that makes you my girl, if you want to be."

"Oh, yes, Timmy, yes!"

We put down our books and kissed again until we heard approaching
voices.  This time I copped a feel, the more gratifying because
of her thin brassiere padded only by girl.  Her nipples were
distinctive little lumps.

"Timmy, can you meet me on the alley behind my house after
supper?"

"Wouldn't you like to go to the movies instead?"

"Movies!  We're leaving Saturday morning.  I have only two nights
to ..."

"To what?"

"B-be your girl."

* * *

But she didn't show.  I waited half an hour in the Indian-summer
darkness, wondering at the lack of lights in her house, until a
small boy came trotting up the alley.  "Hey, kid!" I called.
"Here's a nickel if you'll take a message to that door."

"Won't do no good."

"Why not?"

"They moved out as soon as Carol Ann got home from school."

"They did?"

"Yeah.  Her uncle showed up with a truck."

So I went to see Phyllis instead, where my luck was better.

* * *

Somehow since my reversion I had managed to be out of the house
whenever "Aunt" Clara came to visit, as she did every week or so.
She wasn't really my aunt but an old friend of my parents who had
doted on me since I could remember.  She frequently brought me
presents, although none this time.

"Hi, lovely Timmy," she gushed when I plonked my books on the
kitchen table after school.  Mom watched indulgently as Clara
gave me a grand embrace accompanied by several kisses to my face.

Until that day I had always accepted such familiarity like a
little boy, complaining, "Aw, Aunt Clara!" at her excesses of
affection, but now the old man inside me relished the smell of
the woman and the feel of her body.  She was no taller than I,
five two, a pretty, dainty creature with short cropped hair black
as obsidian.  She was only thirty years old, although she moved
and spoke with a grace and dignity that seemed much older.  I had
a fond affection for her, and she obviously loved me.

"She can't have children, Tom," my mother once explained with a
smile.  "She wants to snatch you away."

I would very much like to have been snatched that afternoon, but
Mom was intent on Clara's conversation.  I hung about and peeked
in on them from time to time, wanting another kiss from the
pretty woman.  Mom was seeking advice from Clara about the new
vitamin cream skin treatments.  Observing my interest, she shooed
me away.

"That boy suddenly knows too much," I heard her say.

Clara chuckled.  "Nature teaches boys, too."

"You think that's it?  No, Clara, it's different with Tim.  He's
changed so much that --  Young man, get yourself out to play!  You
need the exercise."

Before she left Clara found me on the front porch.

"You are worrying your mother," she said as she palmed my cheek.

I answered flippantly, "It comes with the territory."

"The territory?"

Oops, anachronistic slang again!  "Of motherhood," I explained

She chuckled admiringly.  "An apt metaphor, Timmy.  Indeed it is
a kind of territory, one that I may not enter."  She pulled me to
her gently.

Her soft cheek was against mine.  I felt her small breasts
pressed to my chest.

"You smell of honeysuckle," I whispered and sucked on her
earlobe, which was just the right height.

"Timmy, you shouldn't," she protested but did not let go of me.

"Isn't this what you do with honeysuckle?" I asked in feigned
innocence.

She shivered.  "But I'm much more than honeysuckle, Timmy."  She
turned slightly and looked into my eyes.

"I've noticed," I admitted, carelessly letting a hand fall to her
breast.  It was yieldingly soft.  I imagined that I felt the
nipple's quick response through blouse and brassiere.

"What have you noticed?" she asked distantly, as if our
conversation were only partly on her mind.

"What is your problem with fertility?" I asked brazenly, curious
to find the limits of her tolerance.  Did this woman actually
have the hots for a twelve year-old?

But she answered promptly.  "The doctors say I have a retroverted
uterus."

So had my second wife, who bore two children.  I said softly,
"Don't count on it as a contraceptive."

She took a deep breath and stood back enough to stare into my
eyes.  "Timmy, I'm beginning to understand your mother."

At that moment Mom appeared in the front door.  We quickly
separated.  Clara said to her, "Pat, did you realize this young
man is precocious?"

"He certainly is!"

"I mean, his condition is not exactly unheard-of.  Well, I must
be off.  Give me a precocious kiss, Timmy."

We pecked each other's lips under Mom's cocked eyebrow.

A curious meeting!  Her eyes, regarding me while my hand squeezed
her breast, had been speculative -- and more, they were alight
with pleasure.  At my sudden precocity?  But then followed the
matter-of-fact deprecation of my not unheard-of condition.
Watching her trim figure march down the steps to her new Packard,
I wondered what she was up to.

* * *

"Before we go in," my father said, his eye catching mine, "maybe
we should agree on something:  that I'll do all the talking
unless I ask you a question."

I studied his earnest face.  "Do you really think I might
embarrass you?"

He sighed.  "I don't know what to think, son."

"I won't embarrass you, Dad.  I can see this from your
perspective, too."

He shook his head.  "If you'd been concerned about my
perspective, this meeting wouldn't have been necessary."

"I don't think you understand the problem, sir."

"Then explain it to me."  His voice took on a sarcastic edge.
"You have 30 seconds."

"I warned you about it.  I've been bored out of my mind."

That got his attention.  His eyebrows went up.  "_Bored_?  School
is _supposed_ to be boring!"

