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CHAPTER VI
ENCOUNTER AND AT THE END OF IT ILLUMINATION: Thinking of 1995, the convulsion of circumstance, the great hiccup of his father’s being that brought him, that miraculous accident, to life Scop returned to the Grassy Knoll to the side opposite Abraham Zapruder, accosting the two women once again. The sounds of the motorcade were building in the distance; he had lagged through clumsiness to within a two-minute margin: nevertheless he had to go on. There was no time for cancellation. The shorter of the two women was named Elaine Kozciouskos and had been born in 1915. She would die in 1985 hit by an out of control double-decker bus while touring New York City but that was none of Scop’s concern now. Generational lines had already been shifted over, albeit clumsily; the Kozciouskos descendants would ascribe other parentage but would go on. One of them, in a minor way, would even play an important role in the reverals of twenty-twenty two he knows. It was her that Scop seized upon and then dragged into the little clump of trees back from the road, impelling her past the three tramps who having other things to witness said nothing. She looked at him terrified. Throughout all of history, a thousand times she would look at him in this way: there was nothing to be done.
“My name,” he said, “my name is Lyndon Baines Johnson,” picking the name virtually at random, merely trying to reassure her but her face became even more distorted and started to roll away like an enormous vegetable pulled free from the vine, “Now listen here,” Scop said, “you’ve got to get control of yourself,” but she had fainted. Perhaps it was his garb which was somewhat unusual for the day; perhaps it had only been his haste and intensity. She lay at his feet. He could hear the sound of the other woman approaching. Her name was Anne Oble and she played no role in his life or that of history, having died childless within the decade. Scop struck her behind the ear for the second time on that cycle and she toppled three yards from the prone figure of Elaine Kozciouskos. He had no time. The motorcade was only a few hundred yards away. He leaned over, wrenched at Elaine Kozciouskos, pulled her toward the machine.
Halfway there he did not think that he would get there, she was unconscious, heavy, unrespondent weight but it was either that or be frozen into Zapruder’s reels and that could not happen; it had never happened so he continued to struggle, feeling a little better for the assurance that he would prevail and finally, groaning, was able to insert her head-first into the transmission, stuffed her in, made his own perilous connection and hit the switch. Instantly he fell forward fifty years, using 2013 as the bounce-point, landing on the towers of the commemorative museum which had been erected on the site in 1994 he believed although the date was not clear and if there was one thing that Scop was not it was a historian, he had no interest in history, only with causion; he came off the bounce and into twenty-forty screaming, at full throttle, Elaine Kozciouskos full weight rolling on the belts, her feeble cries as the transmission took hold sounding like those of the assassinated President himself and then they were back in Scop’s bedroom in Dallas, none the worse for it except eternally the worse for it as such things always are. He leaned over groaning, took bags of her flesh in his palms, manipulated her from the transmission and pulled her over to the bed. By the time he was done he was crying with fatigue and yet he knew it would soon pass: emotional excesses always passed, all that there was ever left was the grimness of his duty. She opened dull eyes and looked at him. Scop took off his traveling robes and then he took off his underclothing, standing before her naked except for his medallion and his sandals, rubbing his hands together to simulate confidence. “All right my pretty,” he said, “now we fornicate.”
She screamed dimly, without conviction. Scop continued to rub his palms and when he judged the moment to be right, sprang forward and tore away her upper garments. He found the task revolting of course and approached the possibility of sex dryly, without pleasure, but it had to be done. Necessity being foremost, he might as well make it as sensuous as possible. He took off the little strands and ribbons to which her blouse had been converted and looked at her sad breasts trapped in their sad covering. Her handbag which he had not noticed before dangled from one wrist to the side of her. She screamed again without resonance. Scop leaned forward, put his fingers underneath her brassiere and lifted it slowly. There was a hiss as of escaping suction and then slowly, without hope but possessed of craft he removed it, looked upon her.
“All right,” he said, “now we are going to have sex.” Throughout all this she had not said a word, her screams wordless too but now her lips seemed to fuse toward meaning and looking up at him she said, “No.”
“Yes,” Scop said.Gentlyinsistent , this was the quality he was seeking, a sense of communion, slow dance, grasp and enter. Old cliches from the tumultous decade from which he had plucked her mingled and mixed in his mind but he was not quite able to segregate them so that they would emerge into a coherent, seductive whole. “It is quite necessary,” he said. “Observe me. Be patient.” Slowly he settled upon her.
His aim was for quick fusion, burning entrance, random twitches and as rapid a withdrawal as possible but at the first instant of contact he could see that this was not going to be possible. For one thing he had forgotten to remove her undergarments; for another he had neglected to remove his own. Sex without the true meeting of genitals was impossible, at least within the context which Scop wished to occupy (the matter of masturbation was an entirely different matter but he had hoped to operate within the tight situational fix of convention now) and his stupidity made him grunt which Elaine Kozciouskos must have taken for uncontrolled lust because she came back at him with apeep! of anguish and then attempted to wrench herself from under him, a hopeless response of course—among other things where would she have gone?—but just enough to convince Scop of the need for emergency actions before the moment for connection was lost.
