Red Sky at Morning (24 page)

"Well, I'm glad he's finally getting around to spreading some facts around here. Remember that sex hygiene movie a couple of years ago? About the Mother Egg and the Father Seed?"

"Yeah, and those endless pictures of salmon moving up the Columbia River with leers on their faces."

"I'll never forget it," Marcia said. "I wasn't so worried about boys, but I was afraid to go swimming for six months."

"I want you and the other girls to play your hearts out on the hockey field today," he said. "I want you to come in too pooped to think dirty thoughts. If that doesn't work on you strumpets, we're going to the Manual Arts building and turn out a few dozen chastity belts on the lathe. As I understand it, you're all a bunch of unclean vessels."

At the assembly that afternoon, Ratoncito gave it to us as straight as he could, in spite of the coarse laughter that kept bubbling out of his audience.

"Now you all know the Facts of Life," he began, "because as a regular part of the curriculum we show a film on . . . uh . . . reproduction and . . . uh . . . sex. This information is supposed to prepare you for the state of marriage which comes later—
much
later—when your schooling is finished.

"However, it has come to my attention that . . . uh . . . a few students have been . . . uh . . . anticipating the marriage ceremony and have actually been . . . uh . . . engaging in—I know this will shock you, but I'm going to say it—sex practices. Yes, sex practices! It's too revolting to think about, but it's the truth."

"What does he expect from a bunch of horny adolescents?" Steenie whispered. "Madrigal singing?"

"The administrator of St. Boniface Hospital has kindly lent us a film which they use in nurse training. I must warn you that this is a very . . . uh . . .
graphic
film, and it was only when I assured him of the urgency of the problem that he let the school borrow it. It is an adult film for professional medical people, and I don't want any laughing or giggling out of you.

"Before we show the film, Dr. Arthur Temple, one of the leading psychiatrists in the West, has a few words to say to you about the . . . uh . . . dangers of . . . uh . . . this sort of thing from the mental standpoint. Dr. Temple, are you . . . uh. . . ."

The doctor, who had been sitting in the front row, climbed the steps to the stage and stood in front of the microphone peering at us owlishly through his horn-rims.

"Hello, boys and girls," he said to the all-male audience. "I say girls because some of you, whether you know it yet or not, have a preponderance of female emotional characteristics and will someday be, if you have not already become, homosexuals. Or, as you would say, fruits. This is nothing to worry about. This is perfectly normal and, according to some statistics which I have developed, at least thirty-four per cent of you . . . ."

"I think Ratoncito got the wrong boy for this lecture," Steenie said to me.

". . . to orgasm by various means, including. . . ."

"He's trying out one of his books on us," Steenie went on. "He used to get them published in Europe by the same company that puts out stuff like 'The Sailor in the Sultan's Harem.' "

". . . intercrural as opposed to oral. . . ."

"My God, he's giving directions up there."

"But that is all quite beside the point in the present circumstances, which, as Mr. Alexander has explained to me, involve experimental heterosexual contact resulting in pregnancy. I would like first to point out that sexual experimentation is perfectly normal and healthy. It is in fact beneficial. There is little doubt that many of the present ills that afflict the world, including the present war, which has made it impossible for European firms to publish significant psychiatric textbooks, spring from the repression of normal sexual activity.

"The illicit pregnancies that have come to our attention, however unfortunate they may be for the young women who had the bad luck to be born in a restrictive culture, are obviously the result of furtive and doubtless unskilled behavior. The acts were probably performed hastily and in secret, with feelings of nervousness beforehand and guilt afterwards. As any reputable physician will tell you, these are the most damaging circumstances possible. The immediate and inevitable results, aside from unwanted pregnancy, are neurotic fears of punishment by authority and revulsion for man's most emotionally rewarding experience."

From where we sat, Steenie and I could see Ratoncito in the wings, red in the face again, making wild gestures at Dr. Temple, who ignored him. None of the Mouse's assemblies seemed to go the way he liked.

"It is criminal, yes it is
criminal,
to place social barricades across the adolescent's path to sexual happiness. From the day he is born, perhaps even
in utero,
the human is a sexually oriented animal, and any attempt to instill fear or hesitation in his natural drives is the work of a sadist. This regrettable incident would never have happened if the students had been properly instructed in sexual techniques and the use of contraceptive devices."

