| Herb ’n’ Lorna (A Love Story) | by Eric Kraft, as Peter Leroy |
| Chapter 11: | |
| In Which Curiosity Leads Herb and Lorna to a Misunderstanding |
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 T
MAY AND GARTH’S WEDDING, Herb was best man, Lorna was matron of honor,
and Ella was flower girl. As a wedding gift, Garth gave May a cottage
on the beach.
At that time, the narrow barrier beach across Bolotomy Bay from Babbington was only sparsely developed. Strung along the bay side were a few shacks, shelters for clamdiggers, where they could get out of the weather when the weather was foul, stay close to their work when the clamming was good, or hide out among their fellows when the door was locked at home. Attracted by the carefree bohemianism that a shack on the beach suggested, a few people who were not clamdiggers bought shacks, but since life in a shack is more rough than romantic, they enlarged and civilized them into weekend outposts of their mainland homes, where on weekends they led barefoot versions of their mainland lives. Among the clammies, this stretch of shacks had no real name; most called it “over south,” as in: “Where’s Bitzer these days? Haven’t seen him in a week or more.” “He’s holed up over south. The woman locked him out, you know.”
Clamdigger known as Bitzer,
with two baskets of clams,
However, to the people who thought of their cottages
as retreats, where they might escape the cares, routines, conventions,
and restrictions of life in town, “over south” was “the beach.”
Oh, nobody called it Newsome’s. If there had been a sign, it should have said “Nosy’s.” But Nosy wouldn’t have liked that. Not a bit. That bar was just a scream. Mr. Newsome—he ran it—had been a schoolteacher and a prizefighter, or an amateur boxer anyway. He wanted everyone to call him Mr. Newsome, but everyone called him Nosy, because he had a big broken nose pushed flat on his face. Nosy Newsome. Well, at first the bar was just too quiet. It was dull. Then one evening I said, “Mr. Newsome, I’m going to make a contribution to the atmosphere in this establishment: I’m going to give you my piano.” Well, I had an old upright in the cottage—not very good, but a piano. It was a grand gesture—giving the piano to Nosy. There was applause. I took bows. It’s talked about to this day. I suppose it is. The piano is still there. I think. I haven’t been to Nosy’s for years. I don’t think it’s even called Nosy’s now. Well, that doesn’t matter, does it? Oh, anyway, a dozen fellows went right over and carried the piano from the cottage to the bar. Well, they didn’t actually carry it the whole way—they pushed it quite a bit—did it have little wheels?—I think so. I rode on top. We were all a little drunk. Well, we got it into the bar, and we sang some songs and danced, but we had to dance outside, on the boardwalk, because there wasn’t enough room for a piano and dancing.The beach was a wonderful place. It offered the pleasures of sea and sand and bay and the entertainments of people at their ease who are dependent on themselves and one another for their amusements. The clammies welcomed the vacationers, since they were open-handed and their pockets were deep. They liked to have a good time and did. It was the prosperous and fun-loving Babbingtonians who bought shacks and spruced them up, or built new cottages. They enjoyed the insularity, the loose, unbuttoned life, and one another’s company. They knew the same songs, the same dances, the same jokes, the same bootleggers. Herb and Lorna and Garth and May spent a lot of happy hours at the beach. A couple of cottages away from May’s was one owned by a couple with a small boy called Tippy, who was two years older than Ella. He was spoiled, willful, selfish, and nasty. Ella fell in love with him. She and Tippy were together for hours at a time, and Tippy teased and provoked her relentlessly, but she always came back for more, and she pressed little gifts on Tippy—toys of her own, candies, kisses. Snapshots from those days show Lorna and May on a blanket, chatting, Ella dozing beside them, Lorna’s hand resting on the small of Ella’s back; May lying on the sand in the sun, reading The Bridge of San Luis Rey; Ella and Tippy building a sand castle, Tippy raising a shovel threateningly, Ella smiling; Herb, Lorna, and May sitting in white wicker chairs around a card table in the cottage, rain streaking the windows, anagram tiles on the table, condensation on their drink glasses running down in wandering droplets, Garth’s chair pushed aside, not to block the camera; May in a wide-brimmed straw hat; Garth striking a pose in a woolen bathing suit, saluting the viewer with his upraised glass; Garth with his arm around a succession of young women guests; Ella walking along the boardwalk between Herb and Lorna or between Garth and May; Lorna holding Ella in the surf; Herb holding Ella in the surf; Garth holding May; Herb holding Lorna; Garth holding Lorna; Herb holding May. |
YOU CAN READ IT HERE, ONLINE, ONSCREEN, OR YOU CAN PRINT IT AND READ IT IN BED, OR, FOR MAXIMUM PORTABILITY AND CONVENIENCE WHEN READING ON THE BEACH OR IN THE TUB, YOU CAN BUY THE PICADOR USA PAPERBACK EDITION AT AMAZON.COM OR BARNES&NOBLE.COM. |
 HEN
GARTH turned thirty, May threw a birthday party for him on the beach.