I grinned slightly.  "And students have always striven to make it
less so."

He sniffed, leaned forward and knocked on the door labeled, _John
Schiffman / Principal_.

I've learned through years of bitter experience to suspect the
motives and sincerity of anyone whose desk was so perfectly clean
as Schiffman's.  This was my third time in his office since my
reversion, and so far I had yet to find, other than his elbows,
so much as a speck of dust upon the gleaming surface of his desk.
He sat with his hands steepled before him and watched us approach
his immaculate divinity.

Dad introduced himself as Timmy's father.  He and I drew up
chairs before the desk.  Dad was not one to give another the
initial opening.  He said, "I understand you have a problem with
Timmy.  How are his grades?"

"Exactly," said the principal.

"I beg your pardon?" said Dad.

"We have a problem with Timmy.  His grades are a part of it."

"What _are_ his grades?"

The man answered without lowering his eyes.  Grudgingly I gave
him credit: he had done his homework.  "Arithmetic A-plus,
though the teacher advises that she caught him using log tables
to avoid multiplication and division practice.  History A-plus,
though he has disrupted the class on two occasions by revealing
errors in the text and on a third by challenging the common view
of Helen Keller as a model of resolve for children."

Dad looked at me.  "What was wrong with Helen Keller?"

"She's a Communist sympathizer."

His eyes widened.  "You're kidding!"

"No, unfortunately, he isn't," Schiffman answered for me with a
growl.  "I didn't know it either, but it's there in the public
record.  To go on, Science A-plus, though Mr. Howe has sent him
to my office twice.  Civics --"

Dad had frowned.  "Just a minute!  My son has always been
exceptional in science."

"Oh, he is still exceptional!  When Mr. Howe judged, as many do,
that the German V2 rocket could not work above 150 miles because
it would have no air for the exhaust to push against, Timmy went
to the blackboard and showed that Newton's Second and Third Law,
which no other seventh grader ever heard about, were sufficient 
to explain the operation of rockets, requiring no air to assist
them.  Mr. Howe is a decorated war veteran who is understandably
sensitive about being second-guessed by a callow youth,
especially one who can spout irrelevancies for hours."

"Ir_rel_evancies!"  Dad's eyes flashed.  "But Newton's laws _do_
explain rockets completely!"

Schiffman blinked.  "Even in outer space?"

"_Every_where!" Dad thundered.

Schiffman coughed.  "Well, I won't presume to argue with a
professor in his specialty, but --"

"Oh, go ahead," Dad countered, grinning.  "I'm not a physicist;
I'm a philosopher.  But I once had occasion to _prove_ the air
resistance conjecture false by throwing first a basketball, then
a cannon ball from my father's porch swing."

Schiffman looked blank.  "But that's not a rocket."

"Same principle, and Newton's Second Law applies."

Schiffman shook his head resolutely.  "But it's not a rocket.  In
Civics Timmy scores A-plus, although only by virtue of his
teacher's exceptional integrity.  She tells me that on the essay
questions he first gives the book answers, then argues that they
are invariably incomplete, naive or even deliberate
falsification.  She would like to fail him on the grounds that he
has certainly not accepted the facts imparted by the lesson
material, but admits that she knows of no requirement for the
student to _believe_ what he is taught, so long as he can spout
it back."

Again Dad looked at me.  His eyes twinkled.  "Timmy, don't you
believe that Franklin D. Roosevelt was the greatest human being
who ever lived?"

"Maybe the one with the largest blind spot."

"Huh?"  He hadn't expected that.

"You see?" asked Schiffman.  "Always irrelevancies."

"What blind spot?" Dad inquired.

"I conjecture that he never expected to survive World War Two."

"Hmm."  Dad's eyes became distant.  "Because he planned nothing
to contain the victorious Soviets?"

I winked.  "Mr. Schiffman would call that irrelevant."

Dad shook his head.  "Not after Churchill's Iron Curtain speech
in Missouri last year.  What else do you have, Mr. Schiffman?"

The principal said frostily, "I have a certain disdain for anyone
who criticizes President Roosevelt."

"All Republicans, no doubt," Dad commented in apparent agreement.

"Definitely!"  Schiffman cleared his throat.  "In English Timmy
has another A-plus, although his teacher warns that she intends
to reduce his score in the future if he continues to use so many
foreign words and phrases in the creative writing exercises.  And
again his literature reviews tend to cast doubt on the sincerity
of the textbook authors, a cynical attitude that is contaminating
other students.

"Then we have health and deportment.  I have deliberately saved
those two for last.  Timmy has a C in health, which is a
combination of an A in Hygiene class and an F in the gym, applied
according to his instructor because he refuses to take any kind
of sport seriously.  He enjoys show-off plays, such as sinking
ten baskets in a row from the 20-foot line.  But he is useless on
a team.  Though talented in strength, accuracy and reflexes, he
cannot be depended on to serve the goals of his team.  He is as
likely to sink a long shot in the opposing team's goal as his
own, while pretending to be confused.  Once he ran off to the
showers without touching a base after hitting a homerun.  Coach
Bryant has benched him as useless to the athletic program.