Ratoncito, his frantic gestures at the speaker proving useless, bounced onto the stage from the wings, holding his hands above his head and applauding. "Thank you, thank you, Dr. Temple. Thank you
very
much."

"But I haven't. . . ."

"Yes, thank you so much for taking time out from your busy schedule to address the student body. I'm sure we all appreciate it, don't we, boys?"

We all clapped, and someone yelled, "Yea, Temple!"

Dr. Temple was looking over the tops of his glasses at Ratoncito. "But I've only just. . . ."

"Just let me get the microphone out of the way," Ratoncito said, "and we'll start the film. Lights. Lights!"

Dr. Temple and Ratoncito struggled briefly over possession of the microphone as the lights went down, and they were silhouetted dramatically against the screen when the movie started. We could see their shadows clearly against the title: "Classic Luetic Symptoms, Series 13, U. S. Public Health Service." As the musical score began—it was played by a string orchestra, and seemed pretty romantic considering the subject—the two men moved to the side of the stage to continue their battle.

There was some hooting during the first few minutes, which featured a doctor pointing to a wall chart indicating that syphilis was increasing right along with B-17 production, if not faster, and some interesting photographs of
Treponema pallidum
dancing on a microscope slide. The jeering died down shortly after the moviemakers got into the clinical end of it. I could hear someone throwing up in another part of the assembly room, but there wasn't a real epidemic of it. One guy—I never did find out who—yelled that the picture on the screen compared favorably to his own symptoms, but he was shouted down. It was all unpleasant, but no surprise after reading Dr. Stenopolous's books on the subject.

After an interminable passage showing pathology slides of things like spleens and aortas, with the narration in Latin and Greek, the film-makers cut to a small room in a Health Service hospital somewhere, the camera hidden behind a two-way mirror. The narrator said the man about to come in for interview had tabes dorsalis and general paresis. The doctor sitting at the desk had camera fright, although the narration didn't mention it.

The patient—he was referred to as the subject—came in and walked somewhat jerkily to a chair, not knowing he was on camera—a pretty cruel trick, if you ask me. I'd have sued for invasion of privacy.

"Hello, John," said the doctor, smiling big for the camera. "How are you feeling this morning?"

John sat down warily, licked his lips and ran the heel of his hand over his thin hair. "Hunner' per cent, doctor. I feel hunner' per cent."

"Now, John," said the doctor unctuously, "I'm going to ask you a few questions. Is that all right?"

"Hunh?"

"How's your coordination, John?"

John ran his hand through his hair again. "Coordination hunner' per cent."

"Are your reflexes good?"

"Reflexes hunner' per cent."

"Here's pencil and paper. Will you write your name for me?"

"Write your name hunner' per cent," John said, not taking the pencil. "Hunner' per cent."

"Very good, John," the doctor said. "How much are four and four?"

John rubbed his hair. "Four and four?"

"Take your time, John," the doctor said soothingly. "Four and four."

"Reflexes hunner' per cent, Doctor," John said, giving the doctor a big prideful grin and stroking his head. "Ludwig van Beethoven."

"What?"

"Ludwig van Beethoven," John repeated. "Seventeen seventy to eighteen twenty-seven." He paused to consider. "Hunner' per cent."

"Thank you, John," the doctor said. "That will be all."

John arose with the help of his cane and heel-walked to the door, moving like a badly handled marionette.

"Good-by. John," the doctor said.

"Four and four is eight," John said. "Four and four is eight. Arithmetic hunner' per cent." He stuck his tongue out at the doctor and departed.

The film slid downhill after the scene between John and the doctor, and ended back at the venereal disease chart which showed syphilis to be increasing as fast as the population of India. There was a plea for compulsory Wassermann tests and the music, "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," swelled to a climax as the movie ended and the lights came on.

Ratoncito had apparently got rid of Dr. Temple. The program closed with a brief coda by the principal on the obvious, graphically presented evils of what he called "bad sex behavior" and a hint that spirochetes were everywhere around us, waiting to pounce.

