Bus Story

As the interstate bus in which Harry rode moved slowly into the heart of Dixie, carrying him toward an adventure that would bring forth the culmination of his dark genius, though he hardly could have guessed that then, he passed the time by amusing himself with a young girl, telling her ridiculous lies that she believed completely and playing with her body in the dark until he succeeded in inducing her to have several orgasms. He also succeeded in making her think he was madly in love with her and that he intended to come back to her home town and marry her. The idiocy of women never ceased to delight and fascinate Harry.

However, Harry, unlike some men who share his hobby, took a real pride in doing a good job. He was not satisfied simply to make a score. Of course that was the basic point, but it should be done in a manner with style, and thoroughly. He liked to make a really deep impression, something that the score would remember with a thrill for the rest of her life. With an almost uncanny sensitivity, he could find and press the right button, say the right thing, offer a tender kiss or a fierce and stallionlike embrace, whichever was proper to the moment thereof; he always felt himself successful when they wept and held his hand and told him that never before had they known what real love was like. A score of this type left Harry with the feeling of a job well done.

Of course, a real score couldn't be made on an interstate bus, even at night in the gloom with the other passengers snoring and dozing. But considerable diversion was possible, and naturally there was always the chance of stopping off for a while in a hotel or a tourist cabin. At worst, it passed the time and enabled a man to keep his hand in.

Quite a bit earlier that night, he had been sitting with a fairly attractive brunette around 35, who said she had four children and a husband waiting for her in Staunton, Virginia. Not very much prospect there, but Harry had no prejudice against married women; on the contrary, he found them very entertaining in their way, so he talked to her for a while, then when the lights went out and it was dark he made a few moves. He was just getting established with her, kissing her a few times and playing with her breasts, when the bus pulled into Staunton around midnight. The brunette, looking a bit nervous and flustered, got out to join her husband and kiddies, and Harry looked around for other material.

His eye had already noted the young blonde girl sitting in the back, but an old lady was with her. The girl was so young Harry had thought it was her grandmother or something with her, but not so, the old lady was also getting out at Staunton, rising now to get her bag and parcels. The girl was traveling all alone. Harry at once grabbed his raincoat and made his way back there, before any of the passengers boarding at Staunton could take the seat away from him.

"Is this seat occupied?" he asked quietly.

"No," said the girl.

Harry asked politely, "Do you mind if I sit here? The fumes up front are giving me a headache."

The girl nodded permission briefly and turned and stared out the window. He put his raincoat in the rack above, sat down by her, lit a cigarette, turned to her and smiled. "Kind of rainy, isn't it?"

The girl again nodded, head turned from him as she stared out the window at the night.

"Glad I'm not in it," he said. "Are you going far?"

The girl murmured an inaudible reply. She was sitting well over on her side of the seat, stockinged knees close together, hands primly folded in her lap. Probably she had noticed him with the married brunette up front and that had put her a little on guard. Harry took a drag on his cigarette and looked the girl over. His guess was that she was around 16. Blonde. Pink rosy cheeks, blue eyes, medium height, a little slender but coming along nicely from what he could see. She had on a spring coat, a pale tweedy coat with big horn buttons. A little velvet hat was in her hair. Everything she wore was brand new, obviously bought for her journey, so she must be going a fair distance.

"That was my sister who got off back there at Staunton," said Harry. "She was supposed to travel on with me to New Orleans, but I guess you saw the bus driver give her that wire back up at Winchester."

The girl turned and looked at him. "No, I didn't," she said.

"That was her husband Arthur who met her back there at Staunton with the kids. He'd wired ahead for her to get off at Staunton. Didn't you see that lame nigger come running with the wire back at Winchester?"

"No." said the girl. "I didn't notice."

