Read Online Black Water by Joyce Carol Oates - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Man-Woman Relationships, Young Women, Legislators, Traffic accidents, Drowning Victims
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feet.
Except she could no longer think of
what the space was really. She had not the
words, nor the logic by which they were joined.
Nor
had she the word for air just knowing, sensing, that her sucking
pursed lips must not lose it.
As
the moonlit patch of light swelled, and ebbed, and swelled, and ebbed, she had
no name for what was light , not even life.
As the black water filled her lungs,
and she died.
No:
she was watching the men playing tennis. She, Felicia Ch'en ,
Stacey Miles, amid the prickly wild rose above the St. Johns' handsome court,
Kelly fingering the rose petals, stroking the thorns, sinking her nails into
the fleshy red berries, a nervous mannerism, one of her bad habits, hard to
break because it was barely conscious, watching the energetic play, watching
him. Stacey said, laughing, "The main difference is, I mean you can see it
so clearly, their muscles. Look at their legs."
The
Senator was the tallest man on the court since Lucius from M.I.T. disguised his
height playing out of a deep canny crouch, the young women admired, applauded,
took snap-shots, drifted away and returned and it was fascinating how a man will reveal his truest self, or so it seems, on the
tennis court competing with other men, serious doubles is the real test, a
risky enterprise. The Senator and his lawyer-friend Ray Annick gamely and
good-naturedly teamed up, their opponents young enough to be their sons, as a man ages the legs go first but the shrewd player knows
to conserve his limited energy and to force others to expend theirs. The
Senator moved with territorial ease on the court, the manner of one who has
played tennis since boyhood, years of instruction thus wicked shots to the rear
of his opponents' court, amazing shots that barely skimmed the net, serves
executed with machinelike precision placed seemingly where willed, and, yes,
Kelly and the other spectators were impressed, they were admiring, noting how
gentlemanly The Senator was calling certain of his opponents' balls in when they looked clearly out.
Good
sportsmanship. In some, it's as hard to win gracefully as it is to lose.
But
as game followed game the balance of authority gradually shifted, Lucius with
his bizarre first serves and Stacey's lover with his dogged rushes to the net
and unpredictable backhand wore The Senator and Ray Annick down, the sun too
and the gusty wind and the St. Johns' court that needed repair, Kelly slipped
tactfully away before the final set ended not wanting The Senator to see her
observing, as, smiling in defeat, making a joke of it, he shook his young
opponents' hands, not wanting to hear what the men said to one another, at such
times, as a way of not saying other things.
No:
she was walking along the beach her hair whipping in the wind, the yellow mesh
tunic loose over the white swimsuit and her long legs smooth, strong, pinkened by the sun. She was walking along the beach and
beside her was the tall broad-shouldered handsome man, big bearlike man,
gray-grizzled curly hair, a famous face yet a comfortable face, a sunflower
face, a kindly face, an uncle's face—the blue eyes so blue so keenly so
intensely blue a blue like washed glass.
How keen, how intense his interest in
Kelly Kelleher. How flattering.
Asking
her about her work with Carl Spader, her background, her life; nodding
emphatically saying yes he'd read her article on capital punishment in Citizens' Inquiry —he was certain he'd read it.
Curious
too, though he kept his tone casual, with a crinkled avuncular smile, if she
had a boyfriend at the present time?
And
if she'd ever been attracted to working in Washington?
And if she might consider joining his
staff— sometime?
Murmured
Kelly Kelleher, flushed with pleasure, yet level-headed too like any lawyer's
daughter, "That depends, Senator."
Of course.
How
canny The Senator had been at the 1988 Democratic convention, declining Michael
Dukakis's offer of the vice-presidential candidacy. Let Bentsen have
Except she could no longer think of
what the space was really. She had not the
words, nor the logic by which they were joined.
Nor
had she the word for air just knowing, sensing, that her sucking
pursed lips must not lose it.
As
the moonlit patch of light swelled, and ebbed, and swelled, and ebbed, she had
no name for what was light , not even life.
As the black water filled her lungs,
and she died.
No:
she was watching the men playing tennis. She, Felicia Ch'en ,
Stacey Miles, amid the prickly wild rose above the St. Johns' handsome court,
Kelly fingering the rose petals, stroking the thorns, sinking her nails into
the fleshy red berries, a nervous mannerism, one of her bad habits, hard to
break because it was barely conscious, watching the energetic play, watching
him. Stacey said, laughing, "The main difference is, I mean you can see it
so clearly, their muscles. Look at their legs."
The
Senator was the tallest man on the court since Lucius from M.I.T. disguised his
height playing out of a deep canny crouch, the young women admired, applauded,
took snap-shots, drifted away and returned and it was fascinating how a man will reveal his truest self, or so it seems, on the
tennis court competing with other men, serious doubles is the real test, a
risky enterprise. The Senator and his lawyer-friend Ray Annick gamely and
good-naturedly teamed up, their opponents young enough to be their sons, as a man ages the legs go first but the shrewd player knows
to conserve his limited energy and to force others to expend theirs. The
Senator moved with territorial ease on the court, the manner of one who has
played tennis since boyhood, years of instruction thus wicked shots to the rear
of his opponents' court, amazing shots that barely skimmed the net, serves
executed with machinelike precision placed seemingly where willed, and, yes,
Kelly and the other spectators were impressed, they were admiring, noting how
gentlemanly The Senator was calling certain of his opponents' balls in when they looked clearly out.
Good
sportsmanship. In some, it's as hard to win gracefully as it is to lose.
But
as game followed game the balance of authority gradually shifted, Lucius with
his bizarre first serves and Stacey's lover with his dogged rushes to the net
and unpredictable backhand wore The Senator and Ray Annick down, the sun too
and the gusty wind and the St. Johns' court that needed repair, Kelly slipped
tactfully away before the final set ended not wanting The Senator to see her
observing, as, smiling in defeat, making a joke of it, he shook his young
opponents' hands, not wanting to hear what the men said to one another, at such
times, as a way of not saying other things.
No:
she was walking along the beach her hair whipping in the wind, the yellow mesh
tunic loose over the white swimsuit and her long legs smooth, strong, pinkened by the sun. She was walking along the beach and
beside her was the tall broad-shouldered handsome man, big bearlike man,
gray-grizzled curly hair, a famous face yet a comfortable face, a sunflower
face, a kindly face, an uncle's face—the blue eyes so blue so keenly so
intensely blue a blue like washed glass.
How keen, how intense his interest in
Kelly Kelleher. How flattering.
Asking
her about her work with Carl Spader, her background, her life; nodding
emphatically saying yes he'd read her article on capital punishment in Citizens' Inquiry —he was certain he'd read it.
Curious
too, though he kept his tone casual, with a crinkled avuncular smile, if she
had a boyfriend at the present time?
And
if she'd ever been attracted to working in Washington?
And if she might consider joining his
staff— sometime?
Murmured
Kelly Kelleher, flushed with pleasure, yet level-headed too like any lawyer's
daughter, "That depends, Senator."
Of course.
How
canny The Senator had been at the 1988 Democratic convention, declining Michael
Dukakis's offer of the vice-presidential candidacy. Let Bentsen have
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