Bob Dylan was still wailing away, or he was wailing away in Jack's dream. "Perhaps it's the color of the sun cut flat/An' cov'rin' the crossroads I'm standing at," Emma sang along with Bob. "Or maybe it's the weather or something like that,/But mama, you been on my mind." (There was an understatement!)
Someone came into Jack's bedroom. He opened his eyes to see if it was Emma or his mother, but it was Leslie Oastler and she was naked. She pulled back the covers and got into bed with him. Given how small she was, there was more room in the bed for her than there ever had been for Mrs. Machado--and Mrs. Oastler smelled better. She made a sound in the back of her throat, a kind of growl--as if she were feral, or as if she might bite. Her long, painted nails scratched Jack's chest; her nails skittered over his stomach. Her small, fast hand shot inside his boxers. One of her nails nicked his penis; she just happened to scratch him on a spot where the little guy was sore. Jack must have flinched.
"What's wrong--you don't like me?" Leslie whispered in his ear. Her small hand closed around his penis. He was paralyzed in Mrs. Oastler's clinging embrace.
"No, I like you--it's just that my penis hurts," Jack tried to say, but the words wouldn't come. (In dreams, he was always tongue-tied--he could never speak.)
Jack could feel the little guy getting bigger in Leslie's hand. Mrs. Oastler's hand is no bigger than my own! he was thinking, while the music played. "It don't even matter to me where you're wakin' up tomorrow," Emma was singing, "but mama, you're just on my mind."
"Where Mister Penis is going, it won't hurt anymore," Mrs. Oastler whispered in Jack's ear.
But how did Leslie know about Mister Penis? the boy wondered--and how did she know his penis hurt, when he couldn't even talk? "What did you say?" Jack tried to ask her, but he couldn't hear his own words--only Mrs. Oastler, repeating herself.
Her voice had changed. It was definitely Leslie Oastler's hard, thin body that was grinding against Jack's, but her voice was Mrs. Machado's voice--or a perfect imitation. "Where Meester Penis ees going, eet won't hurt anymore." (Jack was surprised she didn't call him "dahleen.")
"Please don't. My penis really hurts. Please stop," Jack kept trying to say. But if he couldn't hear himself, how could Mrs. Oastler hear him? (He knew it was pointless to think that his mother might hear him, or that she would come save him if she did.)
If Bob Dylan ever stopped singing, maybe Emma would hear him and come to his rescue, Jack was thinking. He couldn't hear the music anymore, but this didn't necessarily mean that Bob had shut up. The way Leslie Oastler was breathing in his ear, Jack couldn't have heard Bob Dylan if Bob had been singing his brains out in the bedroom.
"You're forgetting to breathe again, baby cakes," Jack distinctly heard Emma say. He'd thought it was Mrs. Oastler who was kissing him, but it was Emma! "You can keep kissing me, but you gotta breathe, too."
"I was dreaming," he told her.
"You're telling me! You were pulling your pecker off, honey pie--I'm not surprised it hurts."
"Oh."
"Better show me the little guy, Jack," Emma said. "Let's see what's the matter."
"Nothing's the matter," he told her. (He was ashamed to let her see the damage.)
"Jack, it's me, for Christ's sake. I'm not going to hurt you." Both the bathroom light and the lamp on the night table were on. Emma took a good look at Mister Penis. "It's kind of sore-looking--it's all chafed!" she said.
"It's what?"
"Jesus, Jack, you've rubbed yourself raw! You gotta leave it alone for a night or two. When did this start?"
"I haven't been rubbing it," he told her.
"Don't bullshit me, baby cakes. You've been whacking off so much that the little guy looks positively abused!"
"What's 'whacking off'?"
"You clearly know what it is, Jack. You've been masturbating."
"What?"
"You've been giving yourself a hand job, Jack!"
"I didn't do it to myself," he said.
"Jack, you were doing it to yourself in your dream!" That was when Jack started to cry. He wanted Emma to believe him, but he didn't know how to tell her. "Don't cry, honey pie. We'll make it all better."
"How?"
"We'll put some moisturizer on it or something. Don't worry, Jack. This is what boys do--they beat off. I was wrong to think you were too young to be doing it."
"I'm not doing it!" Jack insisted. He had to shout because she'd gone across the hall into his mother's bathroom. She came back with some moisturizer. "Will it sting?" he asked her.