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Three.My wife was loafing in the courtyard with a cigarette, where I didn't expect to find her, but there she was. Smoking. And what had the doctor said? She relinquished the thing to my fingers and then I crushed it under my foot. Then I bent and kissed her.
"Come with me," I said.
"Where are we going?" she asked, still abashed.
"To the university bookstore," I said. I want to show you something.
"What is it?"
"It's in a book," I said. "You'll see."
We left the courtyard and started for the bookstore, passing the other students who were enjoying the spring day's late moming. A lot of them were smoking -- I saw her eyes light up. They were loafing on the steps and walkways, on any horizontal surfaces. If they sat alone or if talking to each other, they looked comfortable. The whole world seemed satisfied with itself. It was finally spring, after all.
We crossed the street calmly. With deliberation from curb to curb, as we do. There was no rush -- it was our lunch break; we had an hour.
Then we walked into the bookstore and went downstairs where the textbooks are.
"Here," I said, and I turned down an aisle and found the textbook called Human Embryology. "Here," I said. "Look at this."
She turned away from me, put the book on the shelf, and began to page through it. Flip, flip. She became puzzled and glanced at me.
"What, have you been studying up already?" she asked, smiling.
And then she got to the pictures. Fear and alarm shot through her; her eyes widened. I had felt that same fear when I saw the pictures myself, when I'd stumbled on them without a clue and without waming. I had walked around with that fear for days, and now I shared it with her.
The first picture was of a fetus that had not made it, that the world was happy not to admit. Because it had no head, and hardly any limbs. The body had been squeezed inside the mother, twisted by the sacs inside, and couldn't grow.
The second picture was of a fetus that had a head but it was a head that was barely legible as a head. It was at the top of the picture, on the top of a trunk, flanked by two arms. But the head was twisted up as if wrenched by some slow and deliberate force -- obliterating the features of the face -- you can depend on forehead as much as eyes and mouth -- and the skull was a mass of deformed bone and protruding brain. This fetus also had not survived.
The third picture was of a fetus with a normal body whose face was malformed. Unlike the second, this fetus had features. But the eyes were small and deeply set, and the jaw widened and elongated. The upper lip was separated beneath the nose. The nose was thick and long. The face was like a rodent's face. This fetus was also a stillborn.
These fetuses had been mangled by life even before they were living. Circumstances beyond them had shaped them, and no one had ever known them, even for as much love as their mothers and fathers had had.
My wife's face was ashen and she gripped the shelf for support as she closed the book. "That's all I can look at," she said.
"That's all there is," I said.
She looked at me. "So, this is what you're afraid of," she said.
"This is what you're afraid of too," I said.
"Think of those poor mothers," she said. They were afraid just like we are, afraid.
Three.She was loafing in the courtyard with a cigarette, where I expected to find her. She beamed her smile out on everyone, and on me when I arrived. She's my new friend, and our mutual trust builds slowly, like that of new friends.
"Come with me," I said, with a mischievous cant to my voice.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"To the university bookstore," I said. I want to show you something.
"What is it?"
"It's in a book I just found," I said slyly. You'll see.
We left the courtyard and started for the bookstore, passing all of the other students who were enjoying the spring day's late moming. They were also loafing on the steps and walkways and verandas -- they sat wherever they could: the tired, older students in frayed flannel, the girls sitting with their fluttering dresses pulled up their thighs, the boys in shorts and baseball caps, the Socialists handing out free newspapers that no one would take, the Christians handing out tracts.
My new friend, this beautiful woman, has a fine way of walking with steps that almost go nowhere. Yet she gets where she is going because she is buoyed by the glances of the people who watch her walking, and she does not dispel this energy by looking back. She wanted another cigarette and almost stopped to ask someone for a light, but I told her to cut it out.
Somehow she knows they are looking at her. Don't ask me how. In the courtyard, on the steps, crossing the street, I am invisible as wind. No one looks at me, that's a fact I know.
Then we walked into the bookstore and went downstairs where the textbooks are.
"Here," I said, and I turned down an aisle and found the textbook called Human Embryology. "Here," I said. "Look at this."
She turned away from me, put the book on the shelf, and began to page through it. Flip, flip. She became puzled and glanced at me. "I don't understand," she said, "I don't know what I'm looking for."
