Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides [195]
When the Oracle awoke after one of her wild, prophesying nights, she probably had no memory of the things she’d said. Whatever truths she’d hit on were secondary to the immediate sensations: the headache, the singed throat. It was the same for Calliope. I had a sense of having been dirtied and initiated. I felt all grown up. But mostly I felt sick and didn’t want to think about what had happened at all.
In the shower I tried to rinse the experience away, scrubbing methodically, lifting my face to the slanting water. Steam filled the air. The mirrors and the windows dripped. The towels grew damp. I used every kind of soap within reach, Lifebuoy, Ivory, plus a local, rustic brand that felt like sandpaper. I got dressed and came down the stairs quietly. As I crossed the living room I noticed an old hunting rifle over the mantel. Another gun on the wall. I tiptoed by it. In the kitchen, the Object was eating cereal and reading a magazine. She didn’t look up when I entered. I got a bowl myself and sat down across from her. Maybe I grimaced in doing so.
“What’s the matter?” sneered the Object. “Sore?” Her sarcastic face rested on one palm. She didn’t look so hot herself. She was puffy under the eyes. There were times when her freckles were not sunny but like corrosion or rust.
“You’re the one that should be sore,” I replied.
“I’m not sore at all,” said the Object, “if you want to know.”
“I forgot,” I said; “you’re used to it.”
Suddenly her face was full of anger, shaking. Cords stretched and pulled beneath her skin, making lines. “You were a total slut last night,” she charged.
“Me? What about you? You were throwing yourself at Rex the whole time.”
“I was not. We didn’t even do that much.”
“You could have fooled me.”
“At least he’s not your brother.” She got to her feet, glaring. She looked like she might cry. She hadn’t wiped her mouth. There was jam on it, crumbs. I was struck dumb by the sight of this beloved face working itself up into what looked like hatred. My own face must have been reacting, too. I could feel my eyes going wide and scared. The Object was waiting for me to say something but nothing came to mind. So finally she shoved her chair away and said, “Jerome’s upstairs. Why don’t you go climb in bed with him.” And she stormed off.
A low moment followed. Regret, already sogging me down, burst its dam. It seeped into my legs, it pooled in my heart. On top of panic that I’d lost my friend, I was suddenly beset by worries about my reputation. Was I really a slut? I hadn’t even liked it. But I had done it, hadn’t I? I had let him do it. Fear of retribution came next. What if I got pregnant? What then? My face at the breakfast table was the face of all mathematical girls, counting days, measuring liquids. It was at least a minute before I remembered that I couldn’t be pregnant. That was one good thing about being a late bloomer. Still, I was upset. I was certain that the Object would never talk to me again.
I climbed the stairs and got back into bed, pulling a pillow over my face to block out the summer light. But there was no hiding from reality that morning. No more than five minutes later the bedsprings sagged under new weight. Peeking out, I saw that Jerome had come to visit.
He was lying on his back, looking cozy, already installed. Instead of a robe he had on a duck hunting coat. The ends of his frayed boxer shorts were visible below. He had a mug of coffee in one hand and I noticed that his fingernails were painted black. The morning light coming from the side window showed stubble on his chin and above his upper lip. Against the flat, wasted, dyed hair these orange shoots were like life returning to a scorched landscape.
“Good morning, dahling,” he said.
“Hi.”
“Feeling a little under the weather, are we?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I was pretty drunk last night.”
“You didn’t seem that drunk to me, dahling.”
“Well, I was.”
Jerome now dropped the bit. He flopped back into the pillows and sipped his coffee