538
PARTISAN REVIEW
she felt free. We broke up rather swiftly for some reason having to do
with oral something. Tom was cruel about it , cruel . The night after we
stopped seeing each other, for good, hubby came into my bedroom
wearing a watchcap pulled down over his ears and began to emote the
words of his school song.
I
wept,
I
suppose, but it's all so obscure ...
strange that Nature does not allow us to remember pain . But what is
pain? For a long time after that
I
lived in bed .
I
would walk about once
in a while in order to do things that nobody else could do for me if you
understand what
I
mean? Swathed in the sheets, all white, like a
robe ... a robe. I've never told you about my girlhood as a singer in
the White-Robed choir of my little Mechanicville church? Of course
not.
I
remember it as if it were yesterday. Strange how Time allows us
to remember itself, or something.
I
stood in the back row of the choir
and sang my little heart out. Often I'd find a hand, not my own , be–
neath my robe . The Devil also stalks the Baptists, you see . How strong
the pastor was, strong and dure
;.j.
His favorite sermon was a denuncia–
tion of bare legs and low-heeled shoes . "Woe to those maidens and
spouses who desecrate God's House with flat heels and naked limbs!' ,
I
can still hear his burly voice and seem to see, but
I
may be wrong, his
flushed face . Thus did
I
learn first about the false face of the world.
Like Hamlet . But
I
was happy .
I
seem to see from those palmy days also
a corde handbag. Odd .
I
seem to remember eating frozen custard of
various flavors . The handbag was always stuffed with cash.
I
recollect a
face, perhaps my own, perhaps my brother's,
I
don't know, for who
can know his brother's face or her brother's face for that matter? too
heavily made up. Those were balmy days . Who would have thought
that
I
would come to this-this diner?
It
is a cafeteria, Daisy,
I
offered, my heart plummeting as
I
stared
into the dregs ofmy cup, the dregs ofmy life. My life!
I
bitterly mused .
My heart raged in my throat like a demented chicken as
I
fought the
despair that threatened to overwhelm me . My harsh and chilled
adol~scence!
Ihad had no white robe!
I
had had no corde bag! Her soft
voice was droning again . . .
. . . and though Ned, dear foolish Ned , was suffering from
dementia praecox or something like that,
I
loved him, loved him pas–
sionately, beyond rationale, loved his little dimple , his toothy chuckle ,
his soiled hat. And
I
wrote him foolish letters that, I'm sure now, must
have enflamed him . . .
I
acceded to his wishes as far as
I
was able ,
t