Guests arrived in a festive little flotilla, their boats decked out in
bright bunting and paper streamers.
Oh, it was a perfect day, just a perfect day, perfect. Clear and hot, with a light breeze, just enough to keep one from sweating unattractively. We swam, of course, and we played some ball game or other—baseball, I suppose—and we played badminton, and we played tag. That was quite a lot of fun, tag. Delicious, really. You see we’d been drinking all day, and so there was a lot of hugging and squeezing and—well—fondling involved, and people would chase one another into the water, and—well—romp. Frolic. Gambol. When it began to get dark, we built a gorgeous bonfire. We played charades in the firelight, and then we ate. Lorna and I had arranged a marvelous clambake. After dinner, there was a certain amount of—well—drifting off. Couples began wandering off into the dunes or just into the dark, and—well. You’ll have to turn this off, Peter, this recorder. I’ll tell you the rest, and you may put it in, but you may not quote me.May wandered away from the fire, alone. She wanted to stretch her legs, look at the stars and moon, think, clear her head a bit. She walked to the water’s edge, where the foam shone with phosphorescent whiteness in the moonlight. It was so pretty that she wanted to call the others to come down there with her, to see what she saw, but the people around the fire were loud and animated, and just now she wanted quiet and calm. She saw Herb, standing apart, looking out into the darkness. If he were to come down to the edge of the water with her, alone, that would be fine, but she didn’t want to go back and ask him, or anyone else, to come and walk in the glowing foam with her. She kicked off her shoes and walked in the shallow water, kicking at it, making the bright foam scatter in front of her. She turned back, saw with surprise how small and isolated the fire and the group around it appeared, how large the sky and sea. She didn’t see Herb anywhere. She struck out for the dunes above the beach, where she could sit alone and watch the sea roll in under the moonlight. Atop a dune, she sat with her arms around her legs, watching. A figure was walking along the water’s edge, as she had. It was a man. Herb? He was directly in front of her now, and he had stopped. He was turning this way and that. Had he followed her? Was he looking for her now? He lit a cigarette, and May saw that it was Herb. She felt a ripple of curiosity and excitement. “Up here,” she called softly. “Up here, in the dunes.” She watched him walk toward her. She could read his walk, could see that the appearance of ease, even lack of interest, was false. She knew that he had followed her. He stopped, not quite sure which way to go. “Here,” she called again. He corrected his course. At the foot of her dune, he still couldn’t be sure where she was. “Here,” she said, in little more than a whisper. He looked up, and now he could see her. “Hi, May,” he said. He scrambled up the dune and sat beside her. “Looking for some peace and quiet?” she asked. “No, not really,” said Herb. “I was looking for you.” She put her hand on his, and he kissed her cheek. She felt a flutter of excitement. She wondered what Herb had in mind. Herb had begun to wonder, too. When he had followed May—and he had followed May—he hadn’t thought about his motive. Perhaps he had avoided thinking about his motive. Now that he was at May’s side, alone in the moonlight, hidden in the dunes, her presence so palpable and inviting, he felt a guilty thrill, and he asked himself what on earth he was up to. Lorna had seen May walk off into the darkness. She had seen Herb watch May go. From the way he watched her go, Lorna thought she could tell what he was thinking. When, just a while later, she saw him walk off, as if he had no other object than to see what the sky looked like from outside the circle of firelight, Lorna was sure she knew what he was up to. He was a little drunk, she knew, and might have forgotten his fetters. She felt a jab of jealousy and fear, and something that surprised her: curiosity. She had for years been exercising a professional sexual curiosity. Nearly every man she saw had been its object, some the objects of fleeting guesses, others of protracted speculation. Garth had been on her mind for quite a while. She acted on impulse. She walked to a group where Garth was telling an anecdote. She stood close and listened to him talk. She brushed against him, jostled him, as if accidentally, but she didn’t move away. She pressed her hip against him, and then her breast, still so lightly that it might be unintentional. When Garth finished, and the laughter was done, and someone else began another story, Lorna said, “I’m going to look at the stars,” and walked away. Garth wondered whether that was an invitation. From Lorna? It didn’t seem likely. Still, there was a possibility. He waited a bit, and then said, to no one in particular, “I think I’ll fix myself another drink,” and walked off, out into the dark, toward the water. He found Lorna looking out to sea, letting the water wash over her feet. “Hello,” he said. “Hello,” she said. She held her hand out to