The Hotel New Hampshire

“You could introduce yourself to her affections,” Sabrina was saying, “by offering to take all those bags to her room.”

“Where are your bags?” I asked Sabrina.

“For one night,” Sabrina said, “I don’t pack a bag. And you don’t have to offer to show me to my room. I can find it.”

“I could show it to you, anyway,” I said.

“Well, do it,” she said. “I got a book to read. This is one party I don’t need,” she added. “I might as well get ready for a long drive back to Philadelphia.”

I walked with her to her room on the second floor. I had no illusions of making a move on her, as she would say; I wouldn’t have had the courage, anyway. “Good night,” I mumbled at her door, and let her slip away. She was not gone long.

“Hey,” she said, opening her door before I had left the hall. “You’ll never get anywhere not trying. You didn’t even try to kiss me,” she added.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Never apologize!” Sabrina said. She stood close to me in the hallway and let me kiss her. “First things first,” she said. “Your breath smells nice—that’s a start. But stop shaking, and you shouldn’t make tooth contact at the beginning; and don’t try to ram me with your tongue.” We tried again. “Keep your hands in your pockets,” she told me. “Watch the tooth contact. Better,” she said. “Hands in the pockets at all times; two feet on the floor.” I stumbled toward her. We made tooth contact quite violently; she snapped her head back, away from me, and when I looked at her, incredibly, I saw that she held a row of her front upper teeth in her hand. “Shit!” she cried. “Watch the tooth contact!” For a horrible moment I thought I had knocked her teeth out, but she turned her back to me and said, “Don’t look at me. False teeth. Turn out the light.” I did, and it was dark in her room.

“I’m sorry,” I said, hopelessly.

“Never apologize,” she murmured. “I was raped.”

“Yes,” I said, knowing all along that this would surface. “So was Franny.”

“So I heard,” said Sabrina Jones. “But they didn’t knock her teeth out with a pipe. Am I right?”

“Yes,” I said.

“It’s the kissing that gets me, every fucking time,” Sabrina said. “Just when it gets good, my uppers loosen up—or some clod makes too much tooth contact.”

I didn’t apologize; I reached to touch her but she said, “Keep your hands in your pockets.” Then she came up close to me and said, “I’m going to help you if you help me. I’ll teach you all about kissing,” she said, “but you’ve got to tell me something I always wanted to know. I was never with anyone I dared to ask. I try to keep it a secret.”

“Yes,” I agreed, terrified—not knowing to what I was agreeing.

“I want to know if it’s better with my damn teeth out,” she said, “or if it’s gross. I always thought it would be gross, so I never tried it.” She went into the bathroom and I waited for her, in the dark, watching the line of light framing the bathroom door—until the light went out and Sabrina was back beside me.

Warm and mobile, her mouth was a cave in the world’s heart. Her tongue was long and round and her gums were hard but never painful in the nips she took. “A little less lip,” she mumbled, “a little more tongue. No, not that much. That’s disgusting! Yes, a little biting is fine. That’s nice. Hands back in the pockets—I mean it. Do you like this?”

“Oh yes,” I said.

“Really?” she asked. “Is it really better?”

“It’s deeper!” I said.

She laughed. “But better, too?” she asked.

“Wonderful,” I confessed.

“Hands back in the pockets,” Sabrina said. “Don’t get out of control. Don’t be sloppy. Ouch!”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just don’t bite so hard. Hands in the pockets. I mean it. Don’t get fresh. In the pockets!”

And so forth, until I was pronounced initiated, and ready for Bitty Tuck, and the world, and sent on my way from Sabrina Jones’s room; hands still in my pockets, I collided with the door to 2B. Thank you!” I called to Sabrina. In the hall light, without her teeth, she dared to smile at me—a rose-brown, rose-blue smile, so much nicer than the odd, pearly cast of her false teeth.

