J. Donleavy - A Singular Man

"Can I call you George now, George."

"No."

Miss Martin stiffened in Smith's arms. As she tried to get up. Her eyes opening wide. Pressing her elbows between the two bodies. Forcing Smith back.

"Don't touch me."

"Why."

"I'm as good as you are."

"No you're not Miss Martin."

"I want to get out of here."

"There's the door."

Miss Martin standing. Looking down at Smith lying there prostrate looking up. Teeth clenched inside her mouth. Fists held out from her sides white and tight. Raises them up. Shakes them down. Breasts trembling. Tide of tan round them and her thighs from last summertime. Eyes blazing.

"You deliberately got me up here."

"Sit down Miss Martin."

"Don't Miss Martin me. You bastard."

Smith cool faced. But wincing in the heart. Tell a fact and they fling back epithets. Give warmth and they wrap you in a chain. Behind her on the twin bunk, the file marked go. Which I thought in all my acute innocence would speed us into the solar system. Instead of being grateful they turn on you. Wretched left out world it is. Miss Martin troubled by how good she is. Of course you're not, Miss Martin. As good as me. I tell you for your own sake. To save you airs. The whole world will tear off you. With insults. Come now, no churlishness. Women lie and cheat twist and steal. Can't help it. Nature gave them these little habits. To use when hubby takes off for the tundra or is drunk in bed. I need you Miss Martin. Please don't go. Stay. I want you to cover me up with your soft self. Keep me warm and safe. Another crackle of a twig. A sound. Of music strange out under the trees. She stands so still. Staring back. If you can stare I can stare Miss Martin. As long as you like. Stay here forever. Unwavering eyes. Stony globes. I'm as honest as you can get. That's why Miss Martin I ask for all this respect. And why I confound all those who stood faithfully waiting for my every little failure. While I sidestepped slowly away down the various little alleys of success. Brown eyes. You stare. I'll stare. You out Miss Martin. Be sure of that. Don't you feel chilly or at least foolish without a stitch. Nipples clutched up with cold. We can't keep this up forever. You must have won contests at this in high school. To find some chink in my spirit. That's it, you got to straighten up. Caught you staring bent over. O it won't be long now before you must avert the eyes. You morsel. All this wasted time I could be looking at the rest of you. Breasts geared to giving. Bush beneath the belly. So late now to meet Bonniface. Have Miss Martin call the Funeral Director of Cinder Village for the hire of a car. Or ha ha hearse. She's breaking. Saw that flicker of the lid. Nervous moment there with the lip. Jesus Christ. Miss Martin. Catching her breath. Turning clutching her arms around her. Splickety lick for the bedroom.

George Smith turning. There featured in the window. Dimly beyond the copper screen. The thin face. The smile. Little black comb with a piece of paper held. To take the blowing of musical air. Rumpled green shirt. Loose brown jacket. Slender green tie. Cedric Calvin Bonniface Clementine. The awful. Bonniface.

"My Gawd."

Smith rubbing his eyes. Pulling up the sheet somewhat over the naked parts. As the grin on Bonniface widened behind the comb. And the music continued. Smith rose. Smiling, crossing the floor to greet and say hello and how could you find the hidden cabin. How did you get from Cinder Village. I trust you are not utterly banjaxed. Cast up on the shore. God forgive dreadful things that happen aboard those steamers.

Smith stepping near the window. Stopping at the screen. All that is here. Just some greenery of leaves. And bushes. And no Bonniface at all. At all. And I've insulted Miss Martin. And who was at that window. Who. Miss Martin saw something too. And I heard.

Smith opening and leaning out the door. Looking this way and that. All ending in green. Something spooky out here. Some man roams mad. Stands about. Mooning. Making gestures. Carving things on the trees. I swear I saw that face. That smile. I'm shivering. Cold sweat. There's something out in the woods. I must quickly make friends again with Miss Martin. Before I lose every vestige of nerve. And that thing comes in and gets me.

Smith in the sheet. Grasped up round the shoulders. Crossing to the bedroom door. First peeking in the bathroom. And the empty space under the tub. In the cupboard. On the shelves. Where. That unblessed visage. The Bonniface. Or is the loneliness here too much. Or the staring contest with Miss Martin. The general feeling spreads that the world is rampant with mischief.

Knocking on Miss Martin's door. Once. Twice. O Gawd. Not a sound in there. Please Miss Martin I beg of you show some sign of life. Zip up. Make a noise. Even bust wind if you must. Make it mystical.

"Miss Martin."

George Smith stood rigid. Ready and frozen. For some hand to be placed without warning on the back. Reaching out of the silence. Hair stands up wiggling on the neck. Miss Martin believe me when I say you are worth ten of me. Or eight anyway. I'm lowdown. Without references. No business heading. No tide under my name. Just a vague fixed address which is beginning to move. Gawd. Standing here. Three miles to the first civilization. The house by the road with seven kids and one thin mommie.

Smith in the white toga. First in fear. Now in fever. Heart jumping all over the chest. Turning to the black defenceless telephone. Must have transport. Wrap up files and get out fast. Take the deer track. Dare not look in on Miss Martin in case she's transubstantiated.

Get on this talking machine.

"Operator."

"Number please."

"Brandy."

"Number please."

"Brandy, funeral director, Cinder Village, please operator."

"Why didn't you say so."

"I've just said so."

"Has there been a death."

"None of your damn business."

"O."

Smith decidedly executive. Toga drawn tightly. Leaning back against the wall. The soothing voice of Mr. Brandy any second now. Unless he's out busy. Ah. George Smith here, Mr. Brandy, I'm fine, nice day, how are you. Good, nice day, that's splendid. No. Haven't seen the new sign yet. Could you send a car. Instantly. That's splendid. O you read that. Don't believe all you read, Mr. Brandy. And could you have your driver get here as fast as he can. And send another man with him. Fine. Yes, nice day. Bye. Bye.

Times in one's life requiring unprecedented action. And on this rural sun dappled Saturday morning, take a few steps back. Raise each knee to test the suppleness. Bend to touch the toes. Eye the door. I will go through that thin pathetic pine. Like a steam train. Splinters flying. Panels asunder. Ere that ghost out there flitting between the trees. Will get a goodly taste of poison ivy.

Smith charged. Leading with the left shoulder. Hooking with the right. Brave bull. Feet nicely grasping all traction from the maple floor. Lightly flying with a thunderous crash through the door. Which shattered, fell to the floor. Hinges ripped. Screws flying. Smith on top. Miss Martin lying stretched on the bunk head buried beneath pillow. Oblivious to this stalwart. Sometime stallion.

Miss Martin, please understand the meaning of Bonniface. Proud culprit. Unconvicted world traveller sporting the canvas boots. Collector of second hand gravestones and urinals in quantity. Foot stamper, shouter and singer of the threnody. As one hears things strangely on the air. A voice out there in the woods. Faint. High pitched. Echoing far away from the other side of Worrisome River.

Jews and jailbirds

Bad news

Urinals and gravestones

Thrice used.

GEORGE Smith telling Miss Martin to get dressed. To stand up and face life like a woman. Forget keeping a face on things. Put on your grey dress. Buy you a beer in Cinder Village. Here, have a little tender hug. Mr. Brandy is sending a car. We will meet Bonniface. This nice day.