him. “Let’s walk a little.” They walked along in the direction opposite to the one May and Herb had taken, holding hands and talking about the luminous sea. Garth put his arm around Lorna’s waist. She put hers around his. They walked slowly, attentive to the pleasure of feeling their bodies touch. Then Garth stopped, turned Lorna toward him, and kissed her. It was much as she had imagined. They embraced, and Lorna ran her hands along the long muscles in Garth’s back, making mental notes. He pushed himself against her, Lorna noted his tumescence, and a very specific problem arose: Lorna was enjoying herself. May put her head on Herb’s shoulder. “I wondered what you were up to,” she said. “I saw you walking along the edge of the water and I said to myself, ‘He wanted to be alone for a while, like me,’ and then I said, ‘Maybe he came to look for me.’ ” “Do you want me to leave you alone?” May looked into his face and grinned. “No,” she said. “I want you to stay here.” She kissed him. She likes to lead, he thought. She likes a man who follows her lead. If I were animating her, I’d put her on top. And I’d make her very lively. And clever. Clever? Maybe not. But daring. I’ve always thought she would be daring. I wonder— The opportunity to test a hypothetical animation was at hand. Herb was thrilled, thrilled twofold, intellectually and sexually. The sexual thrill made him feel guilty, made him feel that he ought to go. The intellectual thrill made him want to stay. May began unbuttoning his shirt. Garth heard the nervousness in Lorna’s laugh. “Second thoughts?” he asked. “Oh, yes,” said Lorna. “Many.” “You’re lovely in the moonlight,” he said. As luck would have it, this dangerous moment was one of those when the moonlight brought out Lorna’s astonishing beauty. She was in water up to her waist; Garth was nearer shore, the wavelets rhythmically hid and exposed him, his penis bobbing in the moonlight. Lorna hugged herself to hide her breasts. “Oh, Garth, stop.” She noted his bobbing penis. Like a little fish, she thought, swimming in front of him. “Well, you are,” said Garth. “Put your arms down—I want to see you.” “No. Let’s get dressed, I—” Garth put his finger to his lips and shushed her. He waded toward her, slowly, slowly, and she let her lips part and her arms fall. Closer, closer. He reached out for her, embraced her, drew her toward him. Something poked at her underwater. A fish? No, silly, it’s Garth. She brushed at it and touched it. Garth’s penis. But the fish idea wouldn’t leave. She grabbed it, underwater, and palpated it, running her hand the length of it, investigating with her fingers, noting details. “Oh, Lorna, Lorna,” said Garth. He surprised her. For a moment she had been aware of only part of him. “It’s like a fish,” she said, without thinking. “What?” She let go of it, and laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just—” She put her hand over her mouth, still laughing. “Just for a second, I thought it was a fish.” “Lorna—” said Garth. “Garth, would you—” She thought, Would you be willing to—just stand still—on the sand, where I can see you—and let me see you—and touch you? I’m just—curious. Just curious. “Yes?” “Would you—.” “Do you want to do something unusual? Don’t be embarrassed. We can do it any way you want. Do you want to do it here, in the water? I’ll be Neptune, and you can be a mermaid. How do mermaids make love, do you think?” Make love? Oh, Garth, I don’t want to make love. I just want to— “Oh, Garth, could we just get dressed and go back? This is—foolish. Really. Isn’t it?” “Thank you, my dear.” “Oh, Garth, I don’t mean you. I mean me. I feel foolish—silly—and I wish you’d help me out of this—this spot I’ve gotten into.” “Well—” “Please, Garth. Please.” “All right,” said Garth. He waded toward shore. Over his shoulder, he said, “Don’t look, now.” “Oh, I intend to look very closely,” said Lorna. “Ahhh—” Garth turned toward Lorna again. “But that’s all,” said Lorna. Unless you’d be willing to let me just—poke around a little. Garth walked back to his pile of clothes and began dressing. Lorna watched. Herb ran the tips of his fingers over May’s breasts. I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t do this. But I want to see her move, I want to see what she does. I want to see how she does it. But Lorna—what will I say to Lorna? May pushed him, nudging him onto his back. “You just lie back,” she said. “I want to do something to you.” I knew it. He flopped onto his back, ready, eager. This is going to be great. Fascinating. May ran the tip of her tongue the length of his penis. Interesting. This is going to be very—she straddled him—very hard to tell Lorna. “May?” She brought him to her and inserted him, just barely. “Mmmm?” “I want to go back, May.” She lowered herself, just a bit. “Why?” “Because I’m—scared.” Just a bit more. “Of me?” “Of you. Of me. I shouldn’t have followed you.” She stopped. “Gee, mister, you got me all warmed up, and now you’re going to walk out on me? Just feel how fast my heart’s beating.” She took his hand and pressed it to her breast, and as she did so she let herself settle on him. “May—” Please let me go. Please don’t let me go. “I see