"Arthur was afraid he wouldn't be able to make it to the bus, and wanted to be sure she got off. The baby has pneumonia." Harry sighed gloomily. "Sis and I were in Washington, D.C., visiting my older brother Bob, when we got word that Grandma was deathly ill of kidney trouble down in New Orleans." He sighed again, heavily. "All this sickness. It seems to be striking in every direction."

"Well, I'm awful sorry to hear about it," said the girl.

Harry then had one of his uncanny inspirations. Where they came from, he had no idea, but it was spooky the way he hit on things like this. He bowed his head, paused for several seconds, and said, "I don't mind telling you that I've been praying a little for my grandmother." He swallowed, with emotion. "It seems to help, too."

"Well, of course it does," answered the girl. "And that's a kind of funny coincidence, because you know right now I'm on my way to a Young Folks Faith-in-Prayer Convention in Cleveland, Tennessee. Isn't that a coincidence?"

"Amazing," said Harry. "Let me ask you something — but what's your name?"

"Margaret," said the girl.

"Mine is Tom," said Harry. He smiled. "Glad to know you, Margaret."

The girl blushed and smiled back. "Glad to know you, Tom."

Harry solemnly shook her little hand. Then he settled back in his seat and stared pensively into space. "Tell me something," he said. "Margaret, do you think that ... that God ... really cares about what happens on the earth? I mean, take my grandmother, for instance." He turned on her his silvery eyes, eyes in which confusion and pain became sweet sorrow. "Now, all of a sudden, she gets this ... this terrible kidney trouble. She may actually die. It's awful, we all love her so. Do you think God really cares, Margaret? Are my prayers heard at all?"

"I am sure they are," said the girl.

Three and a half hours later, in the gloomy dark night as the bus roared on through Virginia, Harry, not without effort and difficulty, got her panties down to her knees. At that point, she gave up and herself slipped them over her ankles and shoes. For a while, the panties lay in the dust on the floor, by the butts of Harry's cigarettes, then he reached down and picked them up and put them into his left coat pocket over his gun.

Harry always carried his Beretta pistol with him, while traveling or when involved in any situation with which he was not familiar. It was a small-caliber, flat weapon exquisitely engraved with inlaid silver and gold. He had owned it ever since three very tough Irish boys gave him a severe beating a year before in South Chicago. That was one little hustle he hadn't taken in stride. He was coldly determined it would not happen again. Harry didn't like to be beat up. He liked to be the one who did the beating up. The gun, of course, was only for rare emergencies like that in Chicago; he'd seen all he wanted of jails already.

As dawn was breaking, an old farmer one seat up across the aisle began to crane his head around. The party was about over. Harry had spread his raincoat over his and the girl's laps like a blanket. He held her wrist in an iron grip with his left hand, and did not mind the pain in his cramped right hand. "Oh, please," whispered the girl. "Don't anymore." In a futile effort at escape, the plump buttocks that straddled his wrist lifted again from the seat, gluteus maximi contracted and firm. He held fast, middle finger uplifted and hand spread as if supporting her; then a strained trembling in midair, and helpless soft descent. "Oh, this is so wicked," she whispered. The old farmer coughed. Harry grinned and thrust harder, touching the hard girlish cervix with his fingertip, simultaneously twisting her thin wrist with his other hand. His smile broadened as the girl again turned white and once more got the startled look on her face, as if she heard some faraway ominous sound. "Stop it now," she whispered. "It's making me sick again." Harry gave her a little kiss on her sweaty temple. "You aren't sick, honey," he said. "You're in love."

That was what she believed so he may as well kid her along. The questions she had asked were so hilarious he had almost had to laugh out loud. Such as, "Does being in love always make you feel so weak and sick?" The girl hadn't a doubt that she was head over heels in love with him. Those hours in the dark had more than convinced her. Ah, well. It was beginning to get to be quite light outside and the old farmer across the aisle was coughing his head off. Besides, better not take the edge off too much; it still might be possible to get her to stop off at a tourist cabin somewhere. Even so, it was with some reluctance that he removed his hand from under her plump bottom; she was a sweet little darling and he hated to let her go.

