knees. Keep an eye on the fingers to see what they're doing. Don't let the golden moment go. Show her the long door back to town at the mercy of the chauffeur. He might look back through the green tinted glass, grinning. How would you like that Miss Martin. Here, you just retire to your little bedroom and I lie out in the big drawing room with the embers of the fire on my face. And sweet dreams. In your little beddy bo you will be comfy save for the giant spiders. Harmless creatures though huge. And when you scream running into me in your nightgown. Of course I'll save and protect you.
"Mr. Smith what are you thinking."
"I was thinking, Miss Martin, such a pity for you to go back to town. You do need a rest so. Few days in the fresh air. Away from the grime, dust and dirt of the city. You look tired. But I don't want to distress you. If you feel being out here will in some way make you unhappy. I wouldn't want that."
"God."
"What, Miss Martin."
"My mother will kill me. She'll ask me the name of the people. Then she'll look them up in the phone book. Then she'll telephone them and ask if I maybe left my gloves there or something. Mr. Smith, I'm scared."
"Now now."
"I am."
"Vouchsafe."
"What do you mean."
"I don't know myself Miss Martin. I'm just saying the first thing that comes into my head. What can one say."
"I don't know I feel you're an operator."
"I beg your pardon."
"That there's been a whole string of girls up here, or something like that."
"What are you saying, Miss Martin. You've seen the entrance. Overgrown. Besides I think that's a little uncalled for."
"Don't send me back with this chauffeur."
Miss Martin sitting. A frozen silence. Her eye lids go up. And I think I just catch her teeth pressing secretly into the lower lip. But by God I am dying to protect her. Save her from harm and loneliness. From fear of the future. That she should ever want or need. Or go without shoes. Butter or wholesome bread. Lies often have beauty.
"Miss Martin give me your hand."
Smith patting the sad metacarpals. Giving them back, gathered as they are in their white softness of flesh, a tender blue vein to keep them all alive. Smile. Help her out of the car. Herbert popping back from the woods to carry items to the cabin. Can't beat Herbert.
Under the low leaves. Smith struggling with the stiff lock on the door. Finally putting shoulder to it and smashing it open. Herbert and Miss Martin amazed at this casual display of forcefulness from the slender Smith.
All shifted. All unpacked. Herbert saluting. One smile followed with a little bow. Car roaring, then purring quietly. Disappearing out under the awning of new maple leaves, crackling tiny dead branches on the road. Sun high up. Dancing on top of the green.
In the log cabin. On the brown mat on the entrance floor. Next to the little pantry full of dishes, and tin cans of food. Lay a white envelope. Smith putting his armful of files on the stove. Miss Martin pushing past, stepping over it. Smith picking it up with the tweezering fingers. Ripping it open. One look. Ah Jesus, it was a sad day some fuckpig picked up a twig and made a sign in the sand.
We reiterate that
a sufficiency
is enough under
this heading.
George Smith
The Cabin (Log)
The Open Woods.
Dear Sir,
We know you are dying to know how we know you are here.
Yours truly,
J. J.J. (Rural)
P.S. Just wait till the full history is told.
"Mr. Smith, you mustn't get upset."
"Miss Martin. Ah Jesus."
"Come sit on the chair."
"Get your pencil poised, Miss Martin. Got to rattle something back. Attach it to a tortoise and send it on its way. Ready."
"Yes Mr. Smith."
"Dear Sir and rural Junior. Your fly is open. Yours sincerely, George Smith. Urban. P.S. Is your real name Wang."
Miss Martin pressing her pencil on the white porcelain kitchen stove. Writing with her upsidedown left hand. Looks up. A smile at the deflated Smith legs akimbo on the kitchen chair. Head lolling on chest.
"Mr. Smith."
"I'm all right, Miss Martin. Just assuming this attitude for a few moments. I'll rear up once again I assure you. For a minute it's just nice to sit here, slain in battle, as the heart beats its last, pluck one final arrow out of whatever they keep them in, and twang, let it loose to find its way to