Falconer Read Free Page B

can’t see the way you look.” He said nothing more since he knew that Peter was listening.
    It took her that time about ten days to come around. It was after a cocktail party and before a dinner. They took a nap, she in his arms. They were one, he thought. The fragrant skein of her hair lay across his face. Her breathing was heavy. When she woke she touched his face and asked: “Did I snore?” “Terribly,” he said, “you sounded like a chain saw.” “It was a lovely sleep,” she said, “I love to sleep in your arms.” Then they made love. His imagery for a big orgasm was winning the sailboat race, the Renaissance, high mountains. “Christ, that felt good,” she said. “What time is it?” “Seven,” he said. “When are we due?” “Eight.” “You’ve had your bath, I’ll take mine.” He dried her with a Kleenex and passed her a lighted cigarette. He followed her into the bathroom and sat on the shut toilet seat while she washed her back with a brush. “I forgot to tell you,” he said. “Liza sent us a wheel of Brie.” “That’s nice,” she said, “but you know what? Brie gives me terribly loose bowels.” He hitched up his genitals and crossed his legs. “That’s funny,” he said. “It constipates me.” That was their marriage then—not the highest paving of the stair, the clatter of Italian fountains, thewind in the alien olive trees, but this: a jay-naked male and female discussing their bowels.
    One more time. It was when they still bred dogs. Hannah, the bitch, had whelped a litter of eight. Seven were in the kennel behind the house. One, a sickly runt who would die, had been let in. Farragut was waked from a light sleep at around three, by the noise of the puppy vomiting or defecating. He slept naked and naked he left the bed, trying not to disturb Marcia, and went down to the living room. There was a mess under the piano. The puppy was trembling. “That’s all right, Gordo,” he said. Peter had named the puppy Gordon Cooper. It was that long ago. He got a mop, a bucket and some paper towels and crawled bare-ass under the piano to clean up the shit. He had disturbed her and he heard her come down the stairs. She wore a transparent nightgown and everything was to be seen. “I’m sorry I disturbed you,” he said. “Gordo had an accident.” “I’ll help,” she said. “You needn’t,” he said. “It’s almost done.” “But I want to,” she said. On her hands and knees, she joined him under the piano. When it was done she stood and struck her head on that part of the piano that overlaps the bulk of the instrument. “Oh,” she said. “Did you hurt yourself?” he asked. “Not terribly,” she said. “I hope I won’t have a bump or a shiner.” “I’m sorry, my darling,” he said. He stood, embraced her, kissed her and they made love on the sofa. He lighted a cigarette for her and they returned to bed. But it wasn’t much after this that he stepped into the kitchen to get some ice and found her embracing and kissing Sally Midland, with whom she did crewelworktwice a week. He thought the embrace was not platonic and he detested Sally. “Excuse me,” he said. “What for?” she asked. “I broke wind,” he said. That was nasty and he knew it. He carried the ice tray into the pantry. She was silent during dinner and for the rest of the evening. When they woke the next day—Saturday—he asked: “Good morning, darling?” “Shit,” she said. She put on her wrapper and went to the kitchen, where he heard her kick the refrigerator and then the dishwasher. “I hate you broken-down fucking second-rate appliances,” she shouted. “I hate, hate, hate this fucking dirty old-fashioned kitchen. I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls.” This was ominous, he knew, and the omens meant that he would get no breakfast. When she was distempered she regarded the breakfast eggs as if she had laid and hatched them. The egg, the egg for breakfast! The egg was like some sibyl