Read Online American Appetites by Joyce Carol Oates - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
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âHoney, it isnât old at all .â
It is in her bath, conscious of her breasts buoyant and warmly lifting, as if caressed from beneath, that Glynnis is likely to recall her pregnancy, her pregnancies: thinking, rather unfairly, of Bianca as she is now in terms of Bianca as sheâd been before her actual birth . . . those many hours, those terrible hours, of labor. How true it is: bringing forth a child is labor; bringing forth that child was labor! Glynnis had worked to give birth to Bianca, and Bianca, it seemed, had resisted, as if not wanting to be born; one body, pain-racked, had expelled another body from it, in order that both might live. We have never quite forgiven each other, Glynnis thinks.
Though in fact Glynnis has forgotten the pain, mostly. As she has forgotten, except as a minor stab of a loss, Biancaâs infant brother, to be named Jonathan, who died aged three days. It is a few minutes after six. Glynnis dresses with care, regarding herself critically in the largest of the bedroom mirrors; feels an urge, quickly suppressed, to get herself a glass of wine and sip from it as she dresses, a habit of some years ago. (When the affair with Denisâbegun, really, as play, quite innocent play, on Glynnisâs partâbecame something rather more serious than either had intended.) Like most extremely attractive women, at least during the period of their lives when their attractiveness is incontestable, Glynnis has always enjoyed dressing for special occasions: takes delight in making herself up, fashioning her hair, painting her nails, wearing jewelry, perfume. There is something about the ritual that is reassuring, Glynnis thinks, though with the passage of time one will not want to look too closely in the mirror.
She has chosen a chiffon dress, not new but allegedly Ianâs favorite: a soft, romantic apricot shade, with numerous narrow rippling pleats and a low-cut beaded neckline, that shows her breasts to advantage. Her shoulders and arms too are partly exposed; bare, and rosy from the bath, they suggest the boneless yet resilient flesh of a woman in a Renoir painting. She stares at herself as if hypnotized. Is this the person, the face and body, others see? But who is it, they see?
The telephone begins ringing. She hears Marvis answer it, in a distant room.
3.
And the celebration, so long anticipated, cannot be more successful: at the outset, at least.
Ian, with Bianca, arrives home just after seven-thirty; and it is immediately evident, from their faces, that Bianca has told him nothing, and that Ianâah, Ian!âsuspects nothing. He hangs his trench coat in the closet, retires briefly to his bathroom, and, when he emerges, having washed his face and combed his hair, Glynnis, under the pretext of serving him a before-dinner drink, leads him back to the semidarkened room where their friends are waiting, as easily, she will say afterward, as a lamb is led to slaughter. How could he follow her so trustingly? so unquestioningly? Hadnât he noticed her chiffon dress beneath the apron? Her hair, her perfume? The pearls around her neck, the pearls screwed into her earlobes?
But no: he is taken totally by surprise. Happy birthday, Ian! Congratulations, Ian! He is moved, quite deeply moved, by his friendsâ greetings: their handshakes, embraces, kisses; the warmth and obvious love they feel for him. And Bianca, who throws her arms extravagantly around his neck: Happy birthday, Daddy! For a minute or two Glynnis sees that he is rather disoriented: adjusting his glasses, smiling, blinking, peering at faces, looking around, as if for someone not there. (But surely Glynnis has invited their closest dearest friends? Is there someone Ian would have added?) One of the men fixes a drink for him, and Malcolm Oliver takes a series of quick flashing shots with his Polaroid camera, and Glynnis links her arm through his and leads him into a quieter corner of the room and says,
It is in her bath, conscious of her breasts buoyant and warmly lifting, as if caressed from beneath, that Glynnis is likely to recall her pregnancy, her pregnancies: thinking, rather unfairly, of Bianca as she is now in terms of Bianca as sheâd been before her actual birth . . . those many hours, those terrible hours, of labor. How true it is: bringing forth a child is labor; bringing forth that child was labor! Glynnis had worked to give birth to Bianca, and Bianca, it seemed, had resisted, as if not wanting to be born; one body, pain-racked, had expelled another body from it, in order that both might live. We have never quite forgiven each other, Glynnis thinks.
Though in fact Glynnis has forgotten the pain, mostly. As she has forgotten, except as a minor stab of a loss, Biancaâs infant brother, to be named Jonathan, who died aged three days. It is a few minutes after six. Glynnis dresses with care, regarding herself critically in the largest of the bedroom mirrors; feels an urge, quickly suppressed, to get herself a glass of wine and sip from it as she dresses, a habit of some years ago. (When the affair with Denisâbegun, really, as play, quite innocent play, on Glynnisâs partâbecame something rather more serious than either had intended.) Like most extremely attractive women, at least during the period of their lives when their attractiveness is incontestable, Glynnis has always enjoyed dressing for special occasions: takes delight in making herself up, fashioning her hair, painting her nails, wearing jewelry, perfume. There is something about the ritual that is reassuring, Glynnis thinks, though with the passage of time one will not want to look too closely in the mirror.
She has chosen a chiffon dress, not new but allegedly Ianâs favorite: a soft, romantic apricot shade, with numerous narrow rippling pleats and a low-cut beaded neckline, that shows her breasts to advantage. Her shoulders and arms too are partly exposed; bare, and rosy from the bath, they suggest the boneless yet resilient flesh of a woman in a Renoir painting. She stares at herself as if hypnotized. Is this the person, the face and body, others see? But who is it, they see?
The telephone begins ringing. She hears Marvis answer it, in a distant room.
3.
And the celebration, so long anticipated, cannot be more successful: at the outset, at least.
Ian, with Bianca, arrives home just after seven-thirty; and it is immediately evident, from their faces, that Bianca has told him nothing, and that Ianâah, Ian!âsuspects nothing. He hangs his trench coat in the closet, retires briefly to his bathroom, and, when he emerges, having washed his face and combed his hair, Glynnis, under the pretext of serving him a before-dinner drink, leads him back to the semidarkened room where their friends are waiting, as easily, she will say afterward, as a lamb is led to slaughter. How could he follow her so trustingly? so unquestioningly? Hadnât he noticed her chiffon dress beneath the apron? Her hair, her perfume? The pearls around her neck, the pearls screwed into her earlobes?
But no: he is taken totally by surprise. Happy birthday, Ian! Congratulations, Ian! He is moved, quite deeply moved, by his friendsâ greetings: their handshakes, embraces, kisses; the warmth and obvious love they feel for him. And Bianca, who throws her arms extravagantly around his neck: Happy birthday, Daddy! For a minute or two Glynnis sees that he is rather disoriented: adjusting his glasses, smiling, blinking, peering at faces, looking around, as if for someone not there. (But surely Glynnis has invited their closest dearest friends? Is there someone Ian would have added?) One of the men fixes a drink for him, and Malcolm Oliver takes a series of quick flashing shots with his Polaroid camera, and Glynnis links her arm through his and leads him into a quieter corner of the room and says,
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