JOYCE CAROL OATES
"That you're accusing her. . .
?
Threatening her?"
"Yes. I don't want to talk. about it."
Vince shakes his head. "Jesus,
that
must be tough on you. Why should she
turn against you? You visit her all the
time, you bring her things . . . she
should be grateful as hell. But I suppose
that's part of her sickness, the things
she says about you."
I accept this in silence. He is right.
Out
in
the country we go for a walk.
The earth is spongy. My body is
drawn
downward. I want to press myseH
against the earth, straining against it, to
get ev:erything silent again, truly silent.
I understand why the earth absorbs our
bodies when we die. It is our bodies
straining downward, suffocating the
earth, wanting to get back inside it.
Should I like down here? Should I
press my face against the earth, claw at
the earth, scream into it? ... Vince em–
braces me lightly. I am frightened of
him but I don't move away. Today?
This afternoon? I
will
give in to him,
I will love him? He kisses me and I
don't step away, though I feel panic. I
feel myself small and rather sinister, rat–
like, very sly, very graceful in this man's
arms.
If
I lie on the ground and allow
him
to love me, then. . . .
Not today.
We walk together. The Fear with–
draws. Vince is
boyish,
very cheerful.
In his heart he feels certain of me, for
I am like a daughter, emptied of every–
thing except obedience; you can tell that
