8:45 A.M.

Bobby had been in the library since it opened at 7:30, checking on the actual invasion of Russia in 1941. He realized someone was standing next to his corner of a library table, of which there were many. The person wasn't just passing by; he was standing there. He looked up to see Trey Dablin preparing to say something to him. He could tell, because Trey's hands were folded over his belt buckle; he was looking at Bobby, and concentrating. Trey was small for his age; it was hard to believe he was in high school at all.

"Hey, Trey," said Bobby; with more acknowledgement in his voice than most seniors afforded freshmen. Trey cleared his throat, and said in the most tentative way imaginable:

"Bobby. Your father was a faggot." Bobby suppressed a smile at the delivery, and looked into Trey's eyes, which promptly looked down at the table.

"Mm. Is that why he's a 'was'?"

"Whadaya mean?" Trey's face crumpled; he didn't know what a faggot was, but he sure knew Bobby's dad was dead. He sat down in the chair across from Bobby—there was something he wanted, or wanted to know, Bobby was sure, but Bobby wasn't quite ready for it yet:

"In the first place, you got that all wrong, Bobby said pleasantly. It's like this:" he stood up, and moved to within about a foot of Trey, looking around to make sure he wouldn't be disturbing anyone, and then leaned over him, with his 5' 11" frame. With a threatening sneer, he whispered, pounding rhythmically and soundlessly on the library table: "Yer FATHER was a FUCKIN' FAGGOT!" his great brown eyes narrowed, glaring malevolently into Trey's, his mouth a slit.

Trey was on the verge of tears. "I—didn't mean nothin' by it, Bobby," he said. Bobby sat back down, hiding his slightly accelerated breathing. Trey leaned across the table toward him.

"You sounded just like one of them redneck bullies," he said, admiringly.

"Mm," said Bobby. He was beginning to wish Trey would get to the point.

"Bobby," he said.

"Yes?"

"What's a faggot?"

"Isn't that easier'n to call my dad names?"

"Yeah...I jus' thought, I could find out, without asking. "Some people say...he was."

"Well, to set the record absolutely straight, I don't know," which was almost, if not completely, a lie.

"Oh. Then you don't know what one is."

"Course I do, and if I didn't Joe would've told me by now," he smiled. Josephine Barham was Bobby's girl. Bobby started thinking about how you could know a girl for years, and then all of a sudden, she hit you like a ton of bricks. He wondered if it wasn't always love at first sight, whether the "first sight" came after 10 years, or ten seconds. She'd be studying pre-med after a couple of years at SMU. He laughed a little, out loud, thinking of how "pre-med" Joe was, already. He didn't really know if this was the accurate term for someone who used clinical terms where other girls used romantic ones; he suspected it had something to do with her mom, who was a doctor. Whatever it was, it was Joe…

"…sure is one beautiful gal," Trey was saying. 'You two going to the U next year, huh?"

"Yep, runs in the family, " he said, straight-faced. He would be the first person in his family ever to graduate from a university (he was a confident young man), although his mom had started. His dad hadn't even started high school.

"WELL?" said Trey.

"O.K. A homosexual man—"

"A homosexu—that IS a mouthful," said Trey.

"'I'm not like insurance. I'm more like Suck it and see.' That's a poem, " said Bobby.

"Huh?"

"Nothin.' Anyway, a homosexual man is a man who loves men, instead of women."

Trey was so busy thinking about this, he didn't even answer. Bobby snuck a look at his watch; there was still 5 minutes till class. He's going to want to know how, and why thought Bobby.

"Hey Bobby, we're going to be late for class,' said Joe, arriving quietly at the table, seeing the two boys with their heads close to each other across it. 'Or do you guys want to cut class?" she asked. :"Should I go away?" "Hell, no," he thought. Nearly as tall as he was, she had brown hair to her shoulders, gray eyes, and a perfectly straight nose, which Bobby loved, because everyone in his family had scoop noses. Her skin was pale, except when she was flushed. He loved it when she got flushed… his eyes traveled almost imperceptibly over her fine-lipped, expressive mouth, and her small breasts, then smiled into her eyes. She smiled back, easily worth the last 15 minutes.

"I'm coming. We were just talking about the birds."

"The bird and the bees?"

"Nope. Just the birds." She reached for his hand, and he stood, his hand still linked with hers as they ran for it. "Bye, Trey," they called simultaneously, as they left the library. . "I didn't know you were a big Hitchcock fan," said Joe, laughing, while they ran. "Ow!" she said, as he bopped her on the head with his notebook.

