She nodded slowly as if considering this.
Carmine took off his shoes and socks, then his pants, not pausing as she had to fold and place them carefully. He was only thinking of what he was about to have. The Garden of Eden. At last, he took off his own knickers and stood before her. He was proud of his dick, hard and full, ready.
Her mouth opened slightly as she stared openly at it. “It’s so ugly,” she said finally. He thought she might cry. Or change her mind. So he quickly took her hands and brought her down to the ground with him.
“You don’t have to look at it,” he whispered.
This seemed to make her feel better. Unsure of what to do next, Carmine pinched her nipples the way Angelo told him Anna liked for him to do.
“Ouch!” Anna said. “Don’t do that.”
Angelo had described the Garden of Eden as wet, so wet that his fingers moved in and out of it with a great slippery ease. But Carmine was having trouble entering Anna. He poked gently at the dry, tight hole he’d found between her legs.
“I don’t like this,” she whispered, and he glanced at her face for the first time and wondered how long she had been crying.
Surely if he didn’t get in there fast she was going to change her mind. Anna was whimpering now, murmuring, “This is terrible, I hate this, I hate you,” but Carmine kept pushing until something seemed to let go, and that wonderful wetness that Angelo had promised him was waiting there, flooded over him.
Truly, this was the most wonderful thing Carmine had ever felt. The warmth, the wetness, the flesh beneath him. He could, if he lay right on top of her, feel her hard nipples reaching up toward him. She was sobbing and he wished she would stop, but he didn’t say anything. He was too overwhelmed with this feeling. He heard her voice as if from far away telling him to hurry or to stop, please. But she was vanishing. It was just him and this place. Then he heard his own groaning and he pulled himself out of her just in time. The smell of rust and water and dirt filled him, and slowly he remembered she was there. He leaned over and kissed her softly on her mouth, tasting her tears.
“You have to really love someone to do that,” she said, her voice quivering.
“What if I have a baby?” she said. She was shaking now, her voice high and shrill.
“No,” he told her. “That’s why I came outside of you. The seeds have to go inside for a baby. After we get married,” he said, his voice proud, “I’ll come inside and we’ll have babies.”
Still, Anna couldn’t stop crying. The sky had turned completely dark, and there were no stars in it tonight.
As they dressed and walked back toward home, both of their legs trembling, Carmine wondered how he could leave now that he had this, and go to Coney Island. If he stayed, he could do this once, twice, even more every day. If he stayed, they could get married soon—next month! Sooner!—and he would be able to sleep with her every night, going to the Garden of Eden over and over. Nothing else mattered when he was in there. The mill, the noise, the darkness. Everything disappeared.
He was surprised to see people moving about in ordinary ways when they reached town. Men sat outside the barber shop, playing cards and drinking wine. On front porches, women fanned themselves, cleaned green beans, shelled peas, drank strong coffee. The sounds of children playing rang through the streets. A dog barked. Carmine saw all of these things, heard these sounds as if for the first time. He had never felt so alive. He squeezed Anna’s hand and was pleased when she squeezed his back.
“Let’s tell my parents we’re engaged,” she said. “Let’s tell everyone.”
“Now?” he said, surprised.
She looked at him, her eyes hard. “Now,” she said.
Carmine said, “Of course, of course.” Inside, he could expect hugs and slaps on the back, shots of anisette and the beginnings of plans.
He watched Anna run up the cement stairs to her house. “Come on,” she called to him over her shoulder.
He followed her up the stairs, through the front door. Tomorrow, he would go to Coney Island.
...
IF HE DID everything just right, then he earned Eva Peretsky.
“I’m here,” he would whisper, and her face would appear in front of him in his small, dark room. He would hold on to his penis firmly but not move yet. First, he would spend the night with Eva.
“I can see that,” she’d say. He loved her voice. It was husky, like Greta Garbo’s, and her Russian accent made sharp cuts in the air between them. She said all of her w’s like v’s. You vill like this, she’d say. I vant you, she’d whisper.