Эд Макбейн - Last Summer

“They can see.”

“Who?”

“The boys.”

“So what?”

“They can see. ”

“Yes,” Sandy said.

David, who had been sitting quietly on the poncho, suddenly said, “Why don’t you take yours off, Rhoda?”

“No!” she said sharply, and whirled toward him, and saw the smile on his face, and instantly stepped back and away from him. She almost collided with Sandy. Turning, she saw the identical smile on Sandy’s face, and knew at once that she was trapped. Her hands fluttered up toward her breasts. She looked at me where I sat still and silent against the black rock.

“Peter,” she said, “please.”

“Do it,” Sandy said.

“I couldn’t. I can’t. Peter, I can’t. Peter...”

“Do it,” David said.

“Please don’t make me. Peter, please.”

I took a deep breath. “Do it,” I said.

Her eyes searched my face. She seemed about to say “Peter” again, her lips seemed pursed around my name, but nothing came from her mouth. She broke away suddenly instead, trying to step wide around Sandy, who grabbed her wrist and swung her back toward the poncho. “No, please,” she said, and Sandy came swiftly toward her, hands outstretched, reaching for the bra top.

“Don’t!” she shouted.

David came off the poncho, his fists clenched, a contorted look on his face, rose in one swift smooth sudden motion to seize Rhoda from behind while Sandy pulled the bra top down. Her breasts burst free, she tried to raise her hands to cover them, but David grabbed both her wrists and Sandy slapped her hard across the face, twice, the way she had slapped her that night we’d found her crying on the dune. She was not crying now. She fought wildly as they dragged her to the poncho, kicking. This isn’t real, I thought, this isn’t happening, trying to free her hands, I wanted to kiss her, I wanted to kiss her breasts, I wanted to hit her, David and Sandy grunting, the sounds muffled like the sounds on the mainland when Annabelle faced the hoods, I wanted to stop them, I wanted to laugh hysterically, “Oh, Peter,” she said, “oh, Peter,” I wanted to shout Leave her alone, can’t you see? can’t you see? lips pulled back over metal bands, eyes wild and frightened, I wanted to save her and destroy her, trying to cover her breasts with her forearms, David forcing them away, I wanted to love her and protect her, I did not want involvement, I wanted to kiss her gently in the forest sunshine and listen to the sounds of life around us, I thought of Spotswood, New Jersey, and a clearing washed with yellow light, “Don’t let them!” she screamed, “Peter, don’t let them!” and I remembered her column and what she had said about a last summer, hers and maybe everybody’s, and I thought Are you trying to scare me, Rhoda? and was scared, and hated her, I’m so afraid of winter coming , and saw a confused tangle of bodies on the slippery poncho, unreal, moving too fast, Sandy’s slender brown legs flashing, Rhoda’s white and heavy breasts, David’s arm muscles straining to keep her pinned, “I don’t want to!” she screamed, and I thought You have to, “Stop them!” she screamed, and I thought Them? You mean us , don’t you? You silly cautious girl, this is the party, we’re the party, don’t you know that? and felt an overwhelming sense of oneness with David, and found myself rolling over suddenly on the wet poncho, rolling toward Rhoda and her big white tits, moving together with David as if his body were my body, his muscles and hands were mine, Sandy falling suddenly against my back, taut and smooth and wet with sweat, kiss her, I thought, kiss Rhoda, and remembered for the last time that day on Violet’s island and heard Sandy whisper, “ Get her!”

We clutched for her breasts. “Leave me,” she murmured, but we did not leave her, grabbed her breasts in rage instead, “Leave me, please,” she mumbled, but we did not leave her, swept our hands in fury over her body, “Something,” she said, “please,” and together we stripped her naked. We pulled her pants down over her belly, “Please,” she moaned, and her thighs, “Something,” she whimpered, and her legs, “Something, something,” she begged, and Sandy slapped her again, and she cowered on the sticky rubber poncho, shivering as we stood over her breathing harshly, our bodies covered with sweat, the forest silent and dead around us, Rhoda naked, her pants bunched stupidly around her ankles, naked, there was nothing we could not see. We reached for her pants together, pulled them over her feet, hurled them into the bushes. She tried to twist away, tried to turn her body, raise her knees to hide herself, but we shoved her flat to the poncho again, and David said, “Hold her,” and we held her. She seemed dead. She lay on the poncho with her eyes closed and her mouth tight, and I thought She’s dead, we’ve killed her.

He was taking off his trunks.

“Spread her,” Sandy said.

She gave a final futile twist as we forced her legs apart, trying to turn over on the poncho and away from him as he walked to her, and stood above her, and suddenly crouched, poised.

We did it to her.

He did it to her first, and then I did.

I was last.

As we walked out of the forest, Sandy said, “Is she dressed yet?”

“Who?” David asked.

“Whatshername.”

I turned to look over my shoulder.

She was standing by the round black rock, whimpering. She stooped crookedly to pull up her pants, and then hunched her shoulders and dressed herself that way, whimpering and hunched, flinching at every crackling forest sound. She looked up only once, as she fastened the top of her suit, and her eyes accidentally met mine, and then, quickly, she ducked her head, and sidled away through the stunted bushes, her head turned away from us, moved from us silhouetted against the black trees in gnarled silhouette, the dead distorted trees, not hurrying, moving with a slow broken crooked gait.

I watched her go.

“She’s leaving,” I said.

“Good,” Sandy said.

“Do you think she’ll tell?” David said.

“Not a chance,” Sandy said, and smiled. “She’s too scared.”

“Why, that’s right, she is,” David said.

“Too scared of everything,” I said.

We grinned. We all looked at each other and grinned. Then we began laughing. We must have laughed for about three or four minutes, our arms wrapped around each other, just standing in a tight closed circle, unable to stop laughing, laughing until the tears ran down our cheeks.

The weather turned bright and clear that last week in August.

We took my father’s boat out every day, sailing to Violet’s island, listening to QXR or ABC, the three of us happily lounging on deck and soaking up sunshine, going in for a swim whenever we felt like it. We saw Rhoda again maybe once or twice before the summer ended, but then only casually at Mr. Porter’s or down on the dock, playing with the younger kids near the pilings. We always said hello to her, and she always answered shyly, her eyes turned away, “Hello,” her metal bands catching sunlight for just an instant before she ducked her head.

The Greensward season ended officially on Labor Day, but most of the summer people left the island on the Saturday or Sunday before. In fact, they had to run four additional ferries that Sunday to accommodate the heavy traffic. Our families caught the nine o’clock boat out, trotting down to the dock with the rest of the islanders, all of us looking like gypsies, carrying belongings wrapped in blankets, bulging suitcases, bird cages, bicycles — it was a regular exodus scene. The two fags, Stuart and Frankie, came running onto the dock at the very last minute, carrying Violet’s valises. Out of breath, wearing pendant earrings and white makeup, smelling of pumpkin, she allowed Stuart to help her aboard, and then stood on deck with both of them and waved tearfully at the island as the ferry horn sounded twice in warning.