He urinates in the downstairs bathroom and is surprised by a hot stinging. Wincing, he glances at his cock resting on his forefinger. Red and chafed. The stinging’s hard use, he assures himself. Just like when he first began masturbating to orgasm, he did it so often he had some water trouble too. Scared himself silly, thinking he’d broken something.
But she tricks with Chapin, Chapin takes it where he can get it, from Karen among others—or so the creep claims and it’s at least possible—which brings up the grotesque potential of a daisy chain of infection connecting brother and sister. How could he be so stupid? I’m on the Pill, she tells him, and that’s all he pays any mind to, as if knocking her up is the only thing to fret.
Suddenly he wants to shower, as if it would make any difference if she’s given him the clap or something. In any case, the baby’s just settling down and the racket of the water in the tin shower stall might disturb her. He draws warm water into the basin and gives himself a GI bath, wincing at the burn of soap lather in minute abrasions on his skin. No problem, no big deal, nothing but fucking his brains out. Please.
When he comes out of the bathroom, he is surprised by his father, standing in his pajama pants in the middle of the living room with the TV clicker in his hand, evidently on a mission to catch the late news. Still buttoning his jeans, Sam is taken with a violent guilty blush that worsens with the sudden quirk in his father’s smile.
“You had a good game.”
“Yeah.” He grabs the newel post and pivots around it.
“Sammy,” Reuben says.
He stops, not looking back. Can’t show his face to his father’s X-ray vision again.
Reuben sighs. “Nevermind. Goodnight.”
Muttering a goodnight he is certain his father does not hear, Sam takes himself upstairs.
25
Gathered at the meetinghouse in the early morning, there is the continuing sense of reservation, of waiting on something, even though they pulled together for the previous night’s game. Rick arrives a little late, with Billy Rank. Fosse, Gramolini and Bither turn penetrating disdainful glares on Billy and he falters. Rick’s hand, casual and reassuring, cups his substitute’s elbow.
“Hey Bigger,” Pete says, “I see you slugging the Mutant around the parking lot, I wondered maybe she put that scratch on your nose last week?”
“Come on, Peteybird,” Gramolini chides, “she never fought it in her life.”
Pete squints at Sam. “Yeah—but you forget they’re into S & M. Looks like a bite mark to me. She must a tried to bite off his nose when they were working each other up sometime.”
“How is she?” Bither demands. “Tell us about it, Sambot.”
Sam flat-palms the ball into Bither’s chest. “Hear you talking, all you studs, I got the idea you wrote the book on her.”
They laugh but it has a nervous edge. “Hey,” Rick says, “I gotta be at work by eleven. Can we get started?”
Relieved, they fall to the work at hand.
When they all repair to the diner to fuel up, Rick and Sam find stools next to each other, at the corner of the counter. This breakfast is the first food Sam has had since sharing the banana with Deanie after the game and missing his supper to take her to the Mill. Like the first snowflakes in November, the first mouthfuls increase the sense of emptiness with the realization of how much it will take to fill the void. He concentrates on chowing down.
Swallowing the last of his toast, Rick asks if Sam has gotten a date from the DMV for his bike license test. With a mournful shake of his head, Sam allows the DMV is still being coy.
“Frigging shame,” Rick commiserates. “Gorgeous machine like that just sitting idle.”
“Weather sucks for bike-riding anyway,” Sam points out.
Rick lowers his voice. “Thought you were coming to my house last night.”
Contemplatively Sam wipes toast through egg yolk. “Didn’t think you and Sarah needed me.”
“We didn’t.” Rick toys with a fork, stabs suddenly into Sam’s sausage links and boots one. “So what happened with you and Gauthier after the knock-down drag-out in the parking lot? You take her somewhere and kill her, or dick her, or what?”
Sam lifts an eyebrow. “That’s some choice.”
“Come on.” Rick belches gently. “See a couple who fight as much as you and Gauthier do and they keep on hanging around each other, it’s gotta be a turn-on.”
Wiping his mouth, Sam folds his napkin neatly next to his clean plate. “Slick, get a life of your own, will ya?”
Bringing in the mail, Reuben frisbees the envelope with the DMV return address across the garage to Sam, who drops a wrench on the floor to catch it.
When Sam rips it open, he groans. “Look at the date!”
Glancing at it, Reuben laughs. “Tournament week. Have to reschedule.”
Nothing to get shook about, considering there are long cold nasty weeks to hump through to spring, itself basically more long cold nastiness with mud instead of snow and ice. Before May, won’t be more than one or two good bike days like found coins on a wet sidewalk. It doesn’t stop Sam sitting right down to make out the form for a new date, though it won’t go out in the mail until Monday.
Just before closing, Sam steps into the lavatory, props himself one-armed against the wall over the bowl and makes a pass at voiding. With his eyes closed prayerfully, he produces a painless stream and breaks into a weak grin.
Now she has a new woman working for her who appears to be competent, Pearl has decided to take Sunday mornings off through the winter. She wants exercise, she says, and joins the pickup game at the meeting hall. Reuben makes his first appearance since being sick. It
