Yellow Mesquite by John J. Asher Page B

stood up and saluted.

    IN ADDITION TO the front entrance, there were two rear entrances to the big sprawling Victorian, but only the rear entrance by way of the kitchen was open to roomers. The other entrance led to Aunt Grace’s private quarters.  
    At seven o’clock he stood before this entrance, braced himself and knocked. Aunt Grace opened the door and ushered him inside. “Come on in,” she said, beaming over her glasses.
    “Hello,” he muttered, entering a small foyer. A tall piece of hall furniture with an oval mirror stood against the wall among old sepia photos in oval frames. The piece had a low seat with little compartments on either side containing an umbrella and rubber boots. On the seat were neatly stacked copies of Reader’s Digest and The Baptist Standard .
    Aunt Grace ushered him into her living area. Again the fine old furniture was impressive. The house must have been something in its day, and he tried to imagine Aunt Grace as a young girl, lighthearted and with a young girl’s dreams. Now the rooms smelled vaguely of Vicks salve and furniture wax. He felt sad for her, a loveless woman reduced to taking in boarders. He wondered what it must have been like that first day, moving the best of everything to these private rooms before hanging out the first vacancy sign.
    “Nice place—” he began, then almost lost his voice as an auburn-haired willow limb of a girl with a light flush of freckles across her nose swept into the room.
    “This is my niece, Sherylynne. Sherylynne, Harley, the nice young man I told you about.”
    The girl dipped her chin, a flash-smile as her eyes locked with his for the briefest moment and they took each other in. His senses scrambled. He could hardly breathe.
    “Nice to meet you,” he managed.
    “Nice to meet you, too.” Her voice flooded him like a drug.  
    She wore a white sleeveless dress and flats. Her hair was dark and hung down long in back. Her eyes were full of light, though he saw now that her left cheek was faintly discolored, a pale lavender with a tinge of yellow. She saw that he saw and lowered her gaze. Still, she came toward him, dreamy, fluid, disjointed, her body parts seeming to move independent of one another. Her hand floated up and he took it, certain she could feel his pulse pounding through his fingers.
    “Sherylynne, you best take a sweater,” Aunt Grace was saying. “It may be chilly out there in that Cotton Bowl.”
    “Yes, my sweater.” Sherylynne flashed him another quick smile. He wanted to laugh out loud. He wanted to grab Aunt Grace and hug her neck—he wanted to calm down so as not to make a fool of himself.
    He and Sherylynne played sneak-a-look-and-smile around Aunt Grace in the Cotton Bowl all evening, and when at the end of Billy Graham’s sermon hundreds of people were pouring out of the stands to be saved and rededicate their lives, Harley felt a little guilty because he hadn’t heard a word the man said. He didn’t feel guilty enough not to take Sherylynne’s hand when Aunt Grace got up and trundled down onto the field to make a public rededication of her own. Sherylynne’s leg wandered against his. They smiled into each other’s eyes—full of mystery, full of promise—and kept a sharp lookout for Aunt Grace.

    THE NEXT EVENING they exchanged secret glances across the dinner tables. After dessert they said good night to Aunt Grace and took the bus downtown to the movies, leaving Aunt Grace clucking pleasantly to herself. Later that night, he and Sherylynne stood just inside the open garage under the women’s quarters. Laundry hung on lines above two washing machines and two dryers against the back wall. They kissed until his mouth was sore, pressed against each other until his pecker was raw from rubbing against Sherylynne’s pubic bone.  
    From the house, Aunt Grace turned on the garage light.

    THE FOLLOWING EVENING they took a walk, leaving Aunt Grace with a thin smile and a worry line across her forehead.