Read Online Two Girls Fat and Thin by Mary Gaitskill - Free Book Online Page A

Justine tugging at his pant leg, a tuna sandwich on the plate before him. He is talking about important things. He sounds angry, but the anger is sleek and shaped to look like something else; it makes Justine feel afraid and reassured at once. Her mother replies as though she knows exactly what he means and has known all along. Her voice isn’t angry. It’s strong and almost proud, yet it has a curiously unstable quality as though the strength can’t sustain itself butneeds to plant itself in some other form of energy to thrive. It makes Justine feel uneasy and confident at once. Their voices weave in and out of each other; they construct their conversation like a bridge of concrete high above Justine’s head. She watches solemnly.
    They got up at five for breakfast because Dr. Shade had to be at the hospital at six. There was less talk then; Daddy was grumpy, not triumphant. He would say, “Lorraine, these eggs are mucusy,” or “How do you expect me to drink this?” The anger pulled against its sleek shape, and Justine held her breath. Her mother was subdued and obedient, but the strength in her voice was vibrant, as though rooted in her husband’s peevish demands. As to a corporal in the army, obedience to a respected superior was not degrading, rather it ennobled, it scornfully subsumed feelings that didn’t serve it, it gave a hard, elegant shape to every movement and object that embodied it. Mother’s grace and efficiency as she moved to pour the juice, the beautiful, fragile flowers in the vase, the stirring classical music coming from the radio were all performing a duty, augmenting and uplifting the campaign to get Dr. Shade out the door in the morning. Yet all this beauty and order could be disturbed by mucusy eggs. Her daddy could still get out the door, but it would be that much harder to do the important things. It was a puzzle.
    When Daddy marched out in his white coat, Justine and Mama went into the living room to do their exercises. It built discipline, said Mama in a voice of conviction that had its roots in something Justine didn’t know about. Mama would change from her robe into her leotard, and Justine would stay in her pajamas. Mama would put on the exercise record of surging yet sedate music supporting a man’s voice which said, “Up ladies! Down ladies! Very good ladies!” Justine loved the record. The man’s voice had a mysterious foreign accent, and on the cover were pictures of a beautiful serious woman wearing a gray leotard, who was swinging her legs or touching her toes or kneeling and putting her head to her knee, just like the foreigner said. Justine and her mama would face each other as the music began, they would move up and down and back and forth together. Mama’s chest would get red and blotchy where Justine could see it exposed by the plunge-necked leotard, but her chinand face remained upright and intent as she rose and sank or knelt and swung. “We must learn to push ourselves, Justine,” she said.
    After twenty minutes, the record was dispensed with, there was five minutes of stretching and then the mysterious pleasure of a “spit bath.” They would strip off their sweaty clothes and hang them on a towel rack to be hand-washed later that night and stand naked to the waist (except for Mother’s richly embossed brassiere) before the mirror, daubing their armpits and necks with washcloths and deodorants. Sometimes Mama would let Justine daub her back while she applied her modest lipstick and mascara, her face absorbed by the mirror as she licked her fingertips to remove the stray smudges of makeup from her eyes. During the winter, the rattling electric heater would be on, and the windows would fog, and the smell of their sweat would rise off their bodies like the sighing sounds you make in sleep. Justine hated leaving this warm, safe room to go out into the world. She wanted to stay with her mother always.
    But they would get dressed and into the car, and Mama would