stand. The unexpected cadences of the ritual hummed in his ears. His discomfort vanished. He was no longer ashamed.
Old men, little children were kneeling. Ken wanted to kneel. He could not. He could not even pray.
In the simplicity of their hearts, those others were asking for a blessing. He too needed help. His lips moved imperceptibly. No sound came from them. His eyes closed.
Thin organ notes, thin reeds singing the mass; incense rising, soft footfalls, the voices of the boys as they sang a litany; and through it all, the liquid, droning monotony of the priest's voice … Ken's senses were dulled, his body was in repose, his thoughts far away.
He saw himself again back home in Texas, the fresh rain upon the lawn, his friends hurrying to school. He saw himself in Star-ridge, feted by the diabolical Mr. Lowell. He recalled Hollywood, Anita a staff upon which he had leaned. How simple he had been! How naive! Lowell was a morbid monster, Anita sex-mad; himself a weak, drifting boy, contented only so long as someone else supported him, feeding his ego meantime with the cheap applause he received for his dance.
At first the vivid magic of these Mexican resorts had fascinated him, the lack of restraint, the unmorality of it all. Too, the races at Caliente on warm January afternoons or the feverish spell of whirling roulette wheels, the feel of flesh, the hot flavor of liquor on the palate, had enchained him. And whenever he was stroked by a faint desire to quit Tia Juana, Anita was there, her hand stretched forth to offer him the sodden forgetfulness of her sordid love. And always he had the dance.