"As to deportment, again he has a C.  While invariably polite to
the teachers, his contempt for much of the curriculum is so
poorly disguised that it instills disrespect in other students
who do not possess his reserves of knowledge and wit."

The man leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath.  "In
short, Dr. Kimball, your son is very much a disruptive influence
in this school, both to students and teachers but particularly to
teachers."  He sighed.  "Yet I find that I have very little
recourse available to me.  I can hardly suspend or expel him on
such complaints.  The law requires him to attend school until he
is 16 years of age and it requires me to accommodate him so long
as he is not unruly, which he is not ... exactly.  I asked you to
come in, sir, hoping that you might help me devise some
solution."

Dad nodded slowly.  "I see."  He stood up.  "I'll get back to you
shortly on this, Mr. Schiffman.  Come along, Timmy."

He didn't speak again until we sat together in his rusty prewar
Studebaker.  "I see what you meant about boredom causing it.  But
don't you think you've gone a bit far to liven things up?"

I sighed.  "Yes, sir, indeed I have."

His eyes flicked back and forth on mine.  "Helen Keller is really
a Communist?"

"She believes in it.  Vladimir Lenin is her hero."

"Where did you hear that, son?"

Where _had_ I heard it?  I shrugged.  "All I know is what I read
in the papers."

He snorted.  "I suppose you know who said _that_ first?"

"Will Rogers?" I guessed.

He studied me.  "Son, is it possible you have some kind of
perfect memory?  Do you remember every word you ever read?"  But
he answered his own question before I could open my mouth.  "No,
no, that couldn't be it.  You obviously _understand_ what you
know, far more than any boy has the right."

He reached over the floor-mounted gear shift and clasped my
shoulder.  "Son, do _you_ have any idea what's happened to you?"

I knew my father to be a kind man.  I had heard other people,
mainly Mother, suggest he had a strong mind but a weak body.  I
weasled.  "Maybe it's not so much what's happened to _me_."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe other people are starting to notice me."

He chuckled sourly.  "You've seen to that, haven't you!"  He
sighed.  "It's not just your teachers.  Your mother and I have
noticed a major difference, too.  As bright as you are, as
knowledgeable as you've somehow become, you must know something
about it."

Oh, yes, indeed.  God, I was tempted to make a clean breast of it
right then and there!  This was my father, the man whose love for
me was as close to unconditional as I might find on this Earth.
But what if he didn't believe me?  A twelve year-old boy was
totally at his father's mercy in 1947.  This was not a man to
jump to conclusions, but what if he decided I had developed a
mental defect -- an obvious conclusion on the face of it?  The
next step might well be involuntary admittance to a "mental
hospital."  For most of the Twentieth Century this was a place to
incarcerate anyone while witch doctors made him their guinea pig.
Question: what can be worse than a charlatan who believes his own
mumbo-jumbo?  Answer: one who has the government's gun behind
him.  By 2002 the psychiatrists were losing their hammerlock on
the courts, but in 1947 they alone were authorized to judge you
competent to be a free man -- or not, depending on a short
interrogation.

Hell, by almost anyone's standard I had already proven myself
crazy as a loon.  I had committed suicide in 2002!  I shook my
head.  The truth would not serve me in 1947.

So I nodded in apparent agreement.  "Yes, sir, Mama asked me
about it just the other day.  It's like I've awakened from a
dream, a dream where I was just playing around, taking things in
as they came along.  Now I'm beginning to notice how the world
really works, without all the bull--  ah, without the charming 
but incomplete explanations they make for children.  It's 
beginning to add up.  I notice some trends.  For example, 
several businesses that invented stuff for the military during 
the war have had their patents released, stuff that's been in 
the news, like radar and microwave radio.  One in particular you 
ought to buy into, Dad:  Airguidance Corporation.  Their stock 
has been rising steadily, and they just signed a contract to 
supply radar for LaGuardia and Chicago Municipal."

He cocked an eyebrow.  "Think it's a sure thing, do you?"

"Well, the hundred dollar bond Gramps gave me when I was born --
I'd put that on Airguidance."

If he cared for my suggestion he gave no sign.  He studied me in
thoughtful silence.  Then his eyes narrowed.  "I know you're
bright, Tim, but how bright is that?"

I caught his drift.  "Do you have a test for me?"

"Perhaps I do.  Let me ask you this.  Consider a mature oak tree.
Why do the cracks in its bark run vertically, up the trunk,
instead of horizontally, around it?"

"Huh?  I'm no botanist."

"Well, neither am I.  But I never saw that question in a book.
It depends on experience and deduction, not erudition."

"A peculiarity of oaks?"

"No.  Perhaps you could call it a peculiarity of deciduous trees;
many species exhibit it.  But the question was, 'Why?'"

I thought about it.  "The bark is dead."

"Right, which explains the cracks.  But why vertical instead of
horizontal?"

I shrugged.  "Because a tree is like a man.  After a while it
stops growing taller and starts growing wider."

He took a deep breath, staring at me.  "Tim, that answer worries
me a lot."

"Is it wrong?"

"No.  It's exactly right.  But where would a twelve year-old boy,
no matter how brilliant, get the experience to know that about a
man or a tree?"

