Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides [174]
“Most women can’t have orgasms by regular intercourse,” I said, quoting from the copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves Meg Zemka had given me. “They need clitoral stimulation.”
Behind her freckles, a blush rose to the Object’s face. She was, of course, transfixed by such information. I was speaking into her left ear. The blush spread across her face from that side, as if my words left a visible trace.
“I can’t believe you know all this stuff.”
“I’ll tell you who knows about it. Miss Schuyler, that’s who.”
The laugh, the hoot, shot out of her mouth like a geyser, and then the Object was falling back on the couch. She screamed, with delight, with revulsion. She kicked her legs, knocking her cigarettes off the table. She was fourteen again, instead of twenty-four, and against all odds we were becoming friends.
“ ‘Unwept, unfriended, without marriage song, I am led forth in my horror—’ ”
“ ‘—sorrow—’ ”
“ ‘—in my sorrow on this journey that can be delayed no more. No longer …’ ”
“ ‘… hapless one …’ ”
“ ‘Hapless one!’ I hate that! ‘No longer, hapless one, may I behold yon day-star’s sacred eye; but for my fate no tear is shed, no … no …’ ”
“ ‘No friend makes moan.’ ”
“ ‘No friend makes moan.’ ”
We were at the Object’s house again, going over our lines. We were in the sun room, sprawled on the Caribbean sofas. Parrots flocked behind the Object’s head as she squeezed her eyes shut, reciting. We’d been at it for two hours. The Object had gone through almost a full pack. Beulah, the maid, brought us sandwiches on a tray along with two sixty-four-ounce bottles of Tab. The sandwiches were white, crustless, but not cucumber or watercress. A salmon-colored spread caked the spongy bread.
We took frequent breaks. The Object required constant refreshment. I still wasn’t comfortable in the house. I couldn’t get used to being waited on. I kept jumping up to serve myself. Beulah was black, too, which didn’t make it any easier.
“I’m really glad we’re in this play together,” the Object said, munching. “I would’ve never talked to a kid like you.” She paused, realizing how this sounded. “I mean, I never knew you were such a cool kid.”
Cool? Calliope cool? I had never dreamed of such a thing. But I was ready to accept the Object’s judgment.
“Can I tell you something, though?” she asked. “About your part?”
“Sure.”
“You know how you’re supposed to be blind and everything? Well, where we go in Bermuda there’s this man who runs a hotel. And he’s blind. And the thing about him is, it’s like his ears are his eyes. Like if someone comes into the room, he turns one ear that way. The way you do it—” She stopped suddenly and seized my hand. “You’re not getting mad at me, are you?”
“No.”
“You’ve got the worst expression on your face, Callie!”
“I do?”
She had my hand. She wasn’t letting go. “You sure you’re not mad?”
“I’m not mad.”
“Well, the way you pretend to be blind is you just, sort of, stumble around a lot. But the thing is, this blind man down in Bermuda, he never stumbles. He stands up really straight and he knows where everything is. And his ears are always focusing in on stuff.”
I turned my face away.
“See, you’re mad!”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m being blind,” I said. “I’m looking at you with my ear.”
“Oh. That’s good. Yeah, like that. That’s really good.”
Without letting go of my hand, she leaned closer and I heard, felt, very softly, her hot breath in my ear. “Hi, Tiresias,” she said, giggling. “It’s me. Antigone.”
The day of the play arrived (“opening night” we called it, though there would be no others). In an improvised “dressing room” behind the stage we lead actors sat on folding chairs. The rest of the eighth graders were already onstage, standing in a big semicircle. The play was set to begin at seven o’clock and finish before sunset. It was 6:55. Beyond the flats we could hear the hockey field filling up. The low rumble got steadily louder—voices, footsteps, the creaking of bleachers, and the slamming