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From: Incest Man <familyincestfamilyincest@yahoo.com>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.hetero,alt.sex.stories.d
Subject: story: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" (bf mF mF+) Part 5A
Date: Fri, 11 Aug 2006 14:25:53 -0700
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 5A
1951.
Summer.
"Well," Lash LaRue said with his cocky grin, each hand
perched on one of two pearl-handled .45's at his side,
"that takes care of the McGraw Gang."
"Sure does," said Fuzzy St. John, nodding and spitting a
wad of tobacco juice.
Lash LaRue tipped his hat to the pretty gal in the calico
dress, who beamed at him admiringly from the wooden
sidewalk. Lash LaRue cocked his cocky, self-assured head
toward Fuzzy St. John.
"Let's get goin', Fuzzy," Lash LaRue said, and he and Fuzzy
mounted their horses.
Their steeds reared up. Lash LaRue and Fuzzy spurred their
horses and galloped outta town.
It was my ninth summer, pushing for my tenth year.
Things had changed. I knew it as I watched this absurdly
outdated B-grade western for the third time, the first time
being with Uncle Johnny when I was five years old. At ten
I bid a fond but not reluctant farewell to Lash LaRue and
Tex Ritter and Roy Rogers.
Martha Jane had graduated high school, on time and with
high grades. She started college immediately that summer
at the largest of the local campuses, Memphis State. She
was determined to get her teacher training in less than
four years. My mother dated almost always on weekends, and
since I spent every weekend with relatives, no one was
needed to watch over me. These were gray, uneventful days.
I got bored every fifteen seconds.
Life had tragedy now. It had dire consequences,
uncertainty, loneliness, nuclear warheads. Left more often
to my own devices by my relatives on weekends, I searched
the downtown movie houses for an intensity of experience
not found with the Bowery Boys or in Gene Kelly musicals.
I would hit the Main Street cinemas as soon as they opened
at eleven A.M., my pockets jingling with the movie money
with which my relatives bribed me into conformity. They
assumed I was watching Abbott and Costello or cowboys.
Instead, I sat tearfully absorbed in more than a dozen
showings of the archly romantic "Cyrano de Bergerac". I
was fascinated with the impressionistic Technicolor of
"Moulin Rouge"; again and again I watched this moody film,
empathizing strongly with Lautrec's pitiful infirmity.
My relatives, staunch stay-at-homes, had no idea these
films existed until I told them what I'd seen-- -and at
that they seemed bewildered as to why a boy would be so
magnetically drawn to Bogart's sarcasm, William Holden's
cynicism, or Brando's hostility. They were amazed when I
told them I had spent an entire day in the same movie house
watching over and over as a somber Robert Mitchum portrayed
a death-obsessed army officer in "G.I. Joe."
I saw Martha Jane on our front porch once or twice in the
early summer. By August she had disappeared. Once I
knocked on her front door, expecting her mother to answer.
But no one did. My Mom didn't mention her. It seemed
Martha Jane had been swallowed up into nowhere. Knowing
she was in summer classes, I assumed a break would occur
soon, probably in September. But by September I'd heard
nothing.
Associating with others had eroded my confidence. My
impression was that other kids regarded me as a little
weird; I had a fatalistic attitude toward people and
events. Repression and criticism from Mom and relatives
didn't help. By age ten, I was on a psychological downer.
I began to expect that life would either take people away
from me, or me from them. Stepper and Uncle Robert was a
case in point; Mom and all the dead of the war were others.
When the Korean War started, Josephine Louise's dad, my
Uncle Lawrence, was called back to active service. He paid
us a farewell visit in the early Fall. He smiled and
saluted me when he left our house, bound for Fort Hood,
Texas. By October he was killed in action.
My future step-dad had little interest in my activities.
His name was Anthony. Mom called him Tony. He was a
dark-haired, virile, handsome man. I disliked him
somewhat; he had a deep and relatively loud voice, very
different from the softer voices of all the aunts around
me, different from the breathy Italian quality of Uncle
Johnny and Josephine Louise. By the end of that summer
Tony started hanging around our apartment more often. He
came over many mornings before opening the supermarket in
our neighborhood and had breakfast with Mom and me while I
prepared for school. Our interests never interlocked. He
assumed I was interested in sports, in being a fireman or
doctor when I grew up, in playing with other boys. When he
found out I wanted to be an artist, he was taken aback.
His idea of art was limited to portraits of the saints.
One morning at breakfast as I ate my milk and oatmeal, he
sat at the other side of our tiny kitchen table, reading a
newspaper article to my mother who was working at the sink.
He was mildly agitated about a report on small business
regulation. He read until he came to a word in the article
that made him stop.
"What is that word?" he asked irritably, squinting at the
page. "Why do they have to use words this long in
newspapers?"