"Bye Bobby, Joe," said Trey, looking after them.

9:00 A.M.

Mr. Evans strode into the room, and homeroom roll call was quick.

Joe Barham, ("here"), Claude Beecher ("here"), Peter Cartwright("here"), Alice Cobb ("here"), Minnie Crum (silence) Minnie Crum?... absent, Forrest Doughet ("Here"), Tyrone Dyer ("here") Becky Hickerson ("here") C.J. Hogg ("here"), Ralph Lilly ("ici") en Anglais, s'il vous plait, Ralph Lilly? ("Huh?" laughter.), Robert Linn ("here"), Alice Lockhart ("here"), Edna Martin ("here"), Leona Nelson, ("here"), J.P. Nelson ("here") Joy Peter ("here"), Emma Shoulder ("here"), Bobby Twist ("here"), Britt Walbrooks ("here") Jordan Wilcox ("here"). It was all said in a big rush.

…

It was a smallish homeroom, and a small class, European History, 1550-1918 and they were all seniors. Bobby had slipped into the remaining desk in the back row, and Joe sat right in front of him, which was nice, because since there wasn't any way of looking at the front of her, the back would do. Mr. Evans wasted no time: after roll call:

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. Evans.

"Morning, Sir." Bobby figured Mr. Evans would be the first to drop the 'Sir." He had some small bets down on it.

"So, why are we looking so hard at Napoleon's invasion of Russia, while we're looking at Napoleon?"

Bobby didn't want to answer the question, even though it was a good one; he was hoping for a question at the end of the hour, and he wanted that one, and if answered too many before, Mr. Evans wouldn't look at his raised hand. But Joe did, and Mr. Evans nodded.

"Because, it was the beginning of the end for him"

"Right you are, Joe, it was. What was the problem? J.C?"

"Well, he could get in, but he couldn't get himself out." Said J.C. Doughet, next to him. Leaned over and whispered:

"That's a REAL dirty song, J.C." J.C, kept a perfectly straight face, but reddened slightly. Mr. Evans said:

"Forrest, are you talking about Napoleon, or Russia?"

"No, Sir. I mean, Yes, Sir."

"I wish you'd share your thoughts with the class."

Silence.

Bobby, half as classroom away, raised the index finger on one hand.

"Yes, Bobby?"

"Sir, I think he mentioned a song you only have to hear once, and you remember it for the rest of your life."

Evans brow furrowed, as his nearly photographic memory went back over the last few entries in the classroom conversation, integrating it with his knowledge of dirty songs, and then cleared. "Yes. The Canal Street Song . Since any city with a canal could have a Canal Street—Chicago, New Orleans, San Rafael, California—it could have come from anywhere," he said, as if that had been in question. "Goodness." Without missing a beat, he asked, "Why couldn't Napoleon extricate—" looking briefly at Doughet—"himself from Russia? There was some scattered, disorganized laughter from the boys; the girls were silent; most of them hadn't noticed the exchange.

Robert Linn raised his hand, "Linn?"

"Too much Russia," said Linn.

"Right. There're a few things I'd like you to remember about this," Evans said. There was a general clicking of ballpoints from those who were not yet quite ready to write. "Couple terms, couple cities, couple of reasons why." Bobby saw a tiny scrap of paper lying on the front of his desk, Joe having returned to her forward-facing position. "Sing it for me!" it said. Bobby scrawled quickly on the back, "NOT ON YOUR LIFE!" and dropped it over her right shoulder. She was writing another note, the last scrap having been used up. He reached his hand forward to meet hers, touching the fingers intentionally before he took the note: "O.K. for you, Bobby Twist!" But she turned and looked him full in the eyes, even though Evans had begun his lecture. Bobby felt various systems of his body aching to move towards her, to invade her with all movable parts. Solemnly, he returned her look. I wonder…ifshe knows exactly what that does to me? There was little about the human body, he thought, that Joe didn't know, or wasn't willing to talk about. Guess it's time to find out, for sure, about this particular thing, in an active sort of way.

As this thought kept him delightfully occupied for a while, he missed the beginning of Evans' lecture. Evans paced back and forth in front of his desk, his hands usually clasped behind his back, sometimes with a gesture for emphasis.

Bobby took notes, but only a few: June. 1812; 700,000 men apiece, a few more to the French. "Fight and fade" had been the Russian generals' policy, throughout the campaign, like a huge finger, ever crooked, beckoning toward Moscow. "Why sacrifice soldiers needlessly," the commanders thought, "when the country will do the work for us? The Russians used the "scorched earth retreat" almost from the beginning of the campaign, leaving no village to ransack, no food to be got in their wake.

