to become—in a remarkably quick time—her lover. This, then, was probably what sex meant to her; not pleasure, but a sanctuary in which her mind was freed of any consideration for all the other males in the universe who might want anything of her. It was resting from pursuit.
Once in her “sanctuary” she could, as it were, look out at the male world with something approaching equanimity, even charity; even friendship. For she could make male friends only when she was sexually involved with a lover who was always near—if only in the way the new male friends thought of her as “So-an-so’s Girl.”
Her mother was long-suffering, typically, about the marriage; What had she ever done? and so forth. Then dedicated to the well-being of the beginning small family. Eddie was a good boy, it was argued, it was agreed—in her family’s estimation. And he was, by several of the prevailing standards: He was always clean—he bathed, in summer, two or three times a week. His pants, jeans and Sunday, were creased always. His shirts starched and not in loud colors. His white buckskin shoes were dirty only when it became the fashion for them to be dirty. When the fashion said otherwise, the buckskins absorbed one bottle of white polish a week. And Eddie was smart: He made B’s and an A in Band. He might become a businessman like his father, who worked in his own lumber company. He did not drop out of school when he got married, but simply worked overtime at the restaurant where he had previously worked after school. He had absorbed the belief, prevalent in all their homes, that without at least a high school diploma, a person would never amount to anything. He was even sorry she was expelled from school because of the pregnancy.
“Do you forgive me?” he asked, burrowing his bristly head into her lap.
“Forgive you for what?” It had not occurred to her to blame him. She felt, being pregnant, almost as if she’d contracted a communicable disease, that the germs had been in the air and that her catching the disease was no one’s fault.
“You know I’ve always required a lot.”
“Always?”
“I did it the first time when I was nine, standing on top of a washtub, under the girl’s window.”
They laughed. “Did you know what you were doing?”
“A balancing act. But it felt so good!”
When she was not nauseous or throwing up, they laughed a lot, though there was a dizziness about it for her, the laughter seemed muted, as if she did it underwater, and the echo of it whirled sluggishly through her head.
They lived simply. She became drawn into the life of his family. Became “another daughter” to his mother. Listened politely to his father’s stories of his exploits during the days when black people were sure enough chicken-shit.
Considered chicken-shit, he added. It was her mother-in-law—a plump, rosy-brown woman with one breast, the other lost to cancer—who told her the “mysteries” of life. Astonishing her with such facts as: It is not possible to become pregnant if love is made standing up. Together they bought cloth to make the baby’s clothes. Shopped for secondhand furniture, bought quantities of seasonal foods the two households could share.
And through it all, she sat in the small house not a mile from the school and never thought about the baby at all— unless her mother-in-law called and mentioned it, or something to do with it. She knew she did not want it. But even this was blurred. How could she not want something she was not even sure she was having? Yet she was having it, of course. She grew and grew and grew, as pregnant women will. Her skin, always smooth as velvet, became blotchy, her features blunted; her face looked bloated, tight.
She did not, also, think of Eddie very much. She woke to his sweet breath on her face every morning—and wondered who, really, he was. What he was doing there in bed with her. Or she lay with him quietly, after making love, and enjoyed the
Once in her “sanctuary” she could, as it were, look out at the male world with something approaching equanimity, even charity; even friendship. For she could make male friends only when she was sexually involved with a lover who was always near—if only in the way the new male friends thought of her as “So-an-so’s Girl.”
Her mother was long-suffering, typically, about the marriage; What had she ever done? and so forth. Then dedicated to the well-being of the beginning small family. Eddie was a good boy, it was argued, it was agreed—in her family’s estimation. And he was, by several of the prevailing standards: He was always clean—he bathed, in summer, two or three times a week. His pants, jeans and Sunday, were creased always. His shirts starched and not in loud colors. His white buckskin shoes were dirty only when it became the fashion for them to be dirty. When the fashion said otherwise, the buckskins absorbed one bottle of white polish a week. And Eddie was smart: He made B’s and an A in Band. He might become a businessman like his father, who worked in his own lumber company. He did not drop out of school when he got married, but simply worked overtime at the restaurant where he had previously worked after school. He had absorbed the belief, prevalent in all their homes, that without at least a high school diploma, a person would never amount to anything. He was even sorry she was expelled from school because of the pregnancy.
“Do you forgive me?” he asked, burrowing his bristly head into her lap.
“Forgive you for what?” It had not occurred to her to blame him. She felt, being pregnant, almost as if she’d contracted a communicable disease, that the germs had been in the air and that her catching the disease was no one’s fault.
“You know I’ve always required a lot.”
“Always?”
“I did it the first time when I was nine, standing on top of a washtub, under the girl’s window.”
They laughed. “Did you know what you were doing?”
“A balancing act. But it felt so good!”
When she was not nauseous or throwing up, they laughed a lot, though there was a dizziness about it for her, the laughter seemed muted, as if she did it underwater, and the echo of it whirled sluggishly through her head.
They lived simply. She became drawn into the life of his family. Became “another daughter” to his mother. Listened politely to his father’s stories of his exploits during the days when black people were sure enough chicken-shit.
Considered chicken-shit, he added. It was her mother-in-law—a plump, rosy-brown woman with one breast, the other lost to cancer—who told her the “mysteries” of life. Astonishing her with such facts as: It is not possible to become pregnant if love is made standing up. Together they bought cloth to make the baby’s clothes. Shopped for secondhand furniture, bought quantities of seasonal foods the two households could share.
And through it all, she sat in the small house not a mile from the school and never thought about the baby at all— unless her mother-in-law called and mentioned it, or something to do with it. She knew she did not want it. But even this was blurred. How could she not want something she was not even sure she was having? Yet she was having it, of course. She grew and grew and grew, as pregnant women will. Her skin, always smooth as velvet, became blotchy, her features blunted; her face looked bloated, tight.
She did not, also, think of Eddie very much. She woke to his sweet breath on her face every morning—and wondered who, really, he was. What he was doing there in bed with her. Or she lay with him quietly, after making love, and enjoyed the
Similar Books