Harry sat back in his seat and lit a cigarette and considered the situation. Cleveland, Tennessee, and that bunch of idiots down there were still some hours away, but she was being met down there by chaperones and all that. He would have to get her off the bus somewhere before they reached Cleveland. But that was impossible, because the people down there undoubtedly were expecting her and would raise a fuss if she didn't show up. That would be impossible, (continued on page 62)Bus Story(continued from page 44) anyhow. Despite the limp condition she was in, she'd never in this world cold-bloodedly agree to go with him to a hotel room or a tourist cabin. So that was out. It was a pity, really, because five minutes alone with her and the story would have a different ending. But how? There was no way. He would have to make the best of it. Maybe one of these days he would pass through Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and he could finish it off then.

He looked at her and smiled. A dim corona of blurred lipstick circled her mouth from the endless kisses of the long night. Too long a night. Harry himself felt awful. He needed her so badly he hurt all over. If there was only some way ... but there wasn't. Oh, well. The best he could do was set it up for the future, in case he ever got to that town. He stared almost resentfully at her as she tried to put on fresh lipstick. "Do you really love me?" he asked.

The girl blushed and said, "Why else do you think I've acted like I have?"

"That was my fault," said Harry nobly, changing his tack. "I lost control of my head, and took advantage of you."

"Well, I let you," she answered, eyes down.

"The truth ... is that I want to make real love to you," said Harry gently. No soap. A blank look was coming into her eyes. The very idea was inconceivable to her. She'd never get off that bus. He sighed and looked back toward the front. He just couldn't help it; if there was one thing he hated, it was letting a score get away. "The thought that I won't ever see you again depresses me terribly," he said.

"Maybe you'll see me sometime."

To amuse himself in a bleak situation, Harry replied, "I almost feel like canceling my trip to Panama."

"Panama?"

"Umm-hmm."

"You mean, the Panama Canal?"

"Yes, I'm going down there. Didn't I tell you?"

"But you said you were going to New Orleans."

"I am," replied Harry calmly. "But I will embark from New Orleans by fruit boat for Panama."

The girl stared with interest. "Why are you going to Panama?"

"Well, you see," said Harry, "I have an uncle down there who has a concession to sell liquor to the soldiers." Harry paused, realizing this wasn't in character; at once a moody, rather depressed expression came into his silver-gray eyes. "He wants me to go down there and help him with the business. But I disapprove morally of liquor and so there has already been a lot of doubt in my mind about making the trip."

"Well, don't go, then," said the girl.

"Yes, but you see, I need an operation," said Harry, improvising blandly as he went along. "And my only chance of getting it is through my rich uncle."

"Oh. Well, that's too bad. Is it a very serious operation?"

Harry paused, a look of embarrassment coming on his handsome features. "Well, it's a sort of special operation, Margaret," he said quietly.

"Oh," she answered. Several seconds went by. Harry could feel the curiosity in her. Finally she said, "Is it very dangerous, this operation?"

Now might be as good a time as any to reveal to her the fact that he was sterile and could not have children, thus it was perfectly safe for any girl to share his bed. This was true. A stubborn case of gonorrhea at the age of 15 had rendered Harry permanently sterile. The ailment had been cured, but Harry could never be a father. It didn't bother him, to say the least; he had found the fact of his sterility invaluable in soothing the anxiety of a score that she might get pregnant. He always let the fact drop in one way or another. A bit of a problem, though, how to drop it in this case.

Harry cleared his throat and said, "No, the operation isn't dangerous, but it's very expensive, because it's so delicate." He turned and looked into her eyes and said sadly, "You see, honey, I am unable to have any children."

The startled look on her face almost made Harry smile, but he didn't, he continued to stare at her with a pensive sadness.

"Oh," she said.