The French reached Moscow with only 100,000 men (can that be right? Bobby asked himself)…their numbers greatly diminished by the battles, the disease brought on by the fall rains (it was now September) and the great wear and tear of crossing the better part of a huge country (64,000,000 square miles approx.). Napoleon expected a formal capitulation from Tzar Nicholas 1 in Moscow, but not even his Commander-in-Chief, Kutuzov, was there. Instead, the Russians burnt their beloved city to the ground, as the last of them fled (Good for them: how practical and unsentimental! Thought Bobby). The French burnt the Kremlin, which the Russians had not been able to bring themselves to do.

"What's wrong with the French situation?" said Evans.

"Are you kidding? Winter's coming on; they have no shelter, almost no army, and very little to eat!" Bobby couldn't help blurting out.

"That pretty much sums it up, Bobby, but there was worse to come...how did the "worse" start? Joy?"

"Oh. Do we have to remember that long, long name?" she asked.

"No, you don't have to remember Masloyaroslavets," he said. Just remember that at the first clash of the two armies after the French retreat started, Kutuzov began forcing the French army to follow the old, scorched Smolensk road that they had come by, not allowing them to travel south to a warmer climate, and fresh villages. So no food from pillaging; the growing and picking season had long passed."

The class sat, a little transfixed, as Evans began to describe the horrible suffering of the French. He stood still now.

"Keeping the French army supplied was impossible; the lack of grass weakened the army's remaining horses, and those that did not die were slaughtered to feed the starving soldiers. Kutuzov continued to strike at the weakest part of their line with the Cossacks, light cavalry, and guerrilla forces, assaulting and shattering the French units. Without horses, the French cavalry ceased to exist, and became exhausted and diseased foot soldiers, their condition making them feel all the more keenly the –15 degree cold as October gave way to November. Russian winters are not made for French foot soldiers. It occasionally got as cold as –30 degrees. Desertion increased; most deserters were promptly captured by Russian peasants, and taken prisoner or shot outright. The crossing of the river Berenzia brought about defeat, as Kutuzov finally decided it was time for another battle, attacking and crushing that part of the French army that had not yet made it across the bridge, and still offered resistance. The French had trudged on, occasionally taking prisoners, but unable to keep track of them; Napoleon, hearing of a failed coup d'etat at home, mounted his carriage and sped away, with hardly a word of encouragement to his dying army. The French were expelled from Russia on December 14, 1812, 22,000 strong…about 1/40th of their original strength.

"GodDAMN," said one of the boys.

Evans looked at his watch. "Five minutes left. I wanted to stray a little off-topic here; we'll lay Napoleon to rest Monday. Bobby's hand softly pounded the desk before him. "After word of the terrible defeat of the French by Russia and the Russians spread throughout the civilized world, --did anyone else ever make the same mistake?" Bobby's arm shot up like an arrow at Agincourt. "Yes, Bobby?" Now he knew why Bobby's answers in class had been limited to one on topic answer and one—cheeky bastard!—off topic answer The Canal Street Song, indeed (he forgot that it was he himself that had mentioned the name of the song)...

"Adolph Hitler, " said Bobby, promptly." "June. 1941."

"And why would that charismatic and dictatorial leader— characteristics he shared with Napoleon, by the way--- of the German Wehrmacht do such a thing?"

"Because, " Bobby said, "he never read a history book in his life!"

"Good man, Twist." Evans picked up his notes, and left the room.

"But, " asked Alice Lockhart, moving over the where Bobby stood, "how'd that play out?"

"About the same; it just took longer. . German soldiers fighting in their summer uniforms at –15 degrees, the whole nine yards…" he said, over the click of notebooks and the motion of bodies, the rising conversation.

As Bobby waited beside Joe's desk, she stood and ran her hand over his hair, "Good man, Twist," she said, smiling.

"See you at seven," said Bobby, putting his fist on top of her head, as she moved toward the door. He did not share Joe's next period's physics class. Tonight would be the seventh time they had been together on a date, or something more casual, alone.