"Ask Speedy," Mom said, so he handed me the paper and
pointed at the word. "What's that word say?" he asked me.
Chewing oatmeal, I glanced at the word quickly and
announced, "Antiestablishmentarianism."
He sat back in amazement. "Well, damn," he breathed.
"How'd he know a big word like that?"
"I don't know," Mom answered absently. "He just does. I
think his Uncle Johnny taught him to read from the comics."
"The comics?" he echoed, dumbfounded. He reached for his
coffee cup. "Damn," he breathed again.
In my isolation, movies became my life. I devoured them
like popcorn and soda. I saw three or four films each
weekend. If new ones hadn't opened I'd frequent the rerun
joints and the art film outlets. My relatives didn't mind,
as it kept me out of their hair all weekend, didn't cost
much for a child's admission (twelve cents in those days),
and Uncle Johnny was getting a little too old and arthritic
to escort me all over town the way he did when I was
younger.
Truly, I enjoyed the freedom of doing mostly as I pleased.
They knew I was smart enough to find my way around town;
most of the movies were a short walk from the restaurant.
But the art film outlet was far out in the eastern part of
town. With my usual brazenness I allowed folks to assume
that I never traveled that far out of the way. But one
Saturday I took the No.10 bus all the way to the Ritz
theater to see "Cyrano de Bergerac." I was so affected by
the film that I stayed inside and watched it again, then
again, then a fourth time. The movie was longer than most,
so that when I left the theater I discovered I was just in
time to catch the last inbound No.10, which stopped running
by ten PM.
It was nearly eleven when I arrived at Aunt Frances' house
and let myself in. Entering by the long unlit front
hallway, I assumed everyone was asleep. But Aunt Frances
was waiting up for me in her long white nightgown on the
living room sofa.
"Where the hell have *you* been?" she demanded as I walked
into the room.
I knew from long experience that the best tactic for
handling Aunt Frances under these circumstances was to
appear unfazed and keep on grinning.
"The movies," I answered.
"You trying to give your Aunt Frances a heart attack? Huh?
You want your poor old Aunt Frances to have a heart attack?
What kind of movie they let you into that lasts till this
time of night?"
"Cyrano de Bergerac," I said.
"Syrup what?" She squinted hard.
"Cyrano de Bergerac," I repeated. I sat sideways on one of
the ornate dining chairs in the room and slipped my arm
around the back of the chair. I smiled and batted my
eyelids.
"Don't give me that look. What kinda movie is this, uh,
Cereal di Hajiback?"
"It's French."
"It's what? It's fresh?"
"French, Aunt Frances. French."
We both looked up as Uncle Johnny appeared in the doorway
leading to the bedrooms. His hair mussed, his eyes
squinting in the light, he scratched his tummy over his
pajamas.
Aunt Frances huffed, "Look, Johnny. He walks in like
nothing happened. You see him, Johnny? Look at him."
"You home?" Uncle Johnny mumbled drowsily.
"I'm here, " I said. "I'm okay."
"It's late, Speedy," Uncle Johnny said.
"I know."
"You okay? We were all worried about ya."
"I'm fine."
"Have any trouble?"
"Nope."
He yawned. "How'd you get here this time of night? Walk?"
"The Number 10 Bus."
"Oh." He yawned again. "Well, you be careful out there.
You oughtta call us next time." Another yawn. "Good
night, Frances." He walked back into the dark.
"That's all you have to say?" Aunt Frances called after
him.
"Good night, Frances," Uncle Johnny said, disappearing.
"I'll be damn," she muttered, settling back into the sofa.
"Two of a kind, you two. Listen, you're too young to be
watchin' French movies at eleven o'clock at night."
"How old do I have to be?"
"Seven years old is too young!"
"I'm not seven years old, Aunt Frances, I'm ten."
"Ten? You ain't no ten years old. What kinda movie is
this? Is Clark Gable in this movie?"
"No. Jose Ferrer."
"Who?"
"Jose Ferrer."
"Never heard of him."
I leaned forward and peered at her. "Aunt Frances, are you
sure you're not asleep?"
"Of course I'm not asleep. I look asleep?"
"Well, the things you're asking and saying to me don't make
much sense."
"How'm I supposed to make sense with you talking French, or
whatever it is?"
I rose from the chair and bent down to her and kissed her
on the cheek-- -a surefire technique for calming her down.
Poor Aunt Frances, who had not been anywhere except to work
and church and bed since the 1920's, had no idea how the
world had changed.
"You think you're gonna kiss your Aunt Frances and that's
all you hafta do?"
"I just don't want you to be worried."
"You look just like your poor daddy when you do that. You
love your Aunt Frances?"
