and giggly, like I said. They like it."
"How do you know?"
"I just know."
He stared at her. There was a surety about her that daunted him. He had never before seen it in one so young. Her mother had called her "poised." She was more than that; she was knowing and certain.
In addition to her flirtatiousness, he thought he detected an unadmirable slyness about her. It wasn't as deliberate as deceit, but there was a foxiness beyond her years. He didn't want to imagine how age and experience might enlarge and fix this gift of cunning.
He asked: "Do you know what men have between their legs, Lucy?"
"Of course, silly."
"What do they have?"
"A peter and nuts."
"How do you know that?"
"Everyone knows that. My goodness, Doctor Ted, I'm not a child."
"Has your mother told you how babies are born, Lucy?"
"Some. And some I learned in school. And some the other kids talked about."
"Suppose you tell me, Lucy—how does a baby get born?" "Don't you know?"
"I'd like you to tell me."
"Well, a man has this peter between his legs, and he puts it in the hole between his wife's legs, and then a baby comes out."
"Has a man ever tried to put his peter in your hole, Lucy?"
"That's silly! My goodness, I'm not old enough to be a wife."
He could not decide if that was the ingenuous reply of a female child of eight, or the ironic answer of a mature woman. There was nothing in her wide blue eyes to suggest that she might be mocking him. Still . . .
"But you like to touch a man's peter?"
"Sometimes. If he's nice. I don't see what's wrong with it."
♦ "Did I say it was wrong, Lucy?"
"Well ... my mother is always saying it's wrong."
"And your father?"
"Sometimes. But mostly my mother."
"Do you trust me, Lucy?"
"Trust you?"
"Do you think I'd lie to you?"
"Nooo . . ."
"If I told you that kissing men and touching them the way you do is wrong, would you believe me?"
"Well . . . you'd have to prove it."
"I see. Lucy, I think we'll end this now. I want to tell you that I've enjoyed meeting you, and I thank you for answering all my questions so honestly."
"Will I see you again, Doctor Ted?"
"I'll let your mother know. She'll tell you."
"I hope I see you again. You're very nice. Your beard is so funny."
"Why is it funny?"
"It's so bristly. You're not mad at me, are you? Because I said your beard is funny and bristly?"
"Of course I'm not mad at you. It is funny and bristly."
"I love you, Doctor Ted."
Their combined age was more than a century and a half—but they were peppery. Scoundrels, both of them.
"Good morning, Gertrude," Professor Lloyd Craner called, tipping his white, wide-brimmed Panama hat.
She looked up at him and grunted.
He leaned elegantly on his cane, punched into the dry sand. She was grubbing about in the surf with a long-handled net. Her legs and feet were bare. The hem of her skirt was sodden, but she didn't care.
"Shelling again, I see," he observed.
"No," she said, "I dropped a dime, and I'm looking for it. Wanna help?"
He smiled genially and gazed out to sea. A dazzling morning. But a solid block of rain, about two miles out, was moving slowly southward.
"Ten-minute squall out there," he said.
Gertrude Empt glanced up, shaded her eyes, stared.
"It'll miss us, perfesser. Probably hit Lighthouse Point or Pompano Beach."
She came trudging out of the ocean, carrying her net and a plastic grocery bag.
"Any luck?" he asked.
"Half-a-dozen whelks. Four olives. A couple of nicked sea fans."
When she came closer, he hefted her bag of treasures, peering at the wet shells.
"I'll take the brown olive," he said.
"Fat chance," she said, and he laughed.
They strolled along together. Without shoes, she barely came to his shoulder. Beneath her loose, flower-printed shift, her body was stocky, tanned, firm. He had seen her in a bathing suit. He had noticed.
Her skin had the translucent purity some fortunate older women achieve: a smooth porcelain gloss. Her dark brown eyes were snappy. Gray, wiry hair was pulled back with a barrette. Her teeth were her own, and
"How do you know?"
"I just know."
He stared at her. There was a surety about her that daunted him. He had never before seen it in one so young. Her mother had called her "poised." She was more than that; she was knowing and certain.
In addition to her flirtatiousness, he thought he detected an unadmirable slyness about her. It wasn't as deliberate as deceit, but there was a foxiness beyond her years. He didn't want to imagine how age and experience might enlarge and fix this gift of cunning.
He asked: "Do you know what men have between their legs, Lucy?"
"Of course, silly."
"What do they have?"
"A peter and nuts."
"How do you know that?"
"Everyone knows that. My goodness, Doctor Ted, I'm not a child."
"Has your mother told you how babies are born, Lucy?"
"Some. And some I learned in school. And some the other kids talked about."
"Suppose you tell me, Lucy—how does a baby get born?" "Don't you know?"
"I'd like you to tell me."
"Well, a man has this peter between his legs, and he puts it in the hole between his wife's legs, and then a baby comes out."
"Has a man ever tried to put his peter in your hole, Lucy?"
"That's silly! My goodness, I'm not old enough to be a wife."
He could not decide if that was the ingenuous reply of a female child of eight, or the ironic answer of a mature woman. There was nothing in her wide blue eyes to suggest that she might be mocking him. Still . . .
"But you like to touch a man's peter?"
"Sometimes. If he's nice. I don't see what's wrong with it."
♦ "Did I say it was wrong, Lucy?"
"Well ... my mother is always saying it's wrong."
"And your father?"
"Sometimes. But mostly my mother."
"Do you trust me, Lucy?"
"Trust you?"
"Do you think I'd lie to you?"
"Nooo . . ."
"If I told you that kissing men and touching them the way you do is wrong, would you believe me?"
"Well . . . you'd have to prove it."
"I see. Lucy, I think we'll end this now. I want to tell you that I've enjoyed meeting you, and I thank you for answering all my questions so honestly."
"Will I see you again, Doctor Ted?"
"I'll let your mother know. She'll tell you."
"I hope I see you again. You're very nice. Your beard is so funny."
"Why is it funny?"
"It's so bristly. You're not mad at me, are you? Because I said your beard is funny and bristly?"
"Of course I'm not mad at you. It is funny and bristly."
"I love you, Doctor Ted."
Their combined age was more than a century and a half—but they were peppery. Scoundrels, both of them.
"Good morning, Gertrude," Professor Lloyd Craner called, tipping his white, wide-brimmed Panama hat.
She looked up at him and grunted.
He leaned elegantly on his cane, punched into the dry sand. She was grubbing about in the surf with a long-handled net. Her legs and feet were bare. The hem of her skirt was sodden, but she didn't care.
"Shelling again, I see," he observed.
"No," she said, "I dropped a dime, and I'm looking for it. Wanna help?"
He smiled genially and gazed out to sea. A dazzling morning. But a solid block of rain, about two miles out, was moving slowly southward.
"Ten-minute squall out there," he said.
Gertrude Empt glanced up, shaded her eyes, stared.
"It'll miss us, perfesser. Probably hit Lighthouse Point or Pompano Beach."
She came trudging out of the ocean, carrying her net and a plastic grocery bag.
"Any luck?" he asked.
"Half-a-dozen whelks. Four olives. A couple of nicked sea fans."
When she came closer, he hefted her bag of treasures, peering at the wet shells.
"I'll take the brown olive," he said.
"Fat chance," she said, and he laughed.
They strolled along together. Without shoes, she barely came to his shoulder. Beneath her loose, flower-printed shift, her body was stocky, tanned, firm. He had seen her in a bathing suit. He had noticed.
Her skin had the translucent purity some fortunate older women achieve: a smooth porcelain gloss. Her dark brown eyes were snappy. Gray, wiry hair was pulled back with a barrette. Her teeth were her own, and
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