Heavily, mastering her with his weight, he stripped her undergarments in a single, clumsy burst; heavily he tore his own garments free to attempt entrance, all of the time mumbling shy but determined insistences into her ear which, he hoped, would convince her of the uselessness of protest and guide her into an acceptance which would permit Scop to complete this difficult part of his journey in jig time. “It’s all right,” he said therefore, “it doesn’t matter, everything is going to be fine, you’re just dreaming this, none of it is happening at all and even if it is happening, well then, it’s of no consequence. You’ll be able to put it out of your mind,” huffing and puffing upon her and she shook her head, her eyes beating like wings, her tongue making frantic gestures against her teeth; in a moment, Scop knew, she would say something absolutely disastrous, something which would yank him from his concentration and cause him to lose the insistence of his rhythm. “Don’t talk,” he said, “it isn’t necessary to talk,” and he wedged himself against and then into her, listening to the racketing sound of her breath, feeling her teeth close to the side of his neck as weakly but with determination she sought to bite him.
Well, she could hardly be blamed for that, with that empathy for which he was already well-known and with which he had conditioned himself for his voyage Scop knew exactly how she must be feeling at this time: abducted from a sunny field in Dallas by a maniac, shoved through a transmission belt in pain to emerge into stinking, reeking quarters in which the lunatic sought to clamb or above and through her, it was something which would unsettle sterner stuff than Elaine Kozciouskos herself and under the circumstances she had done well in not suffering a fatal sympathetic storm. Still, the gnawing and intermittent penetration of her teeth in his tender and vulnerable neck began to irritate Scop to say nothing of retard his orgasm; forcing himself to orgasm was difficult enough under these hasty and mysterious circumstances let alone with the woman biting him . . . absently he reared above her, slapped her open-palmed across the face until her eyes bloomed with tears and then put himself down above her again, closed his eyes, kneaded her sought interior with his organ, placed himself in a smaller and smaller space the way he always did when he was fucking, a feeling of closure and power at last descending upon him as he became closeted in the room of self and effortfully, grunting, feeling pain, little solace in it he began to grind through his orgasm almost incidental to pain and pressure and so in that way he climaxed above her, grunting little pain songs into her ear while her teeth, undiscouraged met once again in his neck with a pressure which outweighed the slender pleasure radiating from his thin organ. Almost immediately he fell off her groaning, rolled to the side. It had not been in any sense a satisfactory sexual experience but then Scop had to remember, cultivating a sense of resignation and larger purpose that pleasure had not been his intention; rather he was seeking an alteration of circumstance, a profundity which pleasure would only have cheapened. He peered cautiously at Elaine Kozciouskos. She seemed to be sleeping but he knew that she had merely fainted from the horror. He began to talk to her slowly in a monolithic, affect less tone, knowing that his words were settling into the pan of her subconscious and that in due course they would have their effect.
“He doesn’t have to die, Elaine,” Scop said, “the next time that he comes through which of course will seem to you like the first time but we won’t weary you with the complexities of that situation, the very next time he comes through if you scream warning, if you cry out you can upset the balance of the conspiracy; you can throw everyone off target. They won’t be looking for a woman to be screaming you see and all of them are in a highly nervous state.”
Elaine Kozciouskos said nothing. Nevertheless the blankness of her expression, the quiet way in which she inhaled were of themselves encouragements; it was really the first time since he had met the woman that she seemed to be placid. “You are very important,” Scop said to her soothingly, “all unwitting you control the balance of history.”
Confidential, inflamed by the significance of the knowledge he was bringing to her even if she was not Scop moved closer, wedged himself hip to hip against her somnolent form. “You can change the course of all history itself Elaine,” he said, “your cry, your commotion can misdirect the assassin’s fire and possibly save the life of the President of the United States to say nothing of future and unborn generations which but for his death would have lived. Nothing less than the fate of all mankind depends upon you; indeed it is the very universe at issue.”
Her eyes flutter, open, her face convulsed with horror. Perhaps he has said this last a little loudly, charged his voice with affect again; at any rate she does not seem to be taking this information well. There is almost no way in which he can tell her that he is driven by large forces outside of himself and really has no choice. “Oh my God,” she said, “oh my God, this is really happening.”
“Of course it’s happening—”
“Get me out of here! Get me out of here before I die. I can’t—”
“You are dead,” Scop says somewhat metaphysically. “You have already died.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t believe this.” Little animals seemed to be moving underneath the planes of her cheeks; Scop with his profound grasp of organic and neurological insight sensed that she was on the verge of a cataclysmic cerebral accident. “Be calm,” he said. “Do not move.” He reached a hand to her forehead, patted it absently. “You will understand,” he said. “In due course there will come a time when you understand—”
She brought her hands to his wrist, pushed it away, continued the motion in spasm so that Scop lost balance, rolled all the way onto his back, having misjudged her strength he looked at her sullenly. “I can’t believe this,” she said, “this cannot be happening,” and then she began to cry. Scop looked at her trying to measure the depth of her feeling, the temper of his own response thinking that it was strange, it was always strange how it had ended this way time and again: always he had led up to this moment and then in his imagination away from it, little tracks down the other side where she accepted all with quiet and credulous eyes, nodding slowly, tracing little circles on his wrist as she listened, knowing then the justice of what he had done and its necessity: encounter and at the end of it illumination. Instead only this. She cries in pain but all he knows is sorrow.
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