"It doesn't affect me, as a man," he said. "I mean, I am able to marry and everything, but you see, Mother Nature made just a little tiny mistake and I was born not entirely normal, though you'd never know it and it takes an extremely expensive laboratory test to show it."

"Oh," said the girl, "well, I didn't mean to pry."

"That's all right, I'm not sensitive about it," answered Harry. "The truth is you really ought to know about this. I want you to know about it."

Something was puzzling her. A frown was between her eyes. She asked finally, "But what's that got to do with your going to Panama to work for your uncle?"

"That's what I was telling you," said Harry. "To get the money from my uncle for this new operation. You see, my condition used to be incurable, but not anymore. There's this brilliant doctor in Berlin, Germany, who has worked out a new operation to cure just what I've got. Now, I've always felt bad about not being able to be a father, but the trouble is the only man who can do this operation so far is this doctor himself. You see, it's a very delicate operation, and takes about five hours." He paused, as if considering a problem, then asked gently, "Do you want me to explain the operation to you, honey?"

"Well," said the girl, blushing, "if you want to."

"I think I ought to," said Harry. He hesitated, then took her hand and looked into her eyes and said, "You see, honey, a man is a very complicated thing. Now, deep in my tummy, honey, there are some little tiny, tiny tubes, and it's through those little tiny tubes that the cells come to make babies. Now, you see, honey, sometimes Mother Nature gets a little careless, and leaves those tubes all closed up. Then, even though that man can live a normal life and make love to girls and you'd never dream anything was wrong, he won't ever be a father, that poor man."

"I know," said the girl in a low, awed tone. "We studied about it in biology class. It ... it's a miracle, isn't it?"

"Honey, it's amazing. But what this brilliant doctor in Germany has done is to figure out a marvelous way to take tiny little needles and work them through each tube in turn. It's a simply marvelous thing, this operation. To give you an idea how marvelous it really is, this doctor has to use a magnifying glass even to see those tubes, they're so small. Now, you can imagine what a steady hand it must take to guide those little tiny needles through those almost invisible tubes. Isn't that simply amazing?"

All of this was delivered in a thoughtful, measured tone of utter solemnity. Harry could not have been more sincere; his own awe at the brilliant doctor in Berlin, who could stick invisible needles through invisible tubes, was quite genuine. Still, in the back of his mind, he thought perhaps this time he'd laid it on just a bit too thick. But not at all. The girl was staring in rapt fascination. "It sure is," she sighed. "He must be very smart, that doctor."

"Oh, he's brilliant, just brilliant," said Harry. "But the operation costs three thousand dollars. And that, honey, is why I'm going to Panama on that fruit boat next week."

"Can't you get the money some other way?"

"Maybe. But I never had the incentive, until now. I never thought I'd want to get married, so what did it matter?"

"You feel different, now?"

"You know I do," said Harry.

The girl was silent a moment, then asked, "Does it always work?"

Harry, who was still trying to think of some way to get her into a hotel room, didn't catch her meaning. "Does what always work?" he asked.

"Why, that operation."

(continued on page 92)Bus Story(continued from page 62)

"It is 98 percent successful," said Harry calmly.

"Well," she replied, "if I were you, I'd get that money in some other way, and have the operation. That is, if your conscience bothers you about selling liquor to those soldiers."

"It does bother me a great deal," said Harry. "I hate the idea of helping those poor boys ruin their lives with drink. The Government ought to put my uncle in jail, if you want my honest opinion, instead of giving him that concession to sell poison to American boys."

"Well, I sure agree with you, and if you feel that way, you definitely ought not to go down there," she answered with some heat. "If your uncle's that kind of man, he probably wouldn't give you the money anyhow."

"He probably wouldn't," said Harry gloomily. "Uncle Charles always was pretty untrustworthy."

"I bet he wouldn't give it to you at all," said the girl. "You ought to settle down somewhere in this country and get a job and make the money yourself."