"Yes, ma'am, I sure do. You're my favorite." I kissed her
again. "Now you ought to go back to bed. I'm all right."
"You think you're smart, don't ya? That's what your daddy
used to do. You love your Aunt Frances like your daddy
did?"
"I sure do," I cooed, knowing I had her in the palm of my
hand.
"Okay, then" she said, blushing childishly. She looked up
at me with her big round confused eyes, as if trying to
comprehend how the universe had become what it was without
her knowing. It had taken me years to fathom this
hysterical woman. I had learned, with coaching from
Josephine Louise, that Aunt Frances had not been all there
since my father's death. A couple of years before, I would
not have been able to understand it. Now, after many
weekends, I realized that her thoughts and feelings were
stuck at a single moment in time and would go neither
backward nor ahead.
"You look just like your daddy," she said wistfully,
looking at me and seeing someone else. Then she scowled
mildly and said, "You don't do that to me and your Uncle
Johnny any more. You hear me?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said, sweetly.
"Your Uncle Johnny loves you too. You know that, don't
you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"We don't want anything to happen to you, like what
happened to your daddy."
"I know," I said gently. "Now," I began, standing up and
holding her hand. "I'm gonna go to sleep, and you go back
to sleep too."
"You love your Aunt Frances?"
I bent down and kissed her again. "I sure do."
With that, she was satisfied and sloughed off in her fluffy
house shoes to her bedroom. For a while I sat in the
living room, breathing a long sigh of relief. I asked
myself, seriously, if I would ever again find someone with
whom I could communicate without the need for these
convoluted tactics. Trying to follow Aunt Frances' line of
thought was like working one's way through a trick maze or
a hall of mirrors.
When I stayed with them I slept in the front bedroom with
my Aunt Frances' mother, my great-grandmother Nifa. She
was, everyone estimated at that time, in her nineties. She
wore black. She wore a simple black dress and black shoes
and black hose all day long, and she wore a black nightgown
and long black stockings when she slept. She had worn
nothing but black since her husband's death in 1936. She
spoke no English, only a Northern Italian dialect that
other Italians found difficult. Speaking with Nifa was
similar to speaking with Aunt Frances; their minds were
elsewhere, their words and memories and thoughts had not
changed over many years. Being among them was to be among
memories of loved ones never seen and long since gone, of
time long since past and silenced. It was a lonely
experience, like talking to the blind and deaf, who could
neither hear nor see me.
Somehow I had learned to understand, pity and love these
lost souls. I may not have known what they thought (no one
did), but I somehow knew what they felt.
But as for me, by the summer of 1952 I didn't see a
soul-mate in sight. Not anywhere.
Late that Fall I did have one baby-sitter when my Mom had a
rare weeknight date. The sitter was none other than
Evelyn, Martha Jane's sister.
Evelyn spent almost the entire night on the phone. She was
working days at a clerical job and attending the University
of Tennessee Medical Extension at night, studying for work
in medical research. She was an attractive woman in her
middle twenties now, tall, rather chic and long-legged.
Only in her eyes and general posture did she resemble her
sister. Objectively, most people would have thought Evelyn
to be more beautiful: she was brunette and had a svelte,
sophisticated air, with a lazy voice and large dark eyes
and high cheekbones. But being among young women other
than Martha Jane, which didn't happen often, taught me
something about my own needs-- Evelyn, though sexy, did not
appeal to me at all. I found her nice to look at,
friendly, and boring. I was beginning to learn the vast
difference between just any "good-looking woman" and one
who has a compelling, irresistible, unsettling appeal. At
that point I could be brought under the spell of only two
females on the planet: the physically devastating Josephine
Louise, and the warm, captivating, and equally devastating
Martha Jane.
Evelyn told me that night that she was herself so busy with
career and friends (she admitted she had no steady man and
was tied to her work), she seldom spoke with her mother or
Martha Jane. But she offered me the last phone number she
had for her, an apartment somewhere near Memphis State that
Martha Jane shared with two other students. I was certain
Martha Jane must have found a boyfriend by then and had
little time for anything except school. Evelyn also told
me she last saw her sister for lunch in downtown Memphis at
Woolworth's, where Martha Jane worked part-time. She was
19 now, "busy as a busy little bee." Evelyn promised that
when she contacted Martha Jane again she'd ask her to give
me a call.
I missed Martha Jane. I missed her sexually, of course,
but at that age sex was still secondary. Mainly, I missed
just her, her warmth and the ease of simply being with her.
At age ten I saw her as a sexual object much more clearly
than I had a few years earlier, though I still had a while
to go before the full impact of sexual attraction hit home.
At that point I wanted the sisterly, motherly, girl-woman
of her more emotionally and intellectually than physically.
As soon as I could I dialed the number Evelyn had given me.