you smiling. You don’t want to go.” “No, I don’t.” I do. I don’t. She began rocking, ever so slightly. “Stop. Hey, May. Stop that.” Don’t stop. Stop. “Please, May.” “You mean it, don’t you?” “Yeah. I do.” “Oh, Herb, you’re sweet. You know that? Come on, we’ll go back.” She lifted herself up, so abruptly that they slurped in disengaging. She giggled. “Thanks, May.” “You’re sure now?” “I’m sure—I think.” “All right. We’ll go back. Where are my shoes?” Garth took Lorna’s arm suddenly and held her back, before they returned to the firelight. “Lorna, wait a minute. I want to ask you something.” “What?” “It wasn’t me, was it?” “Oh, no. It wasn’t you. It was me.” “Do you think that, if things had been different, you would have—” “I’m sure I would have.” “Thanks. I was afraid it was me.” He threw his arm around her, and she threw hers around him, and they returned to the firelight laughing. Herb took May’s arm and held her back, before they returned to the firelight. “May,” said Herb, “before we go back, I want to—I want to tell you—” “You’re not changing your mind, are you? You want another chance?” “No, no.” “Oh, you don’t want another chance.” “Oh, I do—” “You do want another chance. All right, let’s—” “That’s not what I meant. You’re teasing me. You know that wasn’t what I meant to say. I meant that—if things had been different—I—I would—I would have loved to—” “Oh, Herb, thank you! That’s very nice. I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. I’ll remember that forever: ‘If things had been different—I—I would—gosh—oh, gee.’ ” “Aw, May.” She gave him a cuff on the ear. “Let’s get a drink,” she said, and she took his hand and ran off toward the fire, calling, “Let’s go down to the bar, everybody, and wake up old Nosy.” They came back into the circle of firelight just as Lorna and Garth did. Lorna and Garth walked into the firelight with their arms around each other, flushed, a little out of breath, laughing. When Herb saw them, they looked like lovers to him. Lorna saw Herb and May run into the light hand in hand, flushed, a little out of breath, laughing. They looked like lovers to her. As Proust probably says somewhere: How surprising we find it that, numbered among the many attendants of Love, we do not always find Understanding, the pervasive understanding which we suppose ought to be a prominent member of the procession of Venus. We suppose, and certainly it seems to us perfectly reasonable so to suppose, that love begets, among the many offspring that we suppose it to beget, Understanding, and, so well do we convince ourselves that in so supposing we are correct, we persist in believing that we must be correct, even when we are confronted with contradicting evidence, as a blind man, who, feeling on his face a comforting warmth he takes to be the familiar effect of the sun, walks in the direction he supposes to be sunward and persists in his mistaken belief that he feels on his cheeks not the calescence of a terrestrial fire toward which he advances but the radiance of the sun, and still persists even when, at the last instant, benevolent hands prevent him from walking into a heap of flaming fagots.And if he does say that somewhere, then, as is sometimes the case, Proust is right. Love sometimes leads to misunderstandings. Neither Herb nor Lorna ever said a word about that night. Neither dared ask, “Did you—?” Neither dared say, “I was just curious, you see—” Lorna supposed that she understood what Herb had done and why, and Herb supposed that he understood what Lorna had done and why. Each loved the other too much to ask for an explanation, so they provided their own. Each was too timid to ask for a description, so they provided their own. They were faithful to each other for the rest of their lives, and each forgave the other for that lone transgression, which they blamed on the heat of the moment, supposing that heat to be not the heat of knowledge’s flickering lamp, but of lust’s consuming flame. |
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Herb ’n’Lorna is published in paperback by Picador, a division of St. Martin's Press, at $13.00. You should be able to find Herb ’n’ Lornaat your local bookstore, but you can also order it by phone from: Bookbound at 1-800-959-7323You can order it on the Web from
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LITTLE
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Herb ’n’Lorna copyright © 1988 by Eric Kraft Herb ’n’Lorna is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, dialogues, settings, and businesses portrayed in it are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. First published by Crown Publishers, Inc., 201 East 50th Street, New York, New York 10022. Member of the Crown Publishing Group. Now available in paperback from Picador USA, a division of St. Martin’s Press. The illustration at the top of the page is an adaptation of an illustration
by Stewart Rouse that first appeared on the cover of the August 1931 issue
of Modern Mechanics and Inventions. The boy at the controls of the
aerocycle doesn’t particularly resemble Peter Leroy—except, perhaps, for
the smile.
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