"You're right," said Harry. He thought for a moment. "What kind of town is Harrisburg? Do they have opportunities for engineers there?"

"Why, sure," she said. "Are you an engineer?"

"Yes, I hold a degree from the California Institute of Technology," said Harry blandly.

"You do? What kind of engineering?"

"Civil."

"Well, isn't that amazing! My own father is a civil engineer!"

It wasn't amazing at all. She had told Harry that her father was a civil engineer earlier that night. But Harry looked startled and said, "Well, what do you know?"

"I bet my father could get you a job. I'm sure he could, in fact, easy."

Harry paused, staring straight ahead, eyes narrowed as if he were engaged in deep cogitation. "I have to go to New Orleans anyhow, because of poor Grandma. But afterward, do you suppose I could meet your father and talk to him about an engineering position?"

"Oh, sure."

"That would be wonderful," said Harry.

The bus seemed to be stopping. Harry looked up as the driver announced that there would be a 45-minute rest stop for breakfast. A sleepy bustle began in the bus. During their conversation, it had turned broad day. The rain of the night before had stopped and bright sunshine washed down into the muddy yard where the bus stood parked.

"Where are we?" asked the girl.

"Looks like a post stop stuck out in the middle of nowhere," said Harry.

He and the girl got up and left the bus with the other passengers, including the old farmer who stared dubiously over his shoulder at them. The post stop was nothing more than an ordinary house and barn on an empty stretch of highway. There were no tourist cabins or sleeping accommodations, just a house and a barn considerably remodeled into a restaurant. He and the girl walked inside the restaurant.

"Some dump," said Harry. "You'd think they'd stop in a regular bus station in a town somewhere. I'd thought of laying over and catching 40 winks in a hotel." Stubborn to the bitter end, Harry still had a vague hope of getting her into some hotel. Now even that was out, dim chance though it was; the bus wouldn't stop again till they reached Cleveland, except to take on and let off passengers. Harry glared coldly at the fat, bustling man in the apron who seemed to run the place. It was times like this that made him feel like getting into a tussle. The girl was going to get away, and there was nothing he could do about it. "What a dump," he repeated. "The whole damn family runs the place. There's the wife behind the counter, and there are the kids waiting table, and there's old grandma at the cash register. What a dump to park us at."

As they passed a door marked Ladies, the girl said, "I better go in here and wash up."

"Sure," answered Harry. "While you do, I'll call New Orleans and see how my grandmother is, if that phone works."

The girl hesitated, then blushed and leaned toward him and whispered, "Can I have my panties?"

Harry was on the verge of slipping them to her, but something stopped him. "Well," he said in a low tone, "somebody might see me hand them to you. I'll give them to you on the bus."

While the girl was in the ladies' room, Harry made his long-distance call to Glenville, asked Information for the best hotel, and reserved a room and bath at the Hotel Jeff Davis. The girl was still in there, so he went to the men's room himself, then came back and stood looking at the rush in the restaurant, a sour disgust on his face. A northbound bus had come in at the same time and the place was busy.

At that moment, the old farmer who'd been gawking and coughing at Harry and the girl on the bus shuffled up to get a drink from the water fountain by Harry's elbow. As he went by, the man made the error of glancing with cold contempt at Harry. A little tickle went down Harry's spine.

"What are you looking at, Pop?" he asked quietly.

The man, who seemed to be around 50, turned to stare at Harry. "Nobody much, I reckon," he said.

Harry slowly walked up close to the man, eyes as remote and cold as the gray perpetual ice of distant Siberia. Something in those eyes made the farmer, a stocky and able-bodied man, brace himself as if a panther had suddenly materialized before him out of thin air. In a soft, whispered voice, Harry said, "I don't like the way you were looking at my wife back on the bus, you old son of a bitch. What were you thinking, she's some tramp I picked up?"

Pale, open-mouthed like a fish, the farmer swallowed heavily, and in a very different tone said, "I wasn't thinking nothing."