No go. A young girl answered and said that Martha Jane
shared a place with them but that she had moved again and
they didn't know where. Besides that call, I had no idea
what happened to Evelyn's promise that she would have
Martha Jane call me.
That left me with the part-time job at Woolworth's. On
impulse I went to find her on a Saturday afternoon one
weekend when I was staying at the downtown restaurant. It
was warm weather, right around my 11th birthday.
Telling my folks I was going to a movie, I took a bus down
to the end of Main Street and went straight to the big
three-story Woolworth's. Once inside, I had no idea where
to look. It was a huge store, especially to an
11-year-old. I searched the whole place, checked at every
sales counter, roamed through every aisle.
After a while I gave up and stood outside on the busy
sidewalk. I thought that perhaps it was her lunch hour, or
perhaps she came to work later in the day. Since I had
movie money, I went to a movie nearby and feasted on a
lunch of popcorn and Coke. By then it was after two, so I
went back to Woolworth's.
The second search proved futile as well. She was nowhere
to be found. Despite my aggressive, snoopy attitude in so
many other areas, I seem to have lost all my "fight" in
this situation. I wandered aisle to aisle, feeling
dejected and lost. I walked around the waterfront area for
a while, then up and down Main Street several times. By
then it was 4:00. I returned to the store. It was crowded
nose-to-nose with Saturday shoppers. After yet another
hour of searching, I had not found her and it was near
closing time.
I asked some salespeople if they knew Martha Jane Graham.
They didn't. Puzzled, I thought about hanging around and
asking every employee I could find, but everyone was
preparing to close for the day. I asked one more worker if
they had a personnel department. They did, but it was
closed Saturdays. She referred me to a sales counter where
she thought Martha Jane worked.
But when I arrived there, I found only a redheaded
middle-aged lady who didn't look anything like her and
wasn't particularly interested in helping me find my way.
She eyed me suspiciously. "You have parents?" she asked,
frowning. "Where are your parents? You shouldn't be here
all by yourself, we're getting ready to close."
I felt odd and disoriented. The whole situation was
becoming eerie, dreamlike. The redhead now confronted me
with the fact that I was still only 11. Aggressive and
independent though I might have been at that age, and
though I was an 11-year-old kid who in many ways didn't act
or think like an 11-year-old-- -yet I was, nevertheless,
still a kid. Perhaps it was a feeling of frustration: if I
were not such a kid, I thought, these people would take me
seriously and give me the information I was looking for.
And if I did find Martha Jane wouldn't she, like Evelyn and
the redhead and everyone else, notice that I was not an
adult? Had something changed, such that now she would
recognize me for who I really was? And besides, she
probably had a boyfriend now; she was among college
students her own age at a big coed state college.
The day had such a strange effect on me that I was in its
grip for months. I soon became fearful that Martha Jane
would not want to see me again, as least not as she had
seen me before. She was in a different world now.
Effectively, she had left the project and in leaving the
project she had somehow changed everything. I began to
feel she was "too old" for me now.
When I went home after that weekend I mentioned Saturday's
search to my Mom, but she was unconcerned. Paranoid, I
didn't trust her as someone I wanted to talk to about
Martha Jane, not in any way. She might want to know why I
was so desperate to find her, she might suspect something
was going on-- -especially since Martha Jane had not been
around for more than a year. I didn't mention it to her
again, and sulked around our apartment for most of that
week.
One day several weeks later when I came home from school,
Mom said Martha Jane had called and asked how I was getting
along.
The first thing I asked was, "Did you get a number to call
back?"
Mom shrugged. "Well, no, I didn't think it was important
anymore. You haven't mentioned her in so long..."
I didn't hear the rest of what she said. I felt as if I
had fallen from a high place and landed on my face. I
didn't want to betray my feelings, so I said nothing more.
I didn't even know what my feelings were.
As I approached and then reached twelve years, I became
involved in that strange activity in grammar schools known
as "dramatics," which consumed my energy and my thoughts.
Because I had gleaned from movies so much about effective
acting, I became very successful at it. The more
successful I was, the harder I worked. Though I had no
close relationships among my peers and teachers at the
newly built St. Michael's School, I did find a source of
attention and recognition on the stage. Being in a new
school in a different part of town made me feel that I,
too, had started the process of moving out of the project.
By the time the thirty-minute bus ride to St. Michael's
ended each morning, I had readjusted to an entirely
different place; I felt almost as if I were spending those
five hours a day in a different town.
Then came the day my Mom announced she would be getting
married and that we'd soon be moving out of the project.
That day, Martha Jane seemed to disappear for good. I made
it so. I went into our bedroom the night of Mom's
announcement and saw the moonlight on the window sill. And
I forced Martha Jane out of my mind.
Continued...
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