was touching him, but he could feel that somebody was.
Rage filled his throat. Somebody was making a fool of him, but he couldn't quite tell how. He looked around for Petra. She was clear on the other end of the porch. Fingers stroked his dick until they slid off the tip of it, and then the sensation was gone but his dick was still hard.
Ashamed of himself, Bob picked a pine bough for Petra. He made a point of cursing the needles, cursing her with her blouse open as she stuck the branch into her hair. She smiled.
When Beatrice Quinn was hit by the red Volkswagen speeding off west Sixth Avenue down the Elm Street hill, she was on her way home again. The morning sun was directly in her eyes. She had been months getting her bearings. First she'd set her sights on the nurses' station and then on the big glass front doors, learning the way, counting the steps from her room and back. Often she would end up needing the admonishing young hands under her elbows, the indignity and relief of a wheelchair, and then she would stay in bed for days afterward, dozing and weeping, eating only when she remembered that she had to keep her strength up for going home. Her granddaughter Mary Alice visited her every Sunday.
She had gone home at least twice before. Once in November, the worst winter in thirty years, and sometime during her first weekend the furnace had gone out. Mary Alice had found her wrapped in quilts in the rocking chair, with three old irons plugged in around her feet. Beatrice never did see what all the fuss was about. She had called a furnace company listed in the yellow pages and told them to come out first thing Monday morning; she was not about to pay double-time for them to work on a weekend. But then she did come down with the pneumonia and had to go back to The Tides, where they did take good care of her.
The other time, right after Easter, she was home two weeks and then she fell down the basement steps. Mary Alice found her on the cement floor. Once they got her on her feet she was perfectly fine, nothing broken in the fall, and could just as well have stayed home. But Mary Alice worried; Beatrice let herself be talked into coming back to The Tides again so Mary Alice' wouldn't worry.
It was all foolishness. She would do it right this time.
'Your granddaughter's right! You're a crazy old woman!' bellowed Dexter McCord from his wheelchair in the middle of the hall. Dexter was hard-of-hearing, and sometimes he shouted. Beatrice was a little afraid of him, and she worried because he didn't take care of himself, didn't take care of his sugar.
'Where you off to, honey?' the young nurse asked absently.
On her way out the side door, which wasn't fitted with an alarm and wouldn't be as likely to call attention as the front door would and besides, she didn't like going past those three who always sat out there; they were probably perfectly nice people, but they made her nervous — Beatrice stopped. The brown paper bags she hugged held all of her Tides possessions — sugar packets hoarded from the kitchen, bits of paper and string, flowers Dexter had brought her from the yard last summer. 'Just out for a walk,' she said sweetly, conversationally. 'Just out for my morning constitutional, don't you know.' This nurse hadn't been here long enough to remember her other trips home; Beatrice gambled that she wouldn't have read the chart enough to be suspicious.
'Well, you be careful now.' The nurse, younger than her granddaughter Mary Alice, patted her shoulder and went off with her cartful of pills.
The morning sun was directly in her eyes, and Beatrice never saw the speeding red Volkswagen. She never heard it, either, for she was saying a rosary. The rhythm of the rosary and Beatrice's determination to go home kept everything else out of her mind, including the gauzy whisper that tried but failed to penetrate.
The driver saw her. The Volkswagen skidded from the top of the
Rage filled his throat. Somebody was making a fool of him, but he couldn't quite tell how. He looked around for Petra. She was clear on the other end of the porch. Fingers stroked his dick until they slid off the tip of it, and then the sensation was gone but his dick was still hard.
Ashamed of himself, Bob picked a pine bough for Petra. He made a point of cursing the needles, cursing her with her blouse open as she stuck the branch into her hair. She smiled.
When Beatrice Quinn was hit by the red Volkswagen speeding off west Sixth Avenue down the Elm Street hill, she was on her way home again. The morning sun was directly in her eyes. She had been months getting her bearings. First she'd set her sights on the nurses' station and then on the big glass front doors, learning the way, counting the steps from her room and back. Often she would end up needing the admonishing young hands under her elbows, the indignity and relief of a wheelchair, and then she would stay in bed for days afterward, dozing and weeping, eating only when she remembered that she had to keep her strength up for going home. Her granddaughter Mary Alice visited her every Sunday.
She had gone home at least twice before. Once in November, the worst winter in thirty years, and sometime during her first weekend the furnace had gone out. Mary Alice had found her wrapped in quilts in the rocking chair, with three old irons plugged in around her feet. Beatrice never did see what all the fuss was about. She had called a furnace company listed in the yellow pages and told them to come out first thing Monday morning; she was not about to pay double-time for them to work on a weekend. But then she did come down with the pneumonia and had to go back to The Tides, where they did take good care of her.
The other time, right after Easter, she was home two weeks and then she fell down the basement steps. Mary Alice found her on the cement floor. Once they got her on her feet she was perfectly fine, nothing broken in the fall, and could just as well have stayed home. But Mary Alice worried; Beatrice let herself be talked into coming back to The Tides again so Mary Alice' wouldn't worry.
It was all foolishness. She would do it right this time.
'Your granddaughter's right! You're a crazy old woman!' bellowed Dexter McCord from his wheelchair in the middle of the hall. Dexter was hard-of-hearing, and sometimes he shouted. Beatrice was a little afraid of him, and she worried because he didn't take care of himself, didn't take care of his sugar.
'Where you off to, honey?' the young nurse asked absently.
On her way out the side door, which wasn't fitted with an alarm and wouldn't be as likely to call attention as the front door would and besides, she didn't like going past those three who always sat out there; they were probably perfectly nice people, but they made her nervous — Beatrice stopped. The brown paper bags she hugged held all of her Tides possessions — sugar packets hoarded from the kitchen, bits of paper and string, flowers Dexter had brought her from the yard last summer. 'Just out for a walk,' she said sweetly, conversationally. 'Just out for my morning constitutional, don't you know.' This nurse hadn't been here long enough to remember her other trips home; Beatrice gambled that she wouldn't have read the chart enough to be suspicious.
'Well, you be careful now.' The nurse, younger than her granddaughter Mary Alice, patted her shoulder and went off with her cartful of pills.
The morning sun was directly in her eyes, and Beatrice never saw the speeding red Volkswagen. She never heard it, either, for she was saying a rosary. The rhythm of the rosary and Beatrice's determination to go home kept everything else out of her mind, including the gauzy whisper that tried but failed to penetrate.
The driver saw her. The Volkswagen skidded from the top of the
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