She had sucked on my lips to make them swell, she had told me, and I walked pouting into the restaurant of the Hotel New Hampshire, aware of the powers of my mouth, ready to make kissing history with Bitty Tuck. But Hurricane Doris was groaning its way through “I Forgot to Remember to Forget”; Ronda Ray slumped at the bar in a stupor, Mother’s new dress slipped up to the knot of muscle at Ronda’s hip, on which a bruise, in the shape of a thumbprint, stared at me. Merton, the lumberyard foreman, was swapping stories with my father—I knew the stories would be about Iowa Bob.

“‘I forgot to remember to forget,’” moaned Doris Wales.

Poor Lilly, who would always be too small to feel comfortable at a party—although she would continue to anticipate parties, with pleasure—had gone to bed. Egg, wearing ordinary clothes, sat sulking in one of the screwed-down chairs; his little face was grey, as if he had eaten something that had disagreed with him, as if he was willing himself to stay awake till midnight—as if he had lost Sorrow.

Frank, I imagined, was out drinking the cold beer in the snow stacked by the delivery entrance, or sucking Pepsi-Colas at the reception desk in the lobby, or perhaps at the intercom—listening to Sabrina Jones reading a book and humming with her marvellous mouth.

Mother, and the Matsons, were watching Doris Wales without reserve. Only Franny was free for dancing— Bitty Tuck was out on the floor, with Junior Jones.

“Dance with me,” I said to Franny, grabbing her.

“You can’t dance,” Franny said, but she allowed me to drag her out on the floor.

“I can kiss,” I whispered to Franny, and tried to kiss her, but she pushed me away.

“Switch!” she cried to Junior and Bitty Tuck, and Bitty was in my arms and instantly bored.

“Just be dancing with her when it’s midnight,” Sabrina Jones had advised. “At midnight you get to kiss who you’re with. Once you kiss her, she’ll be hooked. Just don’t blow the first one.”

“Have you been drinking, John-John?” Bitty asked me. “Your lips are all puffy.”

And Doris Wales, hoarse and sweating, gave us “Tryin’ to Get to You,” one of those clumsy numbers, not slow and not fast, forcing Bitty Tuck to decide whether or not to dance close. Before she’d made her choice, Max Urick leaped out of the kitchen in his sailor’s cap with a referee’s whistle clenched in his teeth; he blew the whistle so shrilly that even Ronda Ray moved, a little, at the bar. “Happy New Year!” shrieked Max, and Franny stood on her toes and gave Junior Jones the sweetest kiss, and Mother ran to find Father. Merton, the lumberyard foreman, looked once at the dozing Ronda Ray; he then thought better of it. And Bitty Tuck, with a bored shrug, gave me her superior smile, again, and I remembered every lustiness of the cavernous mouth of Sabrina Jones; I made, as they say, my move. A little tooth contact, but nothing offensive; the penetration of the tongue past the teeth, but only a flicker of ramming it farther; and the teeth skating under the upper lip. There were Bitty Tuck’s wondrous, much- discussed breasts, like soft fists pushing my chest away, but I kept my hands in my pockets, forcing nothing; she was always free to pull away, but she didn’t choose to break contact.

“Holy cow,” observed Junior Jones, momentarily breaking Bitty Tuck’s concentration.

“Titsie!” Franny said. “What are you doing to my brother?” But I held Titsie Tuck in touch a little longer, lingering over her lower lip, and nipping her tongue, which she’d given me, suddenly, too much of. There was a slight awkwardness, as I removed my hands from my pockets, because Bitty had decided that “Tryin’ to Get to You” was suitable for close dancing.

“Where’d you learn how to do that?” she whispered, her breasts like two warm kittens curled against my chest. We left the dance floor before Hurricane Doris could change the tempo.

There was a draught in the lobby, where Frank had left the door to the delivery entrance open; we could hear him outside in the dark slush, urinating—with great force—against a trash barrel. The floor beneath the bottle