Bobby smiled. He remembered. putting his hand over her breast, and her saying, "Bobby, your hand's so long, it reaches from almost the bottom of my ribcage to my collarbone," and then, putting her hand on top of his, as he felt the nipple of her breast harden, and kissing him again..…

"Bye," she said, turning in the doorway, standing just to one side of it... They were the only two left in the room; the next class would start arriving in 3 minutes. "Wait a minute," said Bobby. He walked over to her, and putting a hand behind her head, the other around her waist, he softly placed his lips on hers, his eyes closed, in a who-cares-who-comes-in kiss. She pulled him against her with her hand on his back, her eyes closed as well. Blind and deaf, with Bobby's tongue gently exploring the interior of Joe's mouth like a curious, slow- moving mouse, they did not notice the entrance of Mrs. Manly, who said "Children, it's time for class," and walked over to her desk, plopping her notes down and muttering "children?" under her breath. Bobby and Joe pushed their way through the now arriving students, and each ran their separate ways. In spite of the bell ringing, Bobby stopped for a long drink at a drinking fountain, mainly to wait for his hard-on to subside.

"Maybe we won't have to talk about it, after all," he thought.

Explication:

The accent of the educated, and semi-educated people who lived in the general vicinity of Dallas, Texas is nothing like that of the so-called deep south: Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, and so on. But whatever it was, it wasn't the way Joe's parents spoke. Originally from the northwest, they spoke as though they were from there, and Joe at first automatically, and then consciously, imitated their speech, though she was born in Texas, and grew up among Texas children. Bobby, more, perhaps, like Lincoln, consciously rebelled against his native accent, and had at one time systematically copied the voices that arrived via distant television, radio, the movies, and his teachers, and ---surprisingly—his father, who was originally from Wyoming, and, though practically uneducated, finished the word "yes" with an "s," and pronounced long Is like long Is, instead of short As. Adding the "G" to an "ing" was something he had to pick up elsewhere. For almost a year, Bobby spoke little to anyone, reminding himself of the joke about the baby who refused to learn how to speak, until one day, when he was 4 years old, he stood at the window of his home, looking out, and said "There goes Old Man McCallum without his boot on again." So though neither young person spoke in a way one would think of as stilted, the both spoke excellent and almost accentless English, except when very excited or angry, or—when the present company (relatives, people of importance) demanded it. Both were friendly and outgoing, Joe perhaps more so than Bobby, and were both liked and respected by their friends and classmates.

It was clear where Joe's brains came from; with Bobby, God only knew… Joe's parents had arrived where they now lived because Joe's grandfather had left the house to his daughter, after they had married, but before Dr. Barham had finished her MD, and her residency in internal medicine, which she now practiced, earning a good deal of money, though giving of her time to the poor of any race or nationality; her father wrote scholarly articles on French literature, and was particularly fond of the French hashish smokers, Flaubert, Baudelaire, Hugo, Rimbaud and Balzac, each of whom, in his own way, grieved for the mess he saw around him in the world. These men had actually had competitions to see who could write the best prose while stoned out of his head. He had no objection to his wife earning most of the money—both were happy doing what they were doing. Bobby's father had died within the last two years, and his wealthy mother, who had inherited her father's farm machinery business, had married an equally wealthy ranch owner, with whom Bobby did not get along very well. The written word had a great influence on Bobby, unlike his dad, who hadn't been exposed to much.

Be that as it may, Bobby missed his dad a great deal, just the way he was. This included an at least bent sexuality, he gathered from admittedly vague conversations with his mother, and rumor, all of which Bobby suspected were under rather than overstated. And since homosexuality was not really the rage in Texas, this made Bobby think, occasionally, that his dad's freakish death, reportedly from an incredibly misbehaving spare tire on a country road, might not have been an accident after all. More he did not know.

Bobby would major in history is college, partly out of fascination, and partly because of the old saw, so well illustrated in the report of Evans' class on Napoleon, that those who do not learn from history are destined to repeat it.

7:00 P.M.

Joe opened the door to Bobby's ring at seven sharp, and Bobby immediately availed himself of the apparent softness of her white cashmere turtleneck by discretely touching it; dark skirt and black flats completed the outfit—a little more dressy, perhaps, than Bobby's open white shirt with brown checks and slacks of some dark color. She carried a large linen bag, and when Bobby asked what was in it, she answered, "Game of Monopoly."

""C'mon," he said.

"Thermos of fresh coffee, paper cups, fresh baked bread from my mom ("Where does she find the time?" thought Bobby, wonderingly), and strawberry jam from my grandma, plastic knives, napkins."

Bobby was thrilled, because he'd forgotten to eat supper. "Can I have a piece of bread before the movie?" he asked.

I'll think about it," she answered, as they each climbed in respective sides of the front seat of Bobby's Chevrolet. She broke off a piece of bread, opened the jam with a pop, and spread it with a knife, handed it to Bobby with a napkin. "No supper, huh?" she laughed.