Don't underestimate the old man!  But at the end of that road was
an obvious absurdity.  I needed to remind him of it, so I
chuckled, spread my hands as if inviting him to consider the
evident child before him and asked, "What do you think you have
proven?"

He took a deep breath.  "That you don't belong in the seventh
grade."

"Quite true," I agreed.  "The question is, how best to get me out
without jeopardizing my future credentials."

"There!" he exclaimed, staring harder.  "What other twelve year
old would ever think of that?"

"Aside from my appreciation of it, it is in fact the only issue."

He sighed.  "Perhaps the most immediate one.  The solution will
need money, I think."  He sighed again.  When he spoke, the
reluctance was evident in his voice.  "And I think I know where
to get it for you."

I put a hand on his arm.  "You're not thinking of anything rash,
I hope.  Airguidance will exceed $100 per share before
Christmas."

His eyes widened.  "What's the price now?"

"Three and a half."

He smiled.  "Nothing rash, you say!  But in fact I'm planning
nothing rash.  We'll just speak to Aunt Clara."

* * *

Dad didn't explain his decision to turn to Aunt Clara until
Saturday afternoon when we were in the car on the way to her
house.

"This trip is just a little bit embarrassing, son."

"Then don't do it," I answered.

He grunted.  "I should depend on your Airguidance dream instead,
eh?"

"It's no dream."

"You need a near-term solution, Timmy.  We might need a second
mortgage to get that for you, and although I hear the confidence
in your voice, somehow I just can't risk my family's home on your
guesses.  And don't tell me they aren't guesses -- unless you're
prepared to show me exactly how it is that you alone on earth can
see the future."

So I went back to his original point.  "You're embarrassed to ask
someone else to help you educate your son?"

"To help pay for it, yes, I am.  That's part of it.  But there's
more you don't know."

I thought about it.  "Something between our family and Clara?"

He hesitated.  At last he took a deep breath.  "Between Clara and
me.  Her husband, Paul, was my friend when we were two new
assistant professors just starting out and needing friendship.
Your mother and I often went out with the two of them together,
to shows and dinner.  Those were such gay times.  Then the war
came and he volunteered, even though he was 39.  He was an
engineer.  They put him into the signal corps as a captain and we
thought he'd be safe, but within a year he was killed when a Jap
torpedo sank his troop ship.  Though a bit younger than I, he was
such a good friend!"

Dad choked back a sob.  I took hold of his hand.

"Clara was devastated, of course, but after a few months she
recovered, at least on the surface.  Your mother and I continued
to see her.  We would go out together, but not as often as
before.  Then, almost a year after Paul's death, your mother had
to go attend to her mother who took ill, your grandmother.  Do
you remember Grandma Frazier?"

"Not really," I replied.

"Well, your mother was away for weeks, until Grandma Frazier
died.  During that time Clara came over every day to fix supper
for us."

"What happened?" I asked bluntly, wanting to hear the end of the
story.

He looked at me sharply for the second he dared to spare from the
traffic.  "I don't know where or how you found a man's
experience, son, but I count on it for you to keep this our
secret.  What do you suppose happened?  Clara and I had an
affair.  It was very intense, but it lasted less than ten days.
We agreed to end it, because we were so full of guilt."

I wanted to assure him that he had no reason to feel shame, but
he continued, "I wanted to confess to your mother, but I couldn't
do it.  Besides, what purpose would be served in doing that?  It
would only have made her miserable.  When Clara comes over to the
house, she won't look into my face.  After we ended the affair,
she said she would do anything for me.  I only had to ask.  I
suppose she was thinking about money."

He threw me another sharp glance.  "She has some special feeling
for you.  I don't know why.  Your mother remarked on it soon
after you were born.  She supposes that Clara wants a son of her
own terribly."

"Then why hasn't she remarried?"

"Good question!  She told me that the only other man she ever
knew to compare to Paul was already married."

"I see."

"I've told you of our affair so you'll understand the special
nature of this visit.  I've talked to her on the phone.  Clara is
interested in your new, ah, capabilities and she very much wants
to help you."  He glanced at me again.  "It's up to you to
convince her she should."

"Is it, Dad?  Wouldn't she do it only for _your_ sake?"

"She might."  His lips formed a thin line.  "But I definitely
don't want her to do it for _my_ sake!"

I thought about it.  "Are you telling me to show off for her?"

"Yes, exactly.  Let it all out.  Pour on the coal.  She's an
educated woman, much like your mother in that regard.  Hit her
with every item of abstruse erudition you can dig up."  He
sighed.  "I can't beg her, even for your sake.  I'm going to duck
out.  She'll give you a ride home.  This is your big chance, son.
Convince her to hire you a tutor."

"More in the nature of a guidance counselor," I mused.

He laughed.  "Are you truly so conceited?"

"It isn't conceit, Dad.  I would be pleased to take -- and pass 
-- the college matriculation exams as soon as they could be
scheduled."

"Such a claim!"  He shook his head.  "Timmy, I love you, but
that's ridiculous!"

I smiled.  "In that case I'm glad I don't have to convince
_you_!"

He sniffed.  "I assure you, Clara's no fool."

"I don't need a fool, Dad, just an open mind."

He flashed me a glare.  "Now you're approaching impertinence."

I asked innocently, "Isn't that about what they told Galileo?"
-- which drew a laugh, though a bit sour.

