Page 59

He raised his head hopefully. "You don't think badly ofme?"

"Of course not. Why shouldn't a mother and a son comfort and love each other?"

"Even if I pretended to need the comfort just so she would come to me?"

"I guess so," I said, not quite understanding.

"I'd open the door a little," he said, "and then I would return to my bed and lay here, curled up like this." He spread himself out and folded into the fetal position. "And I'd start to whimper." He made the small sounds to illustrate. "Just go over to the door," he said. "Go ahead. Please."

I did so, the pitter-patter of my heart growing stronger, faster, as his actions and words became more confusing. "Open it," he said. "I want to hear the hinges squeak."

"Why?"

"Please," he begged, so I did so. He looked so happy. "Then I would hear her say, 'Louis? Darling? Are you crying, dear?'

"Yes, Mommy,' I would tell her.

"Don't cry, dear,' she would say." He hesitated and turned his head in my direction. "Would you say that to me? Please?" he asked me.

I was silent.

"Please," he pleaded.

Feeling foolish and a bit frightened now, I did so. "Don't cry, dear."

"I can't help it, Mommy." He held his hand out. "Take my hand," he begged. "Just take it."

"Louis, what . . ."

"I just want to show you. I want you to know and to tell me what you think."

I took his hand and he pulled me toward him.

"Just lay down beside me for a moment. Just a moment. Pretend you're my mother. I'm your little Louis. Pretend."

"But why, Louis?"

"Please," he said, holding my hand even tighter. I sat on the bed and he drew me down toward him.

"She would come just like this and I would stroke her shoulder as she would stroke my hair and kiss my face, and then she would let my hand run down over her breasts," he said, running his hand over mine, "so I could feel her heartbeat and be comforted. It was what she wanted me to do. I did only what she wanted me to do! Was that wrong? Was it?"

"Louis, stop," I pleaded. "You're torturing yourself with these memories."

"Then she would put her hand here," he said, seizing my right wrist and bringing it between his legs, where he had already begun to grow hard. I pulled my hand away as if I had touched fire.

The tears were streaming down his cheeks now.

"And my father. he came in on us one day and he grew very angry with both of us and then he had the door locked and if I should cry or complain, he would come in and beat me with a leather strap. Once he did it so much. I had welts over my legs and back and my mother had to put salve over my body afterward, and then she tried to make me feel good again.

"But I couldn't and she became very unhappy too. She thought I had stopped loving her," he said, his face changing into an expression of fury. Then his lips began to tremble as he struggled to bring the words out of them, words that had haunted him. In a gush, he blurted, "So she tried to make another boy her son and my father found out."

He seized my hand with both his hands and brought it to his lips and his face, caressing the back of my hand with his cheeks.

"I've never told anyone that, not even my doctor, but I can't stand keeping it all inside me anymore. It's like having a hive of bees in your stomach and chest. I'm sorry I brought you here and made you listen . I'm sorry."

"It's all right, Louis," I said, stroking his hair with my other hand. "It's all right."

His sobbing grew harder. I put my arms around him and held him close as he cried. Finally he grew quiet and still. I lowered his head to the pillow, but when I let go of his hand, he seized mine again.