CHAPTER XIII
Carol did not sleep well that night. He had dreams of strong and muscular things; but they felt good. Early in the morning his child-mind was tired. His fantasies and adult body had exhausted him. He awoke and turned over to be spanked. His father had always spanked him when he had been bad. But now he did not feel his father’s calloused hand against him, nor could he see his father’s frown and long, unshaven jaw. Carol turned over again, realizing vaguely where he was.... His father was dead. He was not being spanked. Something had been taken from him and his mouth trembled.... The strong nostalgia made him sick. He wanted to be bad, and then feel the hard hand and weep happily as his father struck him.
Carol was now fully awake. He got out of bed, rubbing his sticky eyes. Over the wash-basin there was a mirror in which he saw himself. He turned on the cold water, dipped his head in the bowl and rubbed his cheeks until they glowed. Then he bathed with a washcloth and afterwards, squirted toilet water under his arms. The hotel room was small and hot. He opened the window a little wider, returned to his bed and made it up carefully, patting the corners. At last, he put on a dressing gown with long, flowing sleeves, smiled at the reflection of his pink, clean face in the mirror and picked up the telephone.
“Give me outside,” he said.
“What number do you want?” asked the operator, sucking her teeth.
Carol was startled. Then he gave the number.
Deane answered a little sleepily.
Carol lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in flat, blue layers.
“Did I get you out of bed, sweet?”
Deane smiled easily, the smooth skin at the corners of her eyes forming tiny lines.