Chris had slipped upstairs andlooked at himself in the mirror. He smoothed back his dark heavy hair and straightened his tie. He put his face close to the mirror and passed a thumb over the dark silky shadow beginning on his upper lip. Then he tilted the mirror backward and, turning, watched the back of his coat draw tight across the muscles in his shoulders. His body felt smooth and full beneath it.
He listened. There was no one on the stairs. He stripped quickly to the waist and drew a deep breath, bunching the muscles in his arms and patting his chest. He smiled a lazy, knowing smile at his own eyes in the mirror, and stretched both arms over his head, watching the muscles rise up at his sides. He felt something new and secret. There seemed to be an extra voice inside him now, that he heard only when he was alone.
I’m almost a man, he thought. That was the way they looked: the men who came to the pool sometimes after a hot day’s haying and took off their shirts, rubbing their hard-muscled chests slowly, then bending soberly to slip out of their pants. As they straightened up, their bodies came out with a thicker, harder, completeness than you’d have guessed from the slack bunching of their clothes. Before they walked into the water, they stood for a minute passing their hands almost in an act of modesty up and down over the suddenly thick crotch hair and the hairy thighs and the lazy, stupid-looking, horse-lip heaviness of the parts that hung beneath.
He listened again. Then he opened his own trousers and glanced inside. Yes. Already.
He had never looked in the mirror like that before. He’d never thought of wanting to have a room by himself. Now he wished the room was all his, so every night before he went to bed he could check the growth of his body, in the mirror, and have that wonderful secret feeling.
But when he spoke to Charlotte, only the parts of his body which were exposed felt large.
“You going up the road tonight?” he said.
“I don’t know. If Mother don’t want me to stay with her. You?”
“I guess. If you do.”
“I imagine I kin,” she said.
He nodded, and moved awkwardly away. Speech between them was always halting. It was as if they thought in one language but had to speak in another, choosing only those words their clumsy mastery of the second language could translate.
But when he was back with the other boys, he felt the nice firmness in his muscles again—to look at Charlotte without her knowing it and wish he could be walking alone with her after dark.
(That wouldn’t happen, though. The girls always walked ahead, in groups, the boys behind. Their progress was clotted and slow. The boys whispered together, with one of them letting out a lewd “Wheeeee!” now and then; the girls whispered together and giggled constantly. Now and then one of the girls would shout something derisive to the boys, or one of the boys would shout something teasing to the girls. One of the girls might break ranks to clout one of the boys in mock indignation, but she’d race quickly back to her own group.
When they turned and came homeward again, the groups would lose one member after another, as this or that house was reached; but the remaining girls still stayed together and the remaining boys together. And if, finally, there was a single boy and a single girl left, they’d talk with sudden soberness about school or something as they walked purposefully home, the clowning struck out of them entirely.)
How can Rachel and Charlotte run that place now? Chris thought. Lottie’ll have to get married.
What would it be like to be married? he thought. Mark Corbett was married, and he was only sixteen—only two years older than himself. But when they teased Mark at the wood-splitting frolics about his back getting weak, he didn’t take it up like he used to when they kidded him about girls at the Baptizing Pool. He just smiled—like he’d found something that, once you’d found it, you
He listened. There was no one on the stairs. He stripped quickly to the waist and drew a deep breath, bunching the muscles in his arms and patting his chest. He smiled a lazy, knowing smile at his own eyes in the mirror, and stretched both arms over his head, watching the muscles rise up at his sides. He felt something new and secret. There seemed to be an extra voice inside him now, that he heard only when he was alone.
I’m almost a man, he thought. That was the way they looked: the men who came to the pool sometimes after a hot day’s haying and took off their shirts, rubbing their hard-muscled chests slowly, then bending soberly to slip out of their pants. As they straightened up, their bodies came out with a thicker, harder, completeness than you’d have guessed from the slack bunching of their clothes. Before they walked into the water, they stood for a minute passing their hands almost in an act of modesty up and down over the suddenly thick crotch hair and the hairy thighs and the lazy, stupid-looking, horse-lip heaviness of the parts that hung beneath.
He listened again. Then he opened his own trousers and glanced inside. Yes. Already.
He had never looked in the mirror like that before. He’d never thought of wanting to have a room by himself. Now he wished the room was all his, so every night before he went to bed he could check the growth of his body, in the mirror, and have that wonderful secret feeling.
But when he spoke to Charlotte, only the parts of his body which were exposed felt large.
“You going up the road tonight?” he said.
“I don’t know. If Mother don’t want me to stay with her. You?”
“I guess. If you do.”
“I imagine I kin,” she said.
He nodded, and moved awkwardly away. Speech between them was always halting. It was as if they thought in one language but had to speak in another, choosing only those words their clumsy mastery of the second language could translate.
But when he was back with the other boys, he felt the nice firmness in his muscles again—to look at Charlotte without her knowing it and wish he could be walking alone with her after dark.
(That wouldn’t happen, though. The girls always walked ahead, in groups, the boys behind. Their progress was clotted and slow. The boys whispered together, with one of them letting out a lewd “Wheeeee!” now and then; the girls whispered together and giggled constantly. Now and then one of the girls would shout something derisive to the boys, or one of the boys would shout something teasing to the girls. One of the girls might break ranks to clout one of the boys in mock indignation, but she’d race quickly back to her own group.
When they turned and came homeward again, the groups would lose one member after another, as this or that house was reached; but the remaining girls still stayed together and the remaining boys together. And if, finally, there was a single boy and a single girl left, they’d talk with sudden soberness about school or something as they walked purposefully home, the clowning struck out of them entirely.)
How can Rachel and Charlotte run that place now? Chris thought. Lottie’ll have to get married.
What would it be like to be married? he thought. Mark Corbett was married, and he was only sixteen—only two years older than himself. But when they teased Mark at the wood-splitting frolics about his back getting weak, he didn’t take it up like he used to when they kidded him about girls at the Baptizing Pool. He just smiled—like he’d found something that, once you’d found it, you
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