"I love you," he answered, his mouth full of bread and jam.

"You never told me that before," she said. It was true.

"Hm. Must have slipped my mind," he said, touching her cheek with his knuckles—the clean ones.

"I can't believe I'm finally going to see this movie," she said.

"Everything comes to him. Or her. Who waits two and a half years. Besides, it's dubbed."

"Oh."

"But that's O.K. He's the only director in the world who supervises the dubbing of his own movies; you probably won't even notice. Unless you love the sound of Swedish."

"I do."

"Tough knobs."

Bobby's enthusiasm for "Fanny and Alexander" had made her suspicious. "What's it about?"

"Old people, kids, a beautiful young widow, and an evil bishop. And a magical Jew."

"Bobby! You have seen it.."

"Damn. You ask a simple question; I could have just said 'I don't know.' I saw it in Dallas, about a year and a half ago—IN Swedish."

"I hate you."

"No more 'I love you's from me tonight."

"Wanna bet?" she said, looking straight ahead. That shut him up.

He wrapped the rest of his bread-and jam in its napkin, and dropped it back in her linen bag. She looked at him questioningly. " Lost my appetite," he explained, casually.

"I see, " she answered.

"About time…"

7:30 P.M.

The movie was a long one, and wouldn't be out till past ten, but neither of them was restricted by curfew, and it was Friday night.

Although she was not usually impressed with finery, Joe loved the dark red satin and velvet dress of the heroine's mother, and the beautiful brooch the old Jew—who had once been her lover--—brought her for Christmas.

A Christmas party, among wealthy Swedes, about 1907. Completely unimpressed by parties, no matter how familial and appropriate to the time, Bobby waited for the death that would propel the story. He listened while Joe explained that the flame of the candelabra Alexander was invited to hold to his uncle's ass while he farted became a blue blowtorch coming out of him because of methane gas, privately wondering if there was anything she didn't know.

"Coffee?" she whispered.

"Uh huh, thank you," he said. He was afraid the smell of fresh, freshly -brewed coffee would bring ushers running. "I liked it when the director said, "our little world makes people understand the big world better, or if they want, forget it for a while. He's gonna die soon..."

"Hey, thanks!" she said sarcastically.

"Sorry," he said, running his finger down her nose.

They both leaned forward to watch the theater director and actor have a stroke, while playing Hamlet's father's ghost, and Joe noted the symptoms: First he grew silent, then asked, "Where am I? What's my next line?" (line supplied by prompter) and then slumped to the floor, unconscious, and was carried home through the snow in a borrowed cart by his fellow actors and stagehands, to die.

Bobby loved the string of single-syllable curse and dirty words that Alexander uttered in time to his footfall in the procession at his mother's wedding to the horrible bishop. 'Damn, hell, fuck, shit, piss, cunt'…repeat… while his sister, walking beside him, looked with admiration and surprise into his face. He sort of identified with the boy Alexander, whose father had so recently died, and who was about to acquire the mother of all horrible stepfathers. But not too much… Joe looked into Bobby's face, glad to see the smile. She reached for Bobby's hand, and they balanced the hand-embrace on the hard division between seats.

The increasing horror of the new stepfather's treatment of his wife and her children, the childrens' magical rescue by the old Jew, first to his strange apartment, and finally, to the bosom of their family, the horrible death of the bishop, and the freeing of his wife, the children's mother—all played out over the next hour or so. "The movie is almost over," thought Bobby, and wondered if Joe was thinking the same thing. "The movie is almost over," he whispered.

I know," she said, unsurprised by his apparently unnecessary comment.

"Happy ending," he said.

"Yes," she said, "it was a beautiful movie. Thank you for taking me to it."

"Who else would I take to a beautiful movie?" he asked.

10:30 P.M.

Before he got into the car, he looked up at the sky, full of stars, and no wind. He approved. "No wind at all. Good," he said. She got into the car on her side without questioning him, but figured that what he said somehow had to do with Plans, thought she didn't know exactly how.

They both sat still, looking straight ahead for a moment. Then he put his arm around her, as if both seeking and offering comfort. She moved closer to him, and softly kissed his neck with tiny kisses.

"You don't get off that easy," he said, lifting her head to kiss her mouth.

She broke free, "I don't want to get off of anything, Bobby," she said seriously, looking into his eyes. Hr grabbed her hair to either side of her face, and looked calmly at her:

"Rumor has it that you're a virgin," he said.

"Do you want me to be?" she asked, looking down.