"Let's see how many moons _you_ discover!" he grumped as he
turned into Clara's long driveway.

Her house, so familiar to me, nestled in a park-like setting of
at least two acres.  It was not large, but it was certainly more
than a cottage.  The rusting old Studebaker was out of place in
the driveway of this rich property.

Dad strode to the door of the house, which opened before he
reached it, and Clara stepped out.  I was struck again by her
dainty stature and mature attractiveness.  I had known her long
as I could remember, yet she still possessed something
mysterious.  Perhaps the old man in my head did not know her as
well as the boy, who had always responded to her with
unquestioning affection.  The old man saw her as one of the most
desirable women he had ever encountered.  He wanted to do more
than just suck on one of her ear lobes.

She only nodded at Dad.  Her attention was for me.  She caught my
hands in both of hers.  "Timmy!" she cried softly.  "Indeed you
are becoming a man."

Dad said dryly, "Not fast enough to suit him!  Clara, I can
hardly tell you how pleased I am that you would see us on such
short --"

"Not another word, Frank!" she instructed him, still holding my
hands and looking into my eyes.  "I repeat:  you can have
anything from me."

He coughed behind his hand.  "Can you get him home before
dinner?"

"Of course, Frank."

"I'll see you at home, son."

He turned back to his car.  Clara tugged me into the house.  She
smiled sunnily.  "I have some special lemonade for you."

I stopped to look at her living room as she went to the kitchen
for my drink.  Of course it was the first time I ever appreciated
it properly.  She had furnished it in what would later be
described as "Swedish Modern:" angular but heavily stuffed couch
and chairs, wall-to-wall carpet and floor-to-ceiling drapes, both
rarities then, in subdued blended earth tones.  Had she spent
some of her obvious wealth to have it all custom made?

The pictures on the wall were abstractions, yet to my surprise I
recognized them.  They all seemed to be enlargements from the rim
of the Mandelbrot Set, which would make them as anachronistically
impossible as my memories.  I wondered who might have painted
them from some prophetic dream, but no artist's name was
furnished.

She returned with a tray bearing two tall glasses, tinkling with
ice, but paused when she saw me examining one of the pictures.

"Recognize my paintings?" she asked with curious intentness.

I withdrew my fingertip from contact with the whorls of paint and
turned to regard her.  "They _are_ paintings!" I exclaimed with
internal relief.

Her eyes twinkled.  "As opposed to what, prints?"

"Who's the artist?"

"I am.  Try this lemonade.  I've added a little spice."

"_You_ painted these?"

She chuckled slightly.  "Don't sound so incredulous, Timmy."

"But _why_?  Where did you get the idea?"

"Take this glass, Timmy, before you convince me you understand
what is truly strange about them."

I stared at her.  They _couldn't_ be Mandelbrot views!  It would
take weeks to produce one having such typical detail and
almost-symmetry without a fast computer.  Even then the artist
must have studied many such views before painting one, yet Benoit
Mandelbrot himself was not destined to see the first image of his
world-famous set before the early Seventies, almost 25 years from
now.

The true strangeness here was the woman.  The dark eyes that
contemplated me over the proffered glass fairly beamed with
intelligence.  Likely I was missing a bet.  I felt a slight chill
even before I took the first sip of her lemonade.  Something
cautioned me to be very careful, not to slip up and admit
anything that could only be known by having already lived in the
future.

But I almost screwed up right away.  "Almonds!" I declared,
tasting the lemonade.  "No, amaretto!"

She studied me in calculation.  Time to behave like a kid.  I
took a generous slug and smacked my lips.  "Hey, Aunt Clara,
_de_licious!"

"Where did you ever hear of amaretto?"

"I've got a book that says it tastes like smooth almonds."  I
held up the glass.  "Lemon and smooth almonds."  Presumably her
added flavoring was not potassium cyanide!

She took a sip of her own drink and gestured toward the couch.
"Sit there with me."

I sat beside her, deliberately allowing the side of my knee to
touch hers.

Instead of reacting, she said thoughtfully, "Your father told me
about your meeting with the school principal and his chat with
you afterwards.  He says that your mental capacity seems suddenly
to have blossomed incredibly, that you have developed a
stupendous memory for trivia and can deduce, apparently by sheer
brilliance, conclusions that anyone else might reach only after
long experience and observation."  She studied me, eyes flicking
back and forth.  "I am not talking down to you, Timmy.  Do you
understand me?"

"Perfectly."

Her eyebrows twitched.  "Just how widely have you blossomed,
Timmy?"

How widely did I _need_ to have blossomed?  I decided to play it
cautiously because in fact I was _not_ just a precocious lad!  I
shrugged.  "How could I know that?"

She blinked, as if she expected something else.  She smiled.
"Then let's see if we can find out.  To what is the slope
proportional?"

"Proportional" gave it away.  I grinned at her.  "The first
derivative of the function.  Were you a math teacher, Aunt
Clara?"

"Yes, in fact," she answered primly.  "I was my husband's
graduate math assistant for a while."  She continued immediately,
"What element has the highest atomic weight?"

I almost retorted that I had ceased to keep up with them after
some stutterer began prefixing all of them with _unun_- but
caught myself in time.  What was the last one Seaborg had
discovered by 1947?  I took a guess.  "Americium?"