"Yes, you were. You've got a mind as dirty as the combined britches of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, you stinking old bastard. You insulted my wife, and you'd better say your prayers, because I'm going to break your goddamned neck in about two seconds."

The farmer, utterly intimidated and a bloodless gray, stared at Harry as if he were a demon come to drag him to hell. His mouth moved but no words came out. A faint gasp came from him as Harry reached out and gently seized the front of his overalls. Now, this dreadful demon was going to kill him. The farmer's eyes bulged with terror and again the open mouth worked soundlessly.

"Say you're sorry," whispered Harry.

"I ... I'm sorry," said the farmer.

Harry released the overalls. "OK," he said. "Now, get out of my sight, you old bastard. Don't stay to eat. Get your ass out to that bus."

"Yes, sir," said the farmer. Like a beaten clog, he turned and walked out, too frightened even to look back. Harry watched him, with a faint smile. It was a nice hustle. No one in the restaurant had noticed a thing. But it was too bad, in a way, that the fellow hadn't had more starch. Harry had not been kidding. It was the one thing he was always honest about. If he told a man he would kill him, he meant it. Murder came naturally to Harry.

Ten seconds later, Harry was as calm as if nothing had happened. If anything, he was calmer than before; the incident had discharged some of his icy anger that the girl was going to escape. Was there no way? There was not. He winced in genuine distress. A thing like this was bad for the health. In sour disgust, he stared again at the busy members of the family that operated the post stop, the mother behind the counter, the grandma at the cash register, the adolescent boy and the three girls waiting on tables. And then, the idea flashed into his mind with a sudden dazzling inspiration, just like that. Wham! Out of nowhere. A moment later, the girl came out of the ladies' room and walked up to him with a timid smile. Her face was washed and her hair combed, but she still looked pale after the long night.

"Hello, beautiful," he said, smiling. "Want some breakfast?"

"I sure do!" she said. "I'm starved."

"Alrighty: looks like all the tables are taken, so you sit right down there at the end of the counter. Don't order, I'll be with you in just a minute."

Harry watched the girl as she walked toward the counter. Forty-five minutes, the bus driver had said: that left at least a good 30 minutes, probably more. He turned and strolled over to the gray-haired lady at the cash register, leaned toward her and spoke in a low tone. "I'd like to speak to the manager on a confidential matter," he said.

"He's in the kitchen," said the woman. "What is it?"

"It's a personal matter," said Harry.

"Well, he's back there. Right through those doors."

The manager of the post stop was a balding, nervous man with a cast in one eye. Harry walked over to him and said, "Excuse me, sir, but I have a serious problem that may be a matter of life and death."

"What?" exclaimed the man.

"Don't be nervous, sir, but it is fairly serious. My young wife and I are traveling to Biloxi, Mississippi, to visit her sick brother, and you see, sir, she is in a delicate condition."

The man's eyebrows went up. "Having a baby?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. It's only in the third month, so don't be alarmed, but the doctors have warned that this trip may bring on a miscarriage. She has been having pains for the last hundred miles, with all the jostling of the bus, and I wondered, sir, if you would be so kind as to allow the poor girl to lie down somewhere, if only for a few minutes, and rest?"

"Why, sure," said the man, "except we're rushed — she can go back in the house, I'll get one of my girls to take you-all back there."

"Sir," said Harry sadly, "my little wife is terribly self-conscious about her condition. It's her first baby, you know. Could you show me the room first, then let me go get her and take her alone, to spare the poor girl embarrassment?"

The man, who during this conversation was trying to fry a pan of eggs and grill two dozen strips of bacon, said, "I got a better idea. Get her and go back yourself, you can find it, the house is open — just go right through that door and along a passage, and in the door at the end there's a hall, then you go down that hall to the second door, that's my mother's bedroom. Your wife can lie down there awhile."

"Thank you ever so much, sir," said Harry. "You're a Christian gentleman."