"Joe. I want you. I don't realty care; it's just—"

'Well," she interrupted him, "yes, and no." He thought he knew what she meant, but she went on:

"No, I have not been to the city and seen the gaslights," she said.

"Where'd that come from?" he asked, laughing.

"My granddad. Nobody," she answered both his questions. She cleared her throat, preparing for a short lecture (God, I never should have asked, he thought):

"When I was 10, I had a bladder and kidney exam,"

"What did I do to deserve this?" he asked.

"You asked a question. The doctor—"

"Your mom?"

"No, a specialist. He stuck a tiny tube with a scope on it up my urethra, into my bladder, to look at my kidney—both of them—and see how everything was lined up—to see if my kidney infection was likely to have arrived from my bladder..."

You thought you were used to it, and then—thought Bobby.

"and, either before he did this—probably then—he cut my hymen away. As I woke up, I heard him say to my mom, "it'll make it easier for her, later on." And I don't know how I knew, whether mom had already told me or what, but I knew exactly what he meant and exactly what he'd done. Besides, it hurt a little for a couple of days."

"So that's what you meant by 'yes and no.'?"

He ran his hand down the right side of her face, her hair. He felt, momentarily, like a virgin himself.

"Joe," he said.

"What?"

"I hate cars. I hate making love in cars!" he said, as if protesting a great wrong foisted on mankind by an uncaring God. She looked at the back seat, and nodded, sympathetically, not having had the experience herself. It didn't look particularly inviting, she thought.

However—" he said, but suddenly couldn't find something, in any pocket, in any car pocket or glove compartment.

"Forget it," she said. "You don't need a rubber, O great forgetful one. I've been on the pill since March 14."

Bobby buried his head in his hands, and then slowly raised it. "That was...the day after our second—date—whatever—"

"Umhm. Got the prescription from my mom."

"O excellent woman! Should I ask why?

'No, but I'll tell you. She took a deep breath: "Bobby, do you have any idea how you kiss?" It was her turn, finally, to be surprised, because he answered:

"Yes. Yes, I do. I even think I know where I got it from."

"Humph," she said, crossing her arms, only the smile at the corners of her mouth giving away that she wasn't really angry. "You're s'posed to say, "It's just you, Joe."

"But—it's not.

'Tell all," She said.

"The first time I kissed a girl"

"Mary Shepherd," she said, promptly.

"How the hell did you know that?"

"Word gets around. Like you said, 'Rumor has it,'"

"Anyway, she was a year older, and much more experienced than I was. In fact, I had zilch experience. I remember walking her to the door, and she's about to go in, and then turns to look at me, and I just gathered her in and kissed her. Like I kiss you, except it was less fun. And a lot less...extensive."

"Thank you," said Joe.

"And she's all 'Where did you learn to kiss like that? I didn't know you ever...' and so on—I was 14. So I just shrugged my shoulders and said goodnight. And beat it home. Dad was sitting in the business room, reading something, and I came in singing 'The first time/ that ever I kissed your mouth/' and he says, "that special, huh?" and I told him the whole thing: that it wasn't particularly special, but that I got very good marks on my first kiss." He starts smiling when I said that, and said "Me, too. Guess it runs in the family.'" (He remembered saying that to Trey this morning, a joke about going to college; it seemed so long ago…)"Then he clams up like a—clam."

"No pronouns?"

"Not a one," said Bobby. "Shoot. I think I'm going to find out something about my dad now he's dead, when I couldn't even do it when he was alive. OH yeah, he said some more, about the song. And me."

"'The first time that ever I saw your face'?"

"He said, "Let me know when you get the second verse."

"But that's what you were singing."

" Funny, huh?"

"Maybe he meant, if it was something special."

"Maybe." Bobby smiled. "Maybe not." He started the car.

"Where are we going?" she asked, thinking of all the places it couldn't possibly be.

We" he said, "have Creeping Bent till five o'clock tomorrow morning," he said.

"What. Is. Creeping. Bent?"

"The back of the house has almost a quarter acre of this great, great grass. It doesn't grow here. They imported soil, and all sorts of stuff.

Round Midnight:

Not a light shown from the back of the huge house; they could just see each other by the glow of the distant streetlamp. He spread the blanket from the trunk of his car over a patch of the most beautiful grass in the world.

"Oh, it's so lovely at night," said Joe, running her hand over the dew- moistened grass.

"What happens at 5?" she asked, laughing a little.