"I don't know about that," Steenie said as we walked back to the last class. "You might get crab lice from the Cloyds, or ringworm, but I think that's all."

The girls had worked up a sweat at snow hockey, despite the cold, and came clumping back rosy and fragrant. "Anybody who doesn't get pneumonia from this is just lucky," Marcia said. "How was the movie? Lots of chancres?"

"Movie?" Steenie said, rubbing his hair with the heel of his hand. "Movie? Hunner' per cent."

"Right," I said. "Ludwig van Beethoven. Four and four is eight Hunner' per cent."

"You're a couple of imbeciles," Marcia said. "I knew you wouldn't tell me."

"The Healthmobile's coming tomorrow," Steenie said. "All hands get a Wassermann test. Meanwhile, don't use the toilets."

Marcia deepened her voice in imitation of Mr. Cloyd. "Next feller that talks is gonna git his ass blowed off."

"Did you know that Marcia was the only girl who ever got kicked out of the Brownies with a Bad Conduct Discharge?" Steenie asked. "She was teaching the other Brownies the words to 'Roll Me Over in the Clover' at the Campfire Sing and Weenie Roast."

"For a virgin, I have the worst reputation in town," she said. "I might as well offer myself to the basketball team."

"Start with Swenson," Steenie said. "He'd look cute with tabes dorsalis. As a matter of fact, he might have it already. I see his game's been off recently."

"Chango's got him all tensed up," I said. "He's still all full of good sportsmanship, like an Englishman at a cricket match. When Bucky tries for a free throw, Chango's always there yelling, 'You can do it, Bucky. You can do it, fella.' Makes him flinch."

"Do you still insist you saw Viola Lopez at that orgy in La Cima?" Marcia asked.

"I saw her, all right. Chango and I worked on her a little bit, but she won't admit it. Chango knows she's lying."

"Maybe she'll tell me," she said. "People always tell me their secrets for some reason."

"Not because you're discreet, certainly," said Steenie. "You've got the biggest mouth in town. Tell Marcia something today, and tomorrow Tokyo Rose is yelling about it."

"I'm very discreet," she said. "I can carry a secret to my grave. For instance, I never told anyone about the time in fourth grade when you got to giggling over that note I sent you and wet your pants."

"Not until now, you didn't," he said. "Telephone, telegraph or tell Marcia."

"You've been reading that World War I joke book again, haven't you?"

"Josh, do they have any girls like her in Mobile?"

"No," I said. "They're all ladies down there. A little stupid, but ladies."

"Next feller that talks is gonna git his ass blowed off," Marcia said.

"Do you realize," he said, "that in a few years this girl is going to start breeding? The mind boggles."

I'll have to admit that Jimbob tried. When he had recovered completely from pneumonia—and it was one of the longest convalescences on record—he began writing letters to everyone he knew, begging for shelter. I mailed some of the letters for him; that long, deadly hundred-yard hike down to the mailbox on the corner just wore him to a nubbin. He seemed to know people all over the country. Most of them were in Virginia, or around Atlanta, Mobile or New Orleans, but he tried Phoenix and Seattle and Cleveland and Boston. He'd go anywhere for a free flop, three squares and an opportunity to be rude to the cook.

After dinner one evening I sat with him and Mother in the living room while they sipped a little sherry—they were sipping it now; the stock was getting low—and he went over his mail.

"Well, fancy that," he said. "The Appersons are divorced and Millie's living in a two-room apartment. Not room enough to swing a cat, she says here."

"You wouldn't like it in Chicago anyway," my mother said. "Cold and dirty."

"I guess you're right, Miss Ann. Well, let's see what Peter and Fliss Cathcart have to say. Hmmm. My gracious! Peter says Fliss is a major in the Women's Auxiliary Army Corps and he's growing a Victory garden. She always was a little mannish, I thought. Says the house is full of English refugee children, and I'm welcome to come if I don't mind sharing a bedroom with three little boys from Manchester. No thank you."

"And Atlanta's so tacky, anyway," my mother said. "All that vulgar Coca-Cola money."

"Now here's one from Buster and Dot Bemis. I don't think you know them; they're from Quincy, Mass. But nice. Both of them born near Charleston."