"Anytime," said the man.

Delighted with the brilliance of his inspiration, though such inspiration was a normal thing for Harry when he felt the pressure of an escaping score, he turned with a springy step and went back into the restaurant section out front. The girl looked up from her stool at the counter with a pleased smile when he walked over to her. Harry took her arm.

"Come with me for a second," he said.

"Where?" she asked.

"I'll show you, just back here."

Puzzled, the girl followed him past the cash register. Harry nodded politely to the grandmother as they went by. It would be her bedroom, probably.

"Why are we going in the kitchen?" asked the girl.

"Just passing through," said Harry. He nodded with polite sobriety at the manager, who now was busy over a pan of potatoes.

"But where are we going?" asked the girl.

"I want to show you something, honey," said Harry.

"What do you want to show me?"

"Something very, very interesting."

Puzzled but in no way alarmed, the girl let him guide her along the covered passage between the barn and the house. With a small bow, Harry opened the door of the house and held it for her, smiling gently.

"Do you know the people that live here?" she asked, as Harry led her down the hall.

"Umm-hmm," he replied. "And I've got a wonderful surprise for you, too, honey." He opened the door to the second room. "Right in here." Harry guided her in and closed the door quietly behind him.

The girl looked around with a mild curiosity. It was a small and rather dark little bedroom with chintz curtains in the window and a torn green shade. The bed was covered with a crazy quilt and had a large chamber pot beneath it.

"What are we doing in here?" she asked. "And what's the surprise?"

Harry walked slowly toward her, then held out his arms. "Me," he said.

A look of faint apprehension came into the girl's eyes. Even now, however, she was not really alarmed. "Now, Tom," she said, trying to slip from his embrace.

"Kiss me," said Harry.

"No, I can't," she answered. "Not in here."

"Sure you can," said Harry. He had his arms around her, his hands firm in the small of her back. "Kiss-kiss."

"Not in here, like this," she replied, in a pious tone. "It wouldn't be right."

"Come on, honey," he said softly.

"Well, just a little one," said the girl. "Then we've got to — —"

Three minutes later, it suddenly dawned on the girl that it was possible her situation had in it some elements of danger. Twice, as they sat on the edge of the bed, he had pushed her over on her back, and twice, she had struggled back up again. "But I don't want to lie down!" she whispered. "Tom, you must stop this! Tom, please! Please, Tom!"

"Move your feet over here like this, you'll be more comfortable. That's right, now just lay back on the pillow." Hands tight on her shoulders, Harry pushed hard, with sudden force. Down she went. Now kiss me again. Tha-at's a sweet girl. Another."

Even now, lying on the bed with Harry half across her, the girl obviously did not realize exactly what was happening. Nervous and frightened though she was, nevertheless she responded to his kisses, as she had done on the bus. Two minutes later, not more than five minutes after they first entered the little bedroom, her dress was high above her waist and suddenly then it dawned on her that an incredible thing was about to happen. It was practically happening! What could she do?

"Tom, please," she whispered. "We can't."

"Move your knees," he replied, in a strange voice.

"I can't! Please!"

There are times to be tender, and there are times to be just a little bit rough. This was a time to be just a little bit rough. Left forearm heavily across her breasts and left hand gripping her shoulder so hard she winced, Harry used his knee like a wedge, gray eyes hypnotic above her. "Open your legs," he said in a cold, harsh and vicious tone. Lips apart and eyes empty with shock, the girl did as she was told. A moment later, hands limp on his shoulders, a gasp came from her. Then, another gasp.

As if in a dream, she opened her eyes and looked up. He was propped on his elbows, smiling. "Now," he said gently, "relax. See? There's nothing to it."

In numbed bewilderment, as totally befuddled as it is possible to be, the girl watched him suddenly withdraw from her completely and sit over on the side of the bed. Was this all there was to it? Why was he taking off his shoes and socks?

