“Baby, I don’t have time. I should be over on Indian Hill. We’re clearing out trees.” He listened for the rasp and spurt of his chain saws; the hill was a mile away.
“Please stay a minute. Don’t come just to tease me.”
“I can’t make love. I don’t tease. I came to say hello and that I missed you all weekend. We weren’t at the same parties. The Gallaghers had us over with the Ongs. Very dreary.”
“We talked about you at the Guerins’ Saturday night. It made me feel quite lovesick.” She sat up and began to unbutton his shirt. Her lower lip bent in beneath her tongue. Angela made the same mouth doing up snowsuits. All women, so solemn in their small tasks, it tickled him, it moved him in a surge, seeing suddenly the whole world sliding forward on this female unsmilingness about things physical—unbuttoning, ironing, sunbathing, cooking, lovemaking. The world sewn together by such tasks. He let her fumble and kissed the gauzy sideburn, visible only in sun, in front of her ear. Even here a freckle had found itself. Seed. Among thorns. Fallen. She opened the wings of his shirt and tried to push thecloth back from his shoulders, an exertion bringing against him her bra modestly swollen and the tender wishbone blankness above. The angle of her neck seemed meek. He peeled his shirt off, and his undershirt: weightless as water spiders, reflected motes from the aluminum foil skated the white skin and amber hair of his chest.
Piet pulled Georgene into the purple shadow his shoulders cast. Her flesh gentle in her underthings possessed a boyish boniness not like Angela’s elusive abundance. Touch Angela, she vanished. Touch Georgene, she was there. This simplicity at times made their love feel incestuous to Piet, a connection too direct. Her forbearance enlarged, he suspected, what was already weak and overextended in him. All love is a betrayal, in that it flatters life. The loveless man is best armed. A jealous God. She opened wide her mouth and drew his tongue into a shapeless wet space; fluttering melted into a forgetful encompassing; he felt lost and pulled back, alarmed. Her lips looked blurred and torn. The green of her eyes was deepened by his shadow. He asked her, “What was said?”
Gazing beyond him, she groped. “The Whitmans were wondering—she’s with chi-yuld, by the way—the Whitmans were wondering if you should be the contractor for their house. Frank said you were awful, and Roger said you were great.”
“Appleby talked me down? That son of a bitch, what have I done to him? I’ve never slept with Janet.”
“Maybe it was Smitty, I forget. It was just one remark, a joke, really.”
Her face was guarded in repose, her chin set and the corners of her mouth downdrawn, with such a studied sadness. The shadows of the larch boughs shuffled across them. He guessed it had been her husband and changed the subject. “That tall cool blonde with the pink face is pregnant?”
“She told Bea in the kitchen. I must say, she did seem rude. Freddy was being a puppy dog for her and she froze over the soup. She’s from the South. Aren’t those women afraid of being raped?”
“I watched her drive away from church a Sunday ago. She burned rubber. There’s something cooking in that lady.”
“It’s called a fetus.” Her chin went firm, crinkled. She added, “I don’t think as a couple they’ll swing. Freddy thinks he’s a stick. I sat right across the table from her , and I must say, her big brown eyes never stopped moving. She didn’t miss a thing. It was insulting. Freddy was being his usual self and I could see her wondering what to make of me .”
“None of us know what to make of you.”
Pretending to be offended yet truly offended, Piet felt, by his interest in the Whitman woman, Georgene drew herself from his arms and stretched out again on the blanket. Giving the sun his turn: whore. The reflecting foil decorated her face with parabolic dabs and nebulae and spurts: solar
“Please stay a minute. Don’t come just to tease me.”
“I can’t make love. I don’t tease. I came to say hello and that I missed you all weekend. We weren’t at the same parties. The Gallaghers had us over with the Ongs. Very dreary.”
“We talked about you at the Guerins’ Saturday night. It made me feel quite lovesick.” She sat up and began to unbutton his shirt. Her lower lip bent in beneath her tongue. Angela made the same mouth doing up snowsuits. All women, so solemn in their small tasks, it tickled him, it moved him in a surge, seeing suddenly the whole world sliding forward on this female unsmilingness about things physical—unbuttoning, ironing, sunbathing, cooking, lovemaking. The world sewn together by such tasks. He let her fumble and kissed the gauzy sideburn, visible only in sun, in front of her ear. Even here a freckle had found itself. Seed. Among thorns. Fallen. She opened the wings of his shirt and tried to push thecloth back from his shoulders, an exertion bringing against him her bra modestly swollen and the tender wishbone blankness above. The angle of her neck seemed meek. He peeled his shirt off, and his undershirt: weightless as water spiders, reflected motes from the aluminum foil skated the white skin and amber hair of his chest.
Piet pulled Georgene into the purple shadow his shoulders cast. Her flesh gentle in her underthings possessed a boyish boniness not like Angela’s elusive abundance. Touch Angela, she vanished. Touch Georgene, she was there. This simplicity at times made their love feel incestuous to Piet, a connection too direct. Her forbearance enlarged, he suspected, what was already weak and overextended in him. All love is a betrayal, in that it flatters life. The loveless man is best armed. A jealous God. She opened wide her mouth and drew his tongue into a shapeless wet space; fluttering melted into a forgetful encompassing; he felt lost and pulled back, alarmed. Her lips looked blurred and torn. The green of her eyes was deepened by his shadow. He asked her, “What was said?”
Gazing beyond him, she groped. “The Whitmans were wondering—she’s with chi-yuld, by the way—the Whitmans were wondering if you should be the contractor for their house. Frank said you were awful, and Roger said you were great.”
“Appleby talked me down? That son of a bitch, what have I done to him? I’ve never slept with Janet.”
“Maybe it was Smitty, I forget. It was just one remark, a joke, really.”
Her face was guarded in repose, her chin set and the corners of her mouth downdrawn, with such a studied sadness. The shadows of the larch boughs shuffled across them. He guessed it had been her husband and changed the subject. “That tall cool blonde with the pink face is pregnant?”
“She told Bea in the kitchen. I must say, she did seem rude. Freddy was being a puppy dog for her and she froze over the soup. She’s from the South. Aren’t those women afraid of being raped?”
“I watched her drive away from church a Sunday ago. She burned rubber. There’s something cooking in that lady.”
“It’s called a fetus.” Her chin went firm, crinkled. She added, “I don’t think as a couple they’ll swing. Freddy thinks he’s a stick. I sat right across the table from her , and I must say, her big brown eyes never stopped moving. She didn’t miss a thing. It was insulting. Freddy was being his usual self and I could see her wondering what to make of me .”
“None of us know what to make of you.”
Pretending to be offended yet truly offended, Piet felt, by his interest in the Whitman woman, Georgene drew herself from his arms and stretched out again on the blanket. Giving the sun his turn: whore. The reflecting foil decorated her face with parabolic dabs and nebulae and spurts: solar
Similar Books
