Read Online A Special Providence by Richard Yates - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Yates
Tags: General Fiction
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led him into a room and turned on a light switch.
There was flowered wallpaper, an ornate sofa of green velvet, and a cold fireplace containing a clay-filament gas grill. There were several religious pictures on the walls, as well as a dark reproduction of “The Reaper,” and on the mantelpiece were a number of knicknacks including a paperweight model of the Trylon and Perisphere from the 1939 World’s Fair and a big kewpie doll with feathers. Arlene stepped out of her shoes and left him alone while she padded out another door, whispering that she’d only be a minute. He took off his overcoat and cap and sat experimentally on the sofa. He started to light a cigarette but decided against it: he would wait until she came back so that he could put two cigarettes in his lips, light them both and then slowly remove one and hand it to her, looking at her with narrowed eyes, the way Paul Henreid had done with Bette Davis in the movie called
Now, Voyager
.
“It’s okay,” Arlene said, closing the door behind her. “She’s out cold.” And she came to the sofa bringing a quart bottle of beer and two glasses. “You got a cigarette, Bob?”
He went carefully through the Paul Henreid trick, but she was pouring the beer and didn’t notice. “Thanks,” she said. “Here, let me put this thing on.” And squatting ungracefully she set a match to the gas fireplace, which popped and hissed. Then she turned off the lights and sat beside him in the soft orange glow.
Could you just start necking with a girl, without saying anything first? He guessed you could, and he was right. Once he broke away to stand up and take off his stifling tunic, and when he came back he avoided her while he reached out and swigged at his beer, as if he were an interestingly jaded alcoholic who absolutely had to have a drink or else be bored to death with the whole idea of sex; then, having drained his glass, he tried the
Now, Voyager
business again with two more cigarettes, though their first two were lying almost untouched in the ashtray, but again she didn’t notice. She was unhooking her brassiere for him. He wondered if he could say, “Look, Arlene, let’s not; you’re too nice a girl for this,” and if she might then weep in his arms and say, “Oh, Bob, you’re the first boy who’s ever really respected me,” and if then they might cling romantically together at the door with tender goodbyes and promises to write. The trouble was that her tongue was in his mouth and her little naked breasts were in his hands, and her fingers, with their high-school ring, were expertly unfastening the buttons of his fly. Only then did he remember the pack of Army condoms that had ridden in his wallet for weeks; he struggled to get one of them out but wasn’t at all sure if he knew how to put the damned thing on until Arlene helped him. She helped him, in fact, to do everything else that was required: she positioned their two bodies on the sofa and gravely, carefullyguided him into herself with both hands. He knew it was supposed to take a long time, but it was frantically over in almost no time at all.
“You done already?” she asked, not exactly in irritation but in something dangerously close to it; and so by way of reply, instead of apologizing, he buried his face in her neck with what he hoped would sound like the deepest possible groan of satisfaction. And the surprising thing was that she then seemed as eager as he was to pretend it had been a success: she stroked his back and nibbled at his ear. Could it be that she was used to settling for this kind of performance? He could only hope so.
Then they were sitting up, while she put her clothes and her hair in order. “God,” she said. “Look at all those cigarettes. Did you light all those cigarettes?”
Quint and Sam Rand were heavily asleep when he crept back into the barracks, and he took that sleepily to heart as a point of pride, a suggestion that he’d made out better than either of
There was flowered wallpaper, an ornate sofa of green velvet, and a cold fireplace containing a clay-filament gas grill. There were several religious pictures on the walls, as well as a dark reproduction of “The Reaper,” and on the mantelpiece were a number of knicknacks including a paperweight model of the Trylon and Perisphere from the 1939 World’s Fair and a big kewpie doll with feathers. Arlene stepped out of her shoes and left him alone while she padded out another door, whispering that she’d only be a minute. He took off his overcoat and cap and sat experimentally on the sofa. He started to light a cigarette but decided against it: he would wait until she came back so that he could put two cigarettes in his lips, light them both and then slowly remove one and hand it to her, looking at her with narrowed eyes, the way Paul Henreid had done with Bette Davis in the movie called
Now, Voyager
.
“It’s okay,” Arlene said, closing the door behind her. “She’s out cold.” And she came to the sofa bringing a quart bottle of beer and two glasses. “You got a cigarette, Bob?”
He went carefully through the Paul Henreid trick, but she was pouring the beer and didn’t notice. “Thanks,” she said. “Here, let me put this thing on.” And squatting ungracefully she set a match to the gas fireplace, which popped and hissed. Then she turned off the lights and sat beside him in the soft orange glow.
Could you just start necking with a girl, without saying anything first? He guessed you could, and he was right. Once he broke away to stand up and take off his stifling tunic, and when he came back he avoided her while he reached out and swigged at his beer, as if he were an interestingly jaded alcoholic who absolutely had to have a drink or else be bored to death with the whole idea of sex; then, having drained his glass, he tried the
Now, Voyager
business again with two more cigarettes, though their first two were lying almost untouched in the ashtray, but again she didn’t notice. She was unhooking her brassiere for him. He wondered if he could say, “Look, Arlene, let’s not; you’re too nice a girl for this,” and if she might then weep in his arms and say, “Oh, Bob, you’re the first boy who’s ever really respected me,” and if then they might cling romantically together at the door with tender goodbyes and promises to write. The trouble was that her tongue was in his mouth and her little naked breasts were in his hands, and her fingers, with their high-school ring, were expertly unfastening the buttons of his fly. Only then did he remember the pack of Army condoms that had ridden in his wallet for weeks; he struggled to get one of them out but wasn’t at all sure if he knew how to put the damned thing on until Arlene helped him. She helped him, in fact, to do everything else that was required: she positioned their two bodies on the sofa and gravely, carefullyguided him into herself with both hands. He knew it was supposed to take a long time, but it was frantically over in almost no time at all.
“You done already?” she asked, not exactly in irritation but in something dangerously close to it; and so by way of reply, instead of apologizing, he buried his face in her neck with what he hoped would sound like the deepest possible groan of satisfaction. And the surprising thing was that she then seemed as eager as he was to pretend it had been a success: she stroked his back and nibbled at his ear. Could it be that she was used to settling for this kind of performance? He could only hope so.
Then they were sitting up, while she put her clothes and her hair in order. “God,” she said. “Look at all those cigarettes. Did you light all those cigarettes?”
Quint and Sam Rand were heavily asleep when he crept back into the barracks, and he took that sleepily to heart as a point of pride, a suggestion that he’d made out better than either of
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