“No,” I said.

She didn’t ask anymore, but underlying everything, I think there’s still that wonder. This is the truth: Where Ernest is concerned, I keep my hands to myself. He’s not interested in me anyway. He’s Catherine’s—I mean, the shit he puts up with to stay with her, he’d have to be hers, wouldn’t he?

You can’t control the shit you dream though. Once I dreamed I was standing out on the terrace, and he came up behind me and pulled my skirt up.

“ ‘Don’t let cowboys fool ya’?” he said.

“That’s not my story; that’s the other broad’s story,” I said.

“I’m better than that.”

“Catherine doesn’t have to know.”

He pulled my panties down.

“Do you like my floppy disk?”

“I don’t want her directing any of her harm toward me.”

“Coward.”

“Don’t let cowards fool ya.”

“I love you.”

“No, you don’t; you love Catherine. Go in there and tell her; don’t be a shithead.”

“Tell me you love me too.”

“I can’t tell you I love you. I haven’t been through enough shit with you to tell you that. You’ve been through too much shit with Catherine not to love her.”

“Call me your love.”

“I’ll call you my friend, lover.”

He fucks me while I hold onto the white, stone rails.

Like I said, you can’t control the shit you dream.

“Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me, anyone else but me.”

“Let him alone; he’s my dream man,” says Catherine.

Then she is watching, a toothpick stuck in her jaw.

Next thing we’re in the bedroom and I’m the one with the toothpick stuck in my jaw and watching.

“Sit under my apple tree,” sings Catherine.

Now she’s spreadeagled on the bed. Now she pulls off her champagne-colored Danskin bra and Lady Jockey drawers.

“No, you sit under mine,” he says.

So he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, and Catherine’s giving him head. So I’m standing in the door picking my teeth and watching.

“Aren’t you afraid?” I ask.

Catherine turns her head and grins at me; she’s all teeth. Then she turns back, head dancing between his legs.

“I mean because she’s all teeth.”

“No, I’m not afraid. She’s well-bred.”

“Want some?” Catherine asks.

“No,” I say.

“Come on, let’s eat him up.”

“No thanks.”

“You know you can tell a man’s age by the number of rings around his cock. Look at all these grooves! He’s old, kiddo.”

She makes those slurping noises like you read in those erotic comix. He rubs the top of her head, strokes it; beads of sweat on the back of her neck, in the corners of his eyebrows. James Brown in the background singing, “It’s a man’s world . . . uhn uhn uhn.

“You ought to try some, better than a toothpick,” Catherine says, holding it delicately between her thumb and little finger. She licks the very tip of it, then she rises.

“You see, there wasn’t anything to fear,” says Ernest.