Issue 3 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

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Now now now. & now that she had served her purpose he was kicking her out. To marry his analyst. To set up conjugal offices with his analyst, in the very apartment for which she had paid the rent. But it was she who wanted to move out. To move to some god-forsaken termite-infested little southern town. Pulling all the chairs out from under him. The sofa. Forcing him to mortgage his life away, so that she could buy a gingerbread house for herself, around the corner from her mother. Since that was what she wanted, all of a sudden: to be closer to her mother. What more did she want! That was not what she wanted— Then why wouldn't she go to Egypt— Because she'd have to come back from Egypt. Sooner or later; & face their friends— Yes. & she was embalming herself in self-pity. Making herself into a living mummy, living with an invalid old mother, to punish him for living his life. If she'd read his dissertation: The Chemistry of Miracles— She had typed his dissertation. Had he forgotten! During long nights after work. Ruining her eyesight— He knew very well what she wanted. Her old life their old life together that's what she wanted. Back. Had he forgotten that they used to be happy together. Playing tennis on weekends. Reading out loud to each other. Going shopping. Their wonderful adventurous dinners. All those years of happiness couldn't just be soothed away with that nauseating now-now voice. If she had read what she had typed, she'd realize that burying herself alive— He knew very well she'd never felt close to her mother. They hardly ever wrote to each other. She hadn't heard from her mother in years. Then why, in the name of Holy Reason— Her aloof, elegant mother. Who had a fondness for wicker. & for mother-of-pearl inlay boxes. & heavily perfumed soap. & heavy perfumes. 60 I can tell your mother has come home: her father would say, sniffing the air in the vestibule. Perhaps she could learn to love her mother as easily as she had loved her father. —Who was, however, obligingly dead. Obliged to take her side, if he wished to be remembered.— Was Martin still jealous of her father? Even now, when he was kicking her out. No one would know her, in her mother's windy little southern town. She wouldn't run into friends feel like running from their friends who said: Hi, Mildred! All by your lonesome? How come? Where's Martin? Martin missing out on his tennis again this gorgeous Sunday morning? Martin still studying for his exams? Had their friends known where he was when he was not with her? That he was with his lady analyst, the two of them together on her couch? Had they asked, to find out if she knew what they knew? If she only pretended not to know, for fear of losing her Martin if she protested? Mildred sure puts up with plenty to hang on to her Martin. Mildred must be blind. Blind, or stupid. The shame of it. The shame. The shame. Her mother was old now. & perhaps wise. A lovable old lady, who would be glad to have a daughter. They'd discover all kinds of tastes they had in common: Like Queen Anne chairs; her mother was impressed with her sense of color. That green-golden velvet was like a caress to the eyes— & they both loved egg custard. Which made them laugh every time they ate it: It was uncanny how similar they were. How close— Which was only natural. The natural affinity between a mother & a daughter. Martin had always refused 'to share her with a child'. They had a perfect relationship, why let a kid come between them. Did she realize how much that would change their life! No more tennis. No more spontaneous dinners out. At least not together. They simply couldn't afford that kind of luxury. —& now!— Perhaps he was having a child with the lady analyst 61
now. Any day now, perhaps. Perhaps that was why he had been in such a hurry to get divorced: because his lady analyst was pregnant. Her mother had answered by return mail. Because her mother was eager to see her? —I may be old. But I'm not wise. I certainly don't feel any wiser than I felt twenty-five years ago. When I was your age. Do you feel wise? Everybody gets what he deserves. But few people get what they want. I have both what I deserve & what I want. & I intend to keep it that way. I've made my bed, & I intend to lie in it until the day I die. I couldn't get out of it if I wanted to. My feet & legs are paralyzed. I haven't been out of bed in almost three years. If I were wise, I'd probably have died. At least three years ago. But breathing is a habit, like any other. It's harder to stop than to continue. You're welcome to move down here & buy yourself a little house, if that is what you want. There are plenty of houses, some nice old ones, too. With jasmine hedges around them, & flaming trees, & gardenias. You may like that. You may even like the aimless climate. The pointlessness of unending summer, if that's what you're in the mood for. It might depersonalize the pointlessness you may be feeling about your life, now that your husband dropped out of it. It might affect you like a convalescence. Certainly nobody is going to make any demands on you, in this historical little town. Where nothing much happens any more. & probably never did. People leisurely mind their business, & nobody interferes when another Cuban shoots himself for losing at dominoes. I shall be glad to see you if you feel like seeing me, after you come down & get yourself 62 settled if you respect my way of life. & mind your business. But don't expect me to move in with you. I'm no longer interested in Houses. Property. Possessions. They never interested me much, actually. My interest in material things was always limited to the clothes I wore. Because they allowed me to be myself, I guess. & to register the changes of that self. I've never gone along with the notion that nudity is a truer self than a dress. Nature isn't "honest"; nature is. & now I'm no longer interested in clothes either. I certainly don't need any, to lie in my bed in the heat. From which you may or may not deduce that I have ceased to be my "self". Suit your self. I have exactly what I want, & how I want it, & I don't want it any other way. If you're coming down here to meddle & make a fuss, please stay away. I refuse to become the object of your devotion, in case you feel the need to fill a void, because your husband has dropped out of your life. I'm suspicious of women over forty who change back to their daddy's name. I have no taste for middleaged little girls. Besides, I get all the devotion I can use from Freddy— Her proud, proud mother. Who needed her, obviously. Desperately, but had been too proud to write & ask her to come to her. Too considerate of her daughter's married life— She had not been prepared for the shock of the grey toothless skull in a grey felt nest of hair. With watery puddles of eyes that looked at her leered at her standing in the open bedroom door, holding her breath, unable to hide her shock. She'd had to wind her way toward the bedroom door. Stepping over piles of paper bags & newspapers & empty bottles. Over the sprawled-out legs of the old 63
Page 1 and 2: ROBERT TAYLOR, JR. Union Street Sta
Page 3 and 4: espect for those who supervise him
Page 5 and 6: In bed, on the verge of sleep, she
Page 7 and 8: They sit together in the turret, on
Page 9 and 10: RICHARD SPEAKES Scrimshaw The man t
Page 11 and 12: ELAINE FORD Whin I met Ivor in a pu
Page 13 and 14: I'd only spoken it once. "Moira, an
Page 15 and 16: etween the gravestones and the pape
Page 17 and 18: in the street." "How do you know it
Page 19 and 20: CLEOPATRA MATHIS Journey in the Sno
Page 21 and 22: STEPHANIE STRICKLAND RICHARD HENSLE
Page 23 and 24: cloth from a New York mill, the col
Page 25 and 26: JANE MILLER The Heart Climbs Devili
Page 27: URSULE MOLINARO The Chemistry of Mi
Page 31 and 32: silhouette on the historical balcon
Page 33 and 34: Where she had perhaps planted the t
Page 35 and 36: JAMES BRASFIELD The Stringer Called
Page 37 and 38: C: You have translated Whitman into
Page 39 and 40: also describe my high school years
Page 41 and 42: sequence and sequence. Not in the b

Issue 3 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

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