430
JOYCE CAROL OATES
run along a hallway following those
little starlike explosions of blood, I am
being led into my life, into my future.
. . . I grab at the doorknob and open
the door....
1963
I rouse myself and on the monitor I
see a "distinguished" Negro face. Judge
Wright. He speaks fast, faster
than
Vince, he is smarter than Vince, he
is
even beginning to finish Vince's sen–
tences for
him . . .
tension
rises
between
them. . . . Vince has an ironic eye for
the camera that Judge Wright can't see.
The ornamental quality of the light:
golden splotches. The half-drawn, crack–
ed shades. His face,
his
shadowy eyes.
We whisper to each other, "I love
you. . . ." I hear myself saying these
words clearly enough.
Am
I drugged?
Am
I like my mother in the home,
drugged and heavy-lidden and lying?
But my lover whispers these words and
he is not drugged. Our bodies, wound
together, are heavy and very warm. I
love
this
boy. I don't love
this
boy. I
am loved by
him. . .
? I can't believe
that I am loved by
him,
I am not
loved, I am not even in
this
secret
room, I am not even alive.
Lying here I imagine her lying on
the floor somewhere, the way she lay
on the basement floor. I press myseH
against
this
boy. His warm damp chest.
His forehead. Warm/ damp hair.