She sniffed.  "Actually not.  But even _Americium_ is a
classified name."  Her eyes twinkled.  "The federal government
would be interested in knowing how you heard of it."

I widened my eyes ingenuously.  "My god, Aunt Clara, did you help
with the atomic bomb?"  That is, how did _you_ learn of it, then?

The twinkle vanished.  "I had nothing to do with that.  How do
you _suppose_ I know about Americium?"

I shot a high one.  "From the usual academic clique exchanges
that make mockery of secrecy restrictions."  Intending to make my
voice falsetto, I managed to elevate it perhaps one sarcastic
octave.  "Oh, your husband discovered anti-gravity?  Mine is
working on time travel!"

A smile flickered on her lips and vanished.  "Very astute," she
commented dryly, studying me.  She leaned back, hands on her
knees.  "Now tell me what was your problem with my paintings."

A high one in return:  I thought she would ask how _I_ knew of
Americium!  But I could handle this one better.  "My library
teacher likes modern art.  She's taught me about the cubists and
the impressionists.  Your paintings are nothing like that, yet
they are still abstractions.  I know where I've seen something
like them, though not so elaborately detailed."

"Where?" she demanded intently.

"Woven fabric from Paisley in Scotland or England, I don't recall
which, whose ideas came from earlier Kashmiri weavings.  Your
paintings are paisley with great passion."

"With passion," she repeated in an introspective tone.

Was it time to quit playing the kid?  As if I actually had!
"You're wearing no brassiere under that satin blouse," I guessed.
"Did you want me to notice you?"

She took a very deep breath.  "Timmy ..."

"Show me."

She neither blushed nor protested.  Dark eyes boring into mine,
she tugged the blouse tails out of her skirt, gathered them in
her hands and snatched them up under her armpits, leaving her
moderate breasts jiggling.  Her skin was like milk porcelain,
spotless and translucent to the network of blue veins beneath it.
Her small nipples were dark and tightly crinkled.  Was she a
general exhibitionist or was it only for me?

"You are very beautiful," I told her sincerely.

"Timmy ..."  She sighed and let the blouse fall.  "Your father
was right.  You have no more need of that school than I do."

"Then what should I do about it?"

"Go to Chicago."

"What?"

"I had a very close friend at the University of Chicago.  He
enjoys working with precocious youth.   If he's still there, and
I expect he is, he could guide you through the curriculum and
perhaps even graduate work.  Let me write to him.  I should have
an answer for you in a couple weeks."

"As easy as that?"

She nodded.  "I'll advise Frank -- your father -- to remove you
from your current school.  He'll have to petition the school
board, I suspect, if he does it legally, and Frank always wants
to be legal.  I'll hire an examiner to give you the standard
battery of high-school competency tests."  She smiled.  "Think
they'll be a problem?"

"I'll ace them."  Oops!  Another anachronism?

If so, she nevertheless understood me.  "I expect you will."  She
stood up, stuffing blouse back into skirt waist.  She took a
breath.  "I need to get you home before dinner."

I stood almost in contact with her, looking into her eyes.
"That's another hour."

"Would you ..."  She gulped.  "Would you prefer to ... do
something else?"

Take it easy, kid, the old man advised.  You'll be seeing a lot
of her, with and without her clothes, in the near future.  And
you haven't worn out your welcome with Mealy yet.  But why was
this one so eager for me?  I agreed that I was beautiful, but she
had remarked only on the quality of my mind.  Do women think
brains are sexy?

"Yes," the cautious old man made me say, "but we'll have a lot of
time for that.  I think you're right.  You should take me home."

"Very well," she agreed, but her disappointment was evident.

* * *

"Can we meet?" I asked Mrs. Potter softly in the library.

Her eyes had fixed upon me as I strolled across the room, dodging
other students.

"Same time, same station," she whispered immediately as if she
had anticipated my question, which well she might.  This was our
fourth rendezvous.

"I'll pretend to have a mustache."

She took a breath.  "I'll loan you one."

I chuckled.  "_Touche_!"

Jefferson's Dime Store again was bereft of kids, but then, as I
recalled, kids didn't usually patronize dime stores unaccompanied
by parents.  Though a lot of its merchandise indeed sold for
dimes, too little of it was saturated in sugar or promises of
excitement.  By the time of my reversion, the dime store by that
name had disappeared from America.

When I slammed her car door, she waited until she was up to speed
and had shifted into high before demanding, "Where've you been
this week?"

I debated hinting at the truth.  Why not?  If she had truly
missed me, a worse truth was in the offing.  "Testing your
prediction."

"My prediction?"

"That God only knows what I'll do to other women."

Her lip curled.  "And have you been doing things to them?"

"Not exactly.  I've been very busy, but mostly with young girls
and a couple of old men."

"Tell me about the young girls."

"Three, ages twelve through 16.  The 16 year-old is interesting,
but I find oddly enough that the younger ones lack sparkle."

"'Oddly enough,'" she repeated.  "I ask myself why I don't just
stop the car and put you out."

"None compares with you, Mealy.  You tower over them all in my
dreams."

"Do I!  Well, I suppose I can understand that.  You did in mine,
too."

