A calendar, also, by courtesy of the Altamont Coal and Ice Company, showing an Indian maid paddling her canoe down an alley of paved moonlight, and a religious motto in flowered scrollwork, framed in walnut: God Loves Them Both.
“What yo’ want?” she whispered, facing him.
Far off, he listened to the ghost of his own voice.
“Take off your clothes.”
Her skirt fell in a ring about her feet.
She took off her starched waist.
In a moment, save for her hose, she stood naked before him.
Her breath came quickly, her full tongue licked across her mouth.
“Dance!” he cried.
“Dance!”
She began to moan softly, while an undulant tremor flowed through her great yellow body; her hips and her round heavy breasts writhed slowly in a sensual rhythm.
Her straight oiled hair fell across her neck in a thick shock.
She extended her arms for balance, the lids closed over her large yellow eyeballs.
She came near him. He felt her hot breath on his face, the smothering flood of her breasts.
He was whirled like a chip in the wild torrent of her passion.
Her powerful yellow hands gripped his slender arms round like bracelets.
She shook him to and fro slowly, fastening him tightly against her pelt.
He strained back desperately against the door, drowning in her embrace.
“Get-‘way nigger. Get-‘way,” he panted thickly.
Slowly she released him: without opening her eyes, moaning, she slid back as if he had been a young tree.
She sang, in a wailing minor key, with unceasing iteration: “Jelly Roll! Je-e-e-ly Roll!”— her voice falling each time to a low moan.
Her face, the broad column of her throat, and her deep-breasted torso were rilled with sweat.
He fumbled blindly for the door, lunged across the outer room and, gasping, found his way into the air.
Her chant, unbroken and undisturbed by his departure, followed him up the flimsy steps.
He did not pause to get his breath until he came to the edge of the market square.
Below him in the valley, across on the butte, the smoky lamps of Niggertown flared in the dusk.
Faint laughter, rich, jungle-wild, welled up from hived darkness.
He heard lost twangling notes, the measured thump of distant feet; beyond, above, more thin, more far than all, the rapid wail of sinners in a church.
23
[Greek text]
He did not tell the Leonards that he was working in the early morning.
He knew they would oppose his employment, and that their opposition would manifest itself in the triumphant argument of lowered grades.
Also, Margaret Leonard, he knew, would talk ominously of health undermined, of the promise of future years destroyed, of the sweet lost hours of morning sleep that could never be regained.
He was really more robust now than he had ever been.
He was heavier and stronger.
But he sometimes felt a gnawing hunger for sleep: he grew heavy at mid-day, revived in the afternoon, but found it difficult to keep his sleepy brain fixed on a book after eight o’clock in the evening.
He learned little of discipline.
Under the care of the Leonards he came even to have a romantic contempt for it.
Margaret Leonard had the marvelous vision, of great people, for essences.
She saw always the dominant color, but she did not always see the shadings.
She was an inspired sentimentalist.
She thought she “knew boys”: she was proud of her knowledge of them.
In fact, however, she had little knowledge of them.
She would have been stricken with horror if she could have known the wild confusion of adolescence, the sexual nightmares of puberty, the grief, the fear, the shame in which a boy broods over the dark world of his desire.
She did not know that every boy, caged in from confession by his fear, is to himself a monster.
She did not have knowledge.
But she had wisdom.
She found immediately a person’s quality.
Boys were her heroes, her little gods.
She believed that the world was to be saved, life redeemed, by one of them.