Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides [190]
“What are we going to do in the woods?” I said, with a note of complaint.
The Object didn’t answer.
“What are we going to do in the woods?” I repeated.
“We’re going for a walk,” she said.
“You just want Rex to molest you.”
“You have such a dirty mind, Callie.”
“Don’t deny it.”
She turned around and smiled. “I know who wants to molest you,” she said.
For a second, an irrepressible happiness flooded me.
“Jerome,” she finished.
“I don’t want to go out in the woods,” I said. “There’s bugs and stuff.”
“Don’t be a such a wuss,” she said. I had never heard her say “wuss” before. It was a word boys used; boys like Rex. Finished dressing, the Object stood before the mirror, picking at some dry skin on her cheek. She ran a brush through her hair and put on lip gloss. Then she came over to me. She came up very close. She opened her mouth and blew her breath into my face.
“It’s fine,” I said, and moved away.
“Don’t you want me to check yours?”
“No biggie,” I said.
I decided that if the Object was going to ignore me and flirt with Rex, I would ignore her and flirt with Jerome. After she left, I combed my hair. From the collection of atomizers on the dresser, I chose one and squeezed the bulb, but no perfume came out. I went into the bathroom and undid the straps of my overalls. Lifting my shirt, I stuffed a few tissues in my brassiere. Then I shook my hair back, hitched up my overalls, and hurried outside for our walk in the woods.
They were waiting for me under a yellow bug light on the porch. Jerome held a silver flashlight. Slung over Rex’s shoulder was an army surplus backpack, filled with Stroh’s. We came down the steps onto the lawn. The ground was uneven, treacherous with roots, but the pine needles were soft underfoot. For a moment, despite my foul mood, I felt it: the crisp northern Michigan delight. A slight chill to the air, even in August, something almost Russian. The indigo sky above the black bay. The smell of cedar and pine.
At the edge of the woods the Object stopped. “Is it going to be wet?” she said. “I only have my Tretorns on.”
“Come on,” said Rex Reese, pulling her by the hand. “Get wet.”
She screamed, theatrically. Leaning back like someone on a rope tow, she was pulled unsteadily into the trees. I paused, too, peering in, waiting for Jerome to do the same. He didn’t, though. Instead he stepped straight into the swamp and then slowly melted below the knees. “Quicksand!” he cried. “Help me! I’m sinking! Please somebody help … glub glub glub glub glub.” Up ahead, already invisible, Rex and the Object were laughing.
The cedar swamp was an ancient place. No logging had ever been done here. The ground wasn’t suitable for houses. The trees had been alive for hundreds of years and when they fell over they fell over for good. Here in the cedar swamp verticality wasn’t an essential property of trees. Many cedars were standing straight up but many were leaning over. Still others had fallen against nearby trees, or crashed to the ground, popping up root systems. There was a graveyard feeling: everywhere the gray skeletons of trees. The moonlight filtering in lit up silver puddles and sprays of cobweb. It glanced off the Object’s red hair as she moved and darted ahead of me.
We made a clumsy, yahoo progress through the swamp. Rex imitated animal sounds that sounded like no animal. Beer cans dinged in his backpack. Our deracinated feet stomped along in the mud.
After twenty minutes we found it: a one-room shack made of unpainted boards. The roof wasn’t much taller than I was. The circular flashlight beam showed tar paper covering the narrow door.
“It’s locked. Fuck,” said Rex.
“Let’s try the window,” Jerome suggested. They disappeared, leaving the Object and me alone. I looked at her. For the first time since I’d arrived she really looked at me. There was just enough moonlight to accomplish this silent exchange between our eyes.
“It’s dark out here,” I said.
“I know it,” said the Object.
There was