"'Did?'"

She glanced at me coolly.  "I went to a club Saturday and let a
man pick me up."

It was her matter-of-fact delivery that shocked me, I think, more
than the words.  Then the old man suggested she might only be
playing with me.  I asked, "How did it go?"

"It was brutish.  He was the club bouncer.  His biceps were large
as your thighs."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"That wasn't my purpose."

"What a treat for him, either way!"

"Is that how you think of it?"

"It's a compliment, Mealy.  I've already told you:  you are the
modern American ideal to which any man must respond."

"A compliment?  Then I suppose I should thank you."

"What was your objective, if not pleasure?"

"I wanted to find out something about myself."

The boy was curious but not the old man, who doubted now that she
was playing.  I asked, "And what's your objective in telling me
of it?"

"I'm not sure."  She chuckled sourly.  "When I'm with you, things
just spill out."

I thought over her words.  "You sought a man to replace me in
your dreams?"

Her voice was almost too low to hear over the car sounds, but I
had young ears.  "In my soul."

The old man took charge.  "That was probably wise, Mealy."

Her head pivoted, large eyes staring at me.  "What d-do you
mean?"

I shook my head.  "Better watch the traffic."

Reluctantly she turned away.  "Is this your way of dropping me in
favor of your young girls?"

"Not the young girls, Mealy.  I mean it: they don't hold a candle
to you.  The fact is, I'm leaving school at the end of this
week."

"What?  You're too young!"

I grunted.  "Are you truly surprised?  I'll be going away to a
university."

"So soon?"

"Very soon."

Her hands closed tightly on the wheel.  She took a shuddering
breath.  Again her voice was low.  "Would ... would you spend a
weekend with me, Timmy?"

I shook my head.  "How could I do that, Mealy?  For all intents
and purposes except school I'm still a twelve year-old boy."

"Couldn't you ... s-say you were staying with a friend --  Oh,
god, what am I doing?"

I caressed her tense arm.  "Mealy, I'm sorry."

"No.  I'm the one who is sorry."  She stared straight ahead,
driving mechanically, except at the next intersection, where she
should have turned right, she turned left toward my neighborhood.

She spared me a glance from very bright eyes and chuckled
ironically.  "To think I've been worried about hurting _you_!"

I sighed, trying to see it from her side.  "The heart is a very
tender organ."

"How well said!" she declared with heavy irony.  "Have I been a
good example for you?"

"An example of what?"

"Of how easy older women are for the pretty boy with an old man's
cunning."

What an excellent summary!  "_You_ are the clever one, Mealy."

She shook her head.  "_I_ am only a fool!"  She sighed.  "But I'm
still glad to have loved you.  What are you really, Timmy?"

I thought about my answer.  Perhaps I owed her something,
especially if, foolish indeed, she had let me impregnate her.
But would she understand if I told her the exact truth?  Or
hinted at it?

Why the hell not?

I said, "I'm an experiment, Mealy.  So far a wildly successful
one."

She threw me an appraising glance.  Neither of us said another
word until the car stopped before my house.

"I know what you are, Timmy," she said, staring into my eyes.
"You're God's gift to older women.  Thank you, God."

"You can do infinitely better than a bar bouncer, Mealy."

"As you have proven?"

"Good-bye, Mealy.  It's been great fun."

Her eyes flashed.  "It's Mrs. Potter, if you don't mind."

"Yes, ma'am."  I got out of the car and called through the open
window, "Thanks for the ride, Mrs. Potter."

I watched her drive away.  My mother was standing at the front
door.  "Mrs. Potter?"

"The school librarian.  She wanted to tell me I was overdue."

"Well, did you make arrangements?"

I forced a smile and nodded.  "She won't need to see me again."

* * *

On Wednesday afternoons I had become Phyllis's property, with
Bobby taking a small share.  This Wednesday was different.  I was
late getting to Graden's, mainly because I hated the idea of
another parting.  When I arrived, Phyllis, naked, pulled me
quickly into his backdoor, her fat tits jiggling.  "Where've you
been?"

I asked innocently, "Are you in a hurry?"

"Oh, come on," she said with a sniff.  To my surprise she led me
past the staircase and into the bathroom.  Graden's ruined figure
waited for us, sitting on a stool while wearing a big grin and
nothing else.

"Throw your clothes in the hall, Timmy," the girl ordered.

"What's going on?"

"Bobby wants to do it in the bathroom."

I glanced penetratingly at him.  Was he into water sports at his
age -- in 1947?

It was both worse and better.  He understood my look.  "She's got
her period."

That brought me up short.  I knew that some women like to "fuck
bloody," as my second wife had called it, but god, what a mess!
Hence the bathroom.  But --

I looked wonderingly at Phyllis.  "Are you so sophisticated?"

"It's _his_ idea!" she declared defensively.

He retorted stoutly, "My wife, bless her hot little soul, loved
it to death.  Get your clothes off, Timmy.  Maybe I can teach
_you_ something today."

While I obeyed, he lowered his stool into the tub, which already
contained a few inches of water.  He sat down atop the stool and
leaned back against the wall, while Phyllis settled over his ropy
old cock, today standing tall without any special stimulation.

"Ooo!" she complained.  "It stings."

