424
... Then, one day, the shakes are upon
her . . . I can feel the floor of our
battered old house vibrate . . . I scream
at her, "You're doing it on purpose!
You hate me! You're doing it on pur–
pose!"
The
spell begins. She lies in bed,
dressed. Her fingernails are
dirty.
She
is
staring, her face
is
pasty and bulbous,
something
is
straining to get out. She
reminds me of a tree, a dumpy tree,
lying capsized, chopped down. Her
fingers could tum to twigs, they are so
silent. She mutters to herself:
"If
that
was all I had to do ... bitches strutting
down the street . . . I don't have to
slave for them, I can tell them to go to
hell. . . . I won't put up with
his
stink–
ing. He comes over here, that bastard
sets a foot in the door, I'll call the police
and they can have him.... I don't have
to put up with anything...."
JOYCE CAROL OATES
1969
The television studio has no shadowy
corners, no smudges. Everything glares
with light. I wake up at five every
morning, I can't sleep. I think. I go to
work. I carry up to the studio my papers,
in a big leather purse. There
is
light
everywhere up here, light in the
corne~,
clarity. I make precise outlines of the
lives of real people: Nicholas Bruno,
Guitarist. Born Brooklyn, 1934. Record–
ing on Capitol label. His latest release
is... . Feature role in the new Para–
mount movie. . . . Vince takes the
papers from me, reads them
greedily,
in a few seconds. I watch his eyes dart