And then she got to the pictures.
Her confusion made her more beautiful, if it were possible for her to be more beautiful. Against the background of her self-assuredness, this puzzlement stood out, revealed a vulnerable place.
The first picture was of a fetus that had not made it, that the world was happy not to admit. Because it had no head, and hardly any limbs. The body had been squeezed inside the mother, twisted by the sacs inside, and couldn't grow.
The second picture was of a fetus that had a head but that was only barely legible as a head. It was at the top of the picture, on the top of a trunk, flanked by two arms. But the head was twisted up as if wrenched by some slow, deliberate force -- obliterating the features of the face -- you can depend on forehead as much as eyes and mouth -- and the skull was a mass of deformed bone and protruding brain. This fetus also had not survived.
The third picture was of a fetus with a normal body whose face was malformed. Unlike the second, this fetus had features. But the eyes were small and deeply set, and the jaw widened and elongated. The upper lip was separated beneath the nose. The nose was thick and long. The face was like a rodent's face. This fetus was also a stillborn.
These fetuses were ugly, even monstrous. But they were also innocent, pure, quiet.
Her face was twisted up as she closed the book, and her body had fallen. She gripped the shelf for support. "That's all I can look at," she said, her face ashen.
Her beauty was destroyed for the day. When we went outside and walked past the students, no one looked at her; we walked slower then, and I often had to wait for her.
"That was repulsive," she said. "That was really disgusting. I've just lost my appetite for lunch."
"Let me help you," I said. I felt that we could trust each other now.
"I can't believe you did that," was all she could say. "I can't believe what you just did."
Three.Just a few hours after we left my bed, she was loafing where I expected to find her, in the courtyard with a cigarette. She played with her smile when I came up, fixing it as I bent to kiss her. Her lips were warm, slightly adhesive; I liked that. She wiped them off.
"Come with me," I said to her.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"To the university bookstore," I said. "I want to show you something."
"What is it?"
"It's in a book I just found," I said. "You'll see."
We left the courtyard and started for the bookstore, passing all of the other students who were enjoying the spring day's late morning. But who knew how long it would last? There were pretty girls who sat in groups on the steps with their dresses pulled up all their thighs, even prettier drenched in the sunlight. Some people carried short umbrellas stuffed into their backpacks -- rain was predicted. The sun was never out long enough when you'd just finished the cold winter.
The Bible preacher who usually stands on the corner was gone.
We walked into the bookstore and went downstairs where the textbooks are.
"Here," I said, and I turned down an aisle and found the textbook called Human Embryology. "Here," I said. "Look at this."
She turned away from me, put the book on the shelf, and began to page through it. Flip, flip. She became puzzled and glanced at me. "I don't understand," she said, "I don't know what I'm looking for."
And then she got to the pictures.
I'd often seen her make such expressions, but only momentarily -- flashes of something she couldn't keep. Such emotions always destabilized her and took something away from who she was. Her confusion suited her fine.
The first picture was of a fetus that had not made it, that the world was happy not to admit. Because it had no head, and hardly any limbs. The body had been squeezed inside the mother, twisted by the sacs inside, and couldn't grow.
The second picture was of a fetus that had a head but it was a head that was barely legible as such. It was at the top of the picture, on the top of a trunk, flanked by two arms. But the head was twisted up as if wrenched by some slow and deliberate force -- obliterating the features of the face -- and the skull was a mass of bone and brain, deformed and protruding. This fetus also had not survived.
The third picture was of a fetus with a normal body whose face was malformed. Unlike the second, this fetus had features. But the eyes were small and deeply set, and the jaw widened and elongated. The upper lip was separated beneath the nose. The nose was thick and long. The face was like a rodent's face. This fetus was also a stillborn.
These fetuses were ugly, even monstrous. They were innocent but they were also deliberate. Both she and I standing there were reminded of the extremes that we did not have to go for beauty.
I don't know if I'd convinced her that she was more beautiful than she thought, because her face was ashen and she gripped the shelf for support, flipping the book closed. "I can't look at any more," she said.
"Actually, that's all there is," I said.
"That was repulsive," she said. "That was really disgusting. I've just lost my appetite for lunch."
"Let me help you," I said.
"Oh, you've helped me already just fine," she said. "Just fine."
