Page 313 - What They Did to the Kid

What They Did to the Kid 301

the blanket. I folded next to her, over her, like Burt Lancaster up on
elbow over Deborah Kerr in From Here to Eternity.
“I’m cold,” she said.
My arm covered her gently swelling chest. Her ear lay cuplike
near my mouth, tasting the sweetness of her hair. “I’m cold too.”
“Your legs are quivering.”
“We’re crazy. But you’re sweet.” I nuzzled her ear, wondering was
she really too cold and maybe wanting to go, or was she the kind of
too cold that was an invitation to hold her.
“How long have you been out?” she said.
“You’re cute, you know.”
“How long since you left the seminary?” She pushed me away.
“Six months.”
“Have you dated much?”
“Of course, selectively.”
“Anyone besides me?”
“One or two others. An army.”
“Anyone besides me? Come on.”
“Fffub!” I hesitated. She’d think me a punk. “Of course.”
“I don’t believe it.” She laughed and lay back.
“You don’t?”
“No.”
I thought the unsayable thing, judged it, reached out my hand,
placing it over her breast. “Believe it,” I said.
She did not push me away. I was uncertain. Was one thing two
things again? One to her, another to me? We lay together a long
while, not moving, not talking. From somewhere a dog trailing its
leash rooted by, circled us, some kind of hunting dog because it
stood, looked at us, and pointed.
“Bang-bang,” she said.
I rose part way up, not moving my hand, joking in my best
German accent, “Meine liebe fraulein, do not tell me you are part of
the resistance.”
She pulled me to her. “Cherie, I have never resisted anything.”
I felt those vine leaves growing through my hair.
My legs quivered. Would she notice?
“I’m a passionate French woman.”

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