426
1958
Is that blood on the floor? Blood
splotches on the wall, the bathroom
door... ? She must be in the bathroom.
I am standing in the hall. Silence. Wait–
ing. Inertia. I feel her silence on the
other side of the door, her body like
my body inert, waiting. The silence
grows heavier. Last night she came in
late, out drinking, she slipped in the
kitchen and said I'd spilled water on
the floor, she scraped her knuckles some–
how, she screamed at me. "You want
me to die! You're always wanting me
to die! Don't you know I can hear what
you're thinking?" She threw the flour
canister at me, it didn't hurt. It hit me
in the chest and fell to the floor and
broke, flour exploded everywhere, all
over.... Now she is in the bathroom.
I wait. In a few minutes I
will
open
the door: there, in the tub. Her body.
Heavy, collapsed, the breasts bluish–
white and collapsed, her body a strange
luminous color, all its energy gone and
yet still alive, still alive. . . . Smears,
streaks of blood. The knife on the floor.
Oh, the ugliness of blood, its smell! The
ugliness of a face that has no conscious–
ness! I begin to scream. I scream at
her to wake up. I am still screaming.
JOYCE CAROL OATES
1969
Split-second timing, a magician's
tim–
ing: my love! He clowns, he rolls
his
eyes, the camera turns upon
him
and
he is "normal," he begins to speak. I
lean forward entranced by
his
words.