"Because you're more sensitive," he soothed her, "which will soon
pay off for you."  His hands on her hips urged a gentle
back-and-forth motion.

He grinned at me.  "Now we don't need rubbers."  Back to her:
"Kiss me, honey."

I finished undressing while they swapped spit.  But I had my
doubts that three could be made to work in that bathtub.
Presumably the old boy wanted me to take his place on the stool.

Phyll had her own ideas about that.  She raised her head and
looked at me.  "Can I suck on Tim?"

Graden leered at me.  "On that cute little dick?  We'll both suck
it."

By standing partly on the rim of the tub I was able to raise my
equipment to the level of their mouths.  What a ludicrous pose we
made:  a wrinkled old man with a plump young girl sliding her
hips atop his, rubbing her lush tits into his gray chest, while
both alternated in full-throat suction on the cock of a pubescent
lad happily playing the contortionist to ease their access!  Any
witness without a sex organ involved must have laughed his or her
head off.

Strike the need for an involved sex organ.  Phyllis began to
giggle, followed by Graden, as their tongues came into play,
licking and slobbering all over my cock and each other's faces,
kissing each other with my cock head between the two sets of
lips.  It was contagious.  I found myself chuckling as well.  But
the girl's laugh developed a different component.  She shuddered
violently.  Fortunately my cock was in Graden's mouth at that
moment because her teeth snapped shut audibly.

The man's face turned bright red as he spat me out.  "Oh, good
god!" he cried, eyes glaring at nothing, gripping the girl's body
tightly in his arms.  They froze momentarily.  Gasping, he pushed
the girl's torso erect.  His right hand closed on his lumpy left
pectoral and his red face contorted in anguish.  "God, it hurts!"

I demanded, "Did you bring him some nitro?"

"In the little bottle on his dresser," she replied, gasping with
wide eyes, releasing a cock bloody and spotted with white bubbles
as she rose off him.

In other circumstances I might have dwelt on that sight.  Now I
rushed through the house and up the stairs to his room, snatched
the little brown bottle that fortunately stood alone on his
dresser, and nearly floated back down the stairs.  One of my
ankles was sore for the next day or two.

His face was paler but he was still moaning, hand in his armpit.
I shook out one of the tiny pills and put it to his lips.  "Under
the tongue, Bobby.  Under the tongue!"  When I had pushed it in,
I added, "Let it dissolve there."

Phyllis stood over him in the tub.  Now I had the chance to
inspect bloody cock, pubes, balls and thighs.  The girl was
equally well coated.  The water below them had a distinct red
tinge.  Apparently she was a heavy bleeder.  I remembered
discussing menstruation with my wife, who claimed that teenage
girls usually were.  I suppose it makes sense:  that's when they
are easiest caught -- except during the menstrual flow itself.
Odd, the difference between the human and other female mammals in
that respect!

In a minute or so his arm came down.  He stared at me.  "It
really works!"

I grinned.  "Of course.  How do you feel?  Got a headache?"

"No.  Well, a little, I guess.  Thank you, Dr. Tim."  But his
eyes sought Phyll's.  "You came, too!"

"Oh, yes!" she breathed.  "You are so wonderful, Bobby!"

My little boy wanted to ask her if she hadn't noticed I saved his
life, but my old man understood her priorities and was glad.  She
would not be another lonely Mealy.

I found some washrags in his linen closet and brought them to the
tub.  "You both need cleaning up."

We helped him upstairs, helped him dress partly and left him in
bed, smiling reminiscently.

Phyllis's clothing had been tossed into the downstairs hall along
with mine.  As I bent for my shorts, she caught my shrunken cock.
"You didn't have any fun," she explained, dropping to her knees
and gobbling me up.

"Yes, I did.  I'll never forget you and Bobbie sucking me off
together."

She withdrew long enough to say, "Now you get the _off_."

I watched her bobbing head.  "You seem to love doing this for me,
Phyll, and that makes me wonder.  I thought girls loved the
biggest cocks."

She snorted and leaned further forward.  I could feel her chin on
my balls.  I added, "You're getting damn good at it, a most
skillful fellatrix."

She redoubled her efforts.  Always praise your woman during a
blowjob.  At least she can't argue with you.

She had learned to balloon her cheeks at the first spurt.  In the
silent house I could hear her throat work as she swallowed.
Indeed a Class A suck-off!  She backed away, rose to her feet and
smirked at me.  Her face was unblemished.

"Phyll, you're the greatest," I admitted, taking a deep breath
and reaching again for my shorts.

"What's a fellatrix?"

"A girl who really knows how to suck a dick.  I'm going to miss
you, Phyll."

She paused in her own dressing.  "What miss me?  You're right,
you know.  I do love you in my mouth.  I'll suck it anytime you
hold still."

"Any man would miss that.  But I'll _have_ to miss you.  I'm
leaving here next week.  They're sending me to a university."

"Oh, Timmy!  I'll miss you, too."  She proceeded methodically to
pull on her clothing.  "Could I ask you something?"

I would have chuckled.  Obviously it's to a girl's advantage to
have two strings to her bow, whatever their condition.  "Sure."

"Bobby asked me to marry him.  Mamma says it's crazy.  What do
you think?"

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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