"The watering starts," he answered. "Where it grows more naturally, they start later—About 8. It's to avoid night watering—which encourages mould, and the hot sun, which magnifies through the dewdrops, and burns it."

"Delicate stuff, huh? Bet the whole thing costs a fortune,' she said.

"Well, between them, they have several," said Bobby, the tone of his voice telling Joe that she had blundered into a bad topic, without meaning to. He crossed his arms over his knees, put his chin on them, and sat silently for a minute or so. She began gently massaging the back of his neck, not her least favorite part of Bobby, He turned his own body so that it faced her, without touching, and kissed her, and they sat like that for a minute, kissing, without their bodies making contact... Then Bobby moved closer and slid his hand beneath the soft cashmere, cupping her left breast in the cotton bra. "Mm, I love cotton," he said.

She placed her hand between his legs, bringing it up over his erect penis, still covered by two layers of cloth. "I can tell," she said.

"Joe…" he whispered, holding her face in his hand for a moment; it was as damp as his own. "Hands up," he said softly, and he pulled her sweater over her head, over the raised arms, putting it carefully down at the edge of the blanket. She took off her own skirt, and sandals, and slid her half-slip down, giving Bobby a chance to unbuckle and remove his pants, his shoes.

"Shirt," she said. Dutifully, he unbuttoned his shirt, and slid out of his undershirt.

"Bra." He said.

"Oh, it's so complicated!" she said. "What if we have an invasion?"

"Tough knobs. Invasion already planned, anyway. Turn around," he said, and unhooked her bra in 2 seconds.

"You seem to be an expert," she said.

" Practice makes perfect," he said. "A little practice, anyway." He got lost in Joe's back, and started kissing it softly all over. She turned around, and pulling him with her hands behind his neck, lay on the blanket, facing him. Still wearing their underpants, they gathered each other into each other's arms, and after repeated kisses, began exploring each other's bodies with their hands: hips, chests, thighs, faces, shoulders, backs, ears... She was breathing just as hard as he was, he heard, He slid his hand down inside her underpants, encountering public hair as moist as the dewy grass their blanket lay upon.

When he put a finger inside her vagina, and then brought it up to gently go over her clitoris, she whispered in his ear, "Forget it." It was the second time she'd said that this evening, he remembered.

"Huh?"

"All it has to know," she said, stroking his damp forehead and the hair which had fallen forward on it," is that you're in the neighborhood." He kissed her with such a combination of gentleness and passion that she broke free and said,

"Bobby, if you don't stick that penis in me, instead of poking me with it all night,--you won't even have to anymore. (Bobby, it should be reemphasized, was used to the way Joe talked, and it no longer fazed him, usually). He slid his own shorts down, while she took her underpants off. As he slid his penis easily into her vagina, it seemed as welcoming as—home, wherever that was. He kept one hand on her left breast. "You afraid it's gonna run away, little darling?" she whispered, as he moved inside her, and the waves of physical pleasure, inseparable from Joe, kept mounting inside him. He stopped, one hand to either side of her, looking at her dim, smoky face, lit by the lamplight. It was filled with wonder and passion.

"You are so beautiful, Joe," he whispered, "say that again…" as he resumed his labor.

"Little darlin" she whispered, dropping the "G,' as he thrust his penis ever more deeply and quickly into her, no matter how hard he tried to go slow. " Bobby..." He could feel her vagina tighten around him, as essence of Joe seemed to explode throughout his whole being. They clung to each other, like runners after a race breathing hard, triumphant, for a few minutes, before separating, and lying facing each other, touching each other's faces, kissing quietly. Bobby started moving Joe out of the minor lake he'd left them lying in, but she said, "No. I like it."

"Hey, who's bigger?" he said.

"Why, you are, I guess. A couple of inches," she said, "Why?"

"What's all this 'little darlin' stuff?

" I don't know...I just wanted to call you that, so I did. And you are."

" I…loved it," he said. "And I love you, Joe."

"You can call me the same thing, if you want," she said.

"Little darlin," he said, and suddenly, he felt there was some great wrong relocation, and he didn't want to call her that. He felt dizzy. "No, just darling," he said. "Just Joe," he said. "That's you." Now what's he pulling? Dad?he thought.

"I love you, Bobby," she said, and she reached for his hand.

Suddenly, Bobby saw a light go on in the library. "Someone's up at home" he said. "That's strange."

:"Don't you ever get up in the middle of the night?" she said.

"Yes, but that's me. I suppose...he coulda seen us out here…we didn't make much noise…did we?" he laughed.

"I don't think so," she laughed back.

