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Authors: Thomas Williams
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wonderfully affected. Lilipits. Sloppy down there between her filipupets, sliding like a boneâs end in its round socket, in thin oil that came from nowhere, and yet was there. That was all, just the ax sliding beautifully, dangerously, into its welcome.
She thought often, too, why she liked sex so much when she had seen so much of it as a girl, when it was so smelly and ugly she had almost desperately divided her daydreams into categories, and left sex blankâthough she had left a space for it because she knew that it had to be. She dreamed of a nice house and nice clothes and a strong, handsome man she never had to take to bed during the dream. They never even kissed, just stood near each other in lovely rooms, gazing at each other. Now she wondered wherever she had got that idea about wordless understanding; had she ever done such a thing with any person? In any case, whatever happened between her and Harvey Whipple had been nothing like that. She never cared where they lived; this huge house was something his vanity needed, not hers.
He began to come out of the bathroom, wheezing a little, the leather grommets and packings of his crutches cracking like to break. Bang went one crutch against the door, then a moment of intense silence before he managed to pull the light cord. In darkness he lurched toward the bed, breathing hard, and let himself come down backwards upon it. His crutches fell together to the carpet, and the mattress changed its pressures as he leaned forward to help his leg into bed.
âIs the pain bad?â she asked.
âI took so many goddam aspirin my ears are ringing, but the painâs not so bad.â
âI hope it isnât bad.â The way she said it, she knew sheâd given away her tenderness. They both held their breath for a moment.
âItâs not the stupid pain that bothers me, anyway,â he said.
âI know,â she said.
âItâs theâ¦Itâs hard to do what I want to do, thatâs all.â Then, surprising her a little, as he always could if he cared to, he chuckled and put his hand on her belly, then pulled up her nightgown and put his hand on her bare skin. His hand was warm from the hot water.
âWe used to be a couple of rocks,â he said. âWerenât we? Hard as a couple of goddam rocks.â
âYes. Thatâs true.â
âWe used to wrestle all over the place. Right off the goddam bed.â
âSometimes I used to end up with shoes under me, and that wasnât comfortable.â
âYou never said anything about that!â Suddenly he laughed, pure and clear, and then stopped too quickly.
Although she wanted to, she wouldnât dare touch him. She knew how much he was bothered, not by the pain or by the idea of a useless leg; it was his softness, now, where he had been as tight as a green apple. She didnât care; it made no difference to her, but that would not satisfy him. After so many years of sleeping with him, that kind of physical beauty didnât matter, as though the man who slept with her was more the essence of him, and was not dependent upon good looks or moonbeams. But that would never help him at all.
The leg was ugly, bluish and darkened into red, with indentations where they shouldnât be, and streaks of bony pallor in it. She didnât seem to care. He knew she didnât care, but it didnât help his feelings at all to know it. A man was too conscious of what he was, of the picture he made. Even when he was deep in her he was still whole, still himself, but she was not. No, she was likeâ¦gas; like the sun, diffused and yet in the center so molten it was hotter by far than burning, and everything melted there and became her and him all at once for a long time until she knew it was coming, when the sudden ice began to mount in him, and mount, more ice than the universe, and he stopped being able to breathe at all until in one cataclysm so awful it
She thought often, too, why she liked sex so much when she had seen so much of it as a girl, when it was so smelly and ugly she had almost desperately divided her daydreams into categories, and left sex blankâthough she had left a space for it because she knew that it had to be. She dreamed of a nice house and nice clothes and a strong, handsome man she never had to take to bed during the dream. They never even kissed, just stood near each other in lovely rooms, gazing at each other. Now she wondered wherever she had got that idea about wordless understanding; had she ever done such a thing with any person? In any case, whatever happened between her and Harvey Whipple had been nothing like that. She never cared where they lived; this huge house was something his vanity needed, not hers.
He began to come out of the bathroom, wheezing a little, the leather grommets and packings of his crutches cracking like to break. Bang went one crutch against the door, then a moment of intense silence before he managed to pull the light cord. In darkness he lurched toward the bed, breathing hard, and let himself come down backwards upon it. His crutches fell together to the carpet, and the mattress changed its pressures as he leaned forward to help his leg into bed.
âIs the pain bad?â she asked.
âI took so many goddam aspirin my ears are ringing, but the painâs not so bad.â
âI hope it isnât bad.â The way she said it, she knew sheâd given away her tenderness. They both held their breath for a moment.
âItâs not the stupid pain that bothers me, anyway,â he said.
âI know,â she said.
âItâs theâ¦Itâs hard to do what I want to do, thatâs all.â Then, surprising her a little, as he always could if he cared to, he chuckled and put his hand on her belly, then pulled up her nightgown and put his hand on her bare skin. His hand was warm from the hot water.
âWe used to be a couple of rocks,â he said. âWerenât we? Hard as a couple of goddam rocks.â
âYes. Thatâs true.â
âWe used to wrestle all over the place. Right off the goddam bed.â
âSometimes I used to end up with shoes under me, and that wasnât comfortable.â
âYou never said anything about that!â Suddenly he laughed, pure and clear, and then stopped too quickly.
Although she wanted to, she wouldnât dare touch him. She knew how much he was bothered, not by the pain or by the idea of a useless leg; it was his softness, now, where he had been as tight as a green apple. She didnât care; it made no difference to her, but that would not satisfy him. After so many years of sleeping with him, that kind of physical beauty didnât matter, as though the man who slept with her was more the essence of him, and was not dependent upon good looks or moonbeams. But that would never help him at all.
The leg was ugly, bluish and darkened into red, with indentations where they shouldnât be, and streaks of bony pallor in it. She didnât seem to care. He knew she didnât care, but it didnât help his feelings at all to know it. A man was too conscious of what he was, of the picture he made. Even when he was deep in her he was still whole, still himself, but she was not. No, she was likeâ¦gas; like the sun, diffused and yet in the center so molten it was hotter by far than burning, and everything melted there and became her and him all at once for a long time until she knew it was coming, when the sudden ice began to mount in him, and mount, more ice than the universe, and he stopped being able to breathe at all until in one cataclysm so awful it
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