"Slip off your dress and bra," said Harry. "We've got a good 20 minutes." He grinned. "And relax. You've lost it, the worst is over."

Stark naked, tanned muscles rippling, Harry was beautiful. With a natural grace, he walked across the room and wedged a chair under the knob of the door. The girl, in a dazed fashion, had pulled her dress over her head but had not taken the sleeves all the way down her arms and had not removed her bra; she followed him with her eyes as he turned and walked toward her. Numbed and dulled and shocked out of kilter as all her mental processes were, she stared at him in awe, fright and admiration. As he sat down by her, she wet her lips and asked, "Are we going to again?"

Harry smiled and kissed her cheek as he unsnapped the bra. "That was only a technical operation, honey," he said. "Now we're going to make love, you little sweet darling." The smile on his face had in this moment a genuine tenderness and warmth. Now, as he circled his golden arms tight around her, shut his eyes and smelled the soap in her soft blonde hair, a feeling of deep relief and joy flooded through him; then, as in bliss and rapture he proceeded with the act of generation, the emotion of love briefly warmed the icy wasteland of his soul. "My little darling!" he cried. "My angel!"

Smoking a cigarette as he tied his shoes, Harry said, "Don't cry, honey, every girl has to lose it sooner or later."

The girl was sobbing on the bed. Her conscience had caught up with her. She also was complaining that he had hurt her. Well, what did she expect, violins?

"It won't hurt you so much next time," he said, narrowing his eyes to keep out the cigarette smoke.

"Oh," said the girl. "Oh, oh, oh!"

"You better quit bawling and get dressed, or we'll miss that bus," said Harry. "Go on, now, put your clothes on."

Trying to control her sobs, tears streaming down her cheeks, the girl stood up with trembling knees and began awkwardly trying to step into her panties. "Oh, oh!" she said. "What would my Mama and Papa say? Oh, Oh!"

"Don't tip 'em off," said Harry.

A few minutes later, dressed but still sniffling and weeping, the girl walked with Harry toward the bedroom door and glumly watched him unpry the chair. She sniffed loudly and asked, "When are you coming to Harrisburg?"

"Oh, one of these days," said Harry.

Luckily, by a gnat's whisker, they made the bus. It was already turning to pull out and Harry had to yell at the driver.

"Couldn't find you," said the driver, as they got on. "Where were you?"

"Picking daisies," answered Harry.

As he and the girl walked down the aisle, Harry noticed the old farmer, who was crouched down in his seat staring at the floor. "Hi, Pop!" he said cheerfully. "How's tricks?"

In the seat, as the bus resumed its passage south, the girl began to weep again.

"Tell me something, honey. How you spell your first name?" The girl told him, and he asked, "Now, how old are you, doll?" The girl said her 17th birthday had been a week before. This started her crying harder, because the trip had been a birthday present from her Mama and Papa, who trusted her and believed in her. "Would you say," asked Harry, "that your hair was blonde or a light brown?" "Blonde, why?" "One more question and that wraps it," said Harry. "How tall are you and what's your weight?"

"I'm five four and I weigh a hundred and 16," she said. "What are you writing it all down for?"

"So I'll remember you always," answered Harry.

Again, she began to weep. "Tom," she said, "Tom, won't you tell me when you're coming to Harrisburg?"

"I said, real soon, doll."

"But where will I write you?"

"Tom Layfield, General Delivery, New Orleans."

"Will you answer my letters?" asked the girl, sniffling, trying not to cry. Doubt, like a snake, had seized her. He seemed so cold and indifferent now. Face puckered and weepy, she asked, "Do you hate me, for what I did?"

"Why, no, honey," said Harry. "You were a real sweetheart."

She cried all the way to Cleveland. Harry paid no attention. They all cried, sooner or later. His thoughts were on the future, his fancy on the new vistas his path would surely reveal, until the day when he would find a permanent peace.