They both began dressing, and Bobby hooked Joe's bra behind her

back. He decided he wanted to walk her home, and leave the car here. She was glad. He dropped the blanket in the trunk of the car.

1:30 A.M.

"I hope Roy goes back to bed. I want to have a word or two with dad." He wasn't sure why one should interfere with the other. She stopped where she stood.

"Bobby?" she said, anxiously.

"Oh. Don't worry. I don't do it very often. I just talk to one of his old jackets, once in a great while," he said. "It still smells like him. Funny, I didn't tell him I was going to SMU, or about history, or anything." He heard Joe sniffle.

"Hey," he said.

"I'm sorry, I just felt like crying all of a sudden," and she sobbed, and put her hand over her mouth.

"Sweetheart," he said. "It's all right."

"No. No it isn't," she said, stopped walking, and hugged him hard. Then she smiled "You going to tell him about tonight?"

"He'll already know." He laughed. "He'll be glad, but God knows what he'll say."

"Well you tell him to watch his language," she said, smiling again, apparently both quickly resigned, and even happy, about this ghost.

She called him that again, at the front door, and he kissed her so long, she thought the lovemaking was going to start again, and there was no place to go.

1:45 A.M.

Bobby decided to run all the way home from Joe's, about a mile. The wind had come up, blowing against him, and the tree branches and leaves rustled overhead. He stuck to the sidewalk, which was in better repair than the street, anyway. Half way home, a boy stood in the center of the sidewalk, arms outstretched, blocking his path. "Whoa," said Bobby. The boy—Bobby thought he was a junior whose name he didn't know, slender and blond, nice nose and mouth; he couldn't really see his eyes---walked closer to him, and suddenly, pushed Bobby's damp hair back from his forehead, as Joe had done, and said "Hey."

"Hey yourself, and no," Bobby said, as the boy touched his cheek.

"Didn't think so," said the boy. "How's it feel, livin' with your dad's killer?" he said.

"You don't know that," said Bobby, mildly. How would you know?"

"Word," said the boy.

"Word what?"

"Word gets around."

"From who?"

"Ask Randall Malone. Not how, but why."

"I don't know where he's workin' now. He used to work for my step dad, but he's got another job now."

"Find out."

"I just might do that," said Bobby, "Excuse me," he said running around the boy, and on his way. He turned around, running backwards. The boy was still standing there.

"Thanks," said Bobby.

"No problem." said the boy.

2:00 A.M.

But Roywas still up, when he got home, sitting the library, reading the previous morning's Dallas Morning News. Bobby looked at his watch; nearly two...

"Big date, huh?" said Roy.

"Well, long, anyhow," said Bobby. You waitin' up for me?"

"Not really, I just couldn't sleep." Sleep…Shakespeare. Bobby was really tired.

"Uh, Roy?

"Yep."

"Where's Randall working these days?"

"Over at Joe Beecher's place. When did you get interested in Randall Malone again?"

"Bout—5 minutes ago, Night, Roy," he said, and left the room. He drank a glass of grapefruit juice, very quickly, and climbed the stairs. He went to the toilet, and then to his room. Roy hadn't even said goodnight. He locked his door.

2:10 A.M.

It hadn't happened often enough to be a ritual, but Bobby took Jack's black leather jacket out of the back of his closet, and lay it across the bed while he pulled his chair up, waiting for some words.

"Nice fuck?" said Jack.

"Dad!" Then he laughed. "Very nice. I love her," he said.

"I know," said Jack. "Those'r the best ones."

"Sorry I got the verses mixed up," he said.

"Dad, I wanted to ask you---"

"Do like the boy said," interrupted Jack, and was gone.

2:15 A.M.

"What am I going to do with this man," he thought, intentionally removing all adjectives from his thought.

Two years ago, an English teacher had come up to him after class, and took a raggedy paperback out of his briefcase, laying it on Bobby's desk. "Just a hunch," he said, and walked away. Bobby looked curiously at the title "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man," he read. James Joyce. He took it from his nightstand, now. He never had read the whole book, and parts of it he didn't understand, but there were parts he loved: the moo-cow stuff at the beginning, the politics, "becauseburo the landlordburo willburo throwburo usburo outburo." The fire-and-brimstone sermon, Steven's confession and awakening, the conversation among the students, although he only partially understood it, and he had long used "cricket bats" as a mental substitute term for masturbation. And just before Steven left (for another book Bobby knewhe wouldn't understand most of) he said something that Bobby sometimes would say to himself, on important occasions:

"Old father, old Artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead."