for hours in the bathroom, then, sometimes, he would roll on top of
her and bang away, then, he would sleep,
she had been asked not to answer the phone,
at the end of 2 weeks, he could not look at her anymore* his eyes
sought the floor, the walls, the plants, he had scheduled a meeting
with several theatre people for that afternoon, she was not invited, he
suggested to her that she take her clothes and leave, they had accumulated into a sloppy pile.
that night as she lay again in her own bed the tarantula was right by
her left shoulder, it seemed to rear itself up on one side and lunge
out at her, its hairy legs just brushing her shoulder, nothing was
there, she looked, she checked, she looked again, nothing was next
to her. but still it was there, right next to her, just beyond the edge of
her eye.
she did not remember when she had first seen it. her eyes had been
open, that was certain, they were open and still she saw it. it was in
front of her eyes, superimposed on everything she saw, or it was just
behind her and she seemed to see it out of the back of her head, if
she closed her eyes it would disappear for a moment then appear
again, vivid, clear, magnified a hundred times, sometimes it would
be on the edge of her vision, almost out of view, but not quite, as if its
shadow was falling over her face.
she would be in a room, she would see everything in the room as
surely it was, chairs, walls, radio, clock, television, books, all truly as
they were, but the tarantula would be there too, just behind her or
just to her side.
now, in bed, in grief, in her sorrow and shame, having been thrown
out, having failed, he did not love her, banished in shame, cut out,
told to leave, his eyes cold and indifferent, he could not look at her
anymore, he could not stand the sight of her, it was there again, over
her left shoulder, a chill went through her. she blinked, she stared,
she closed her eyes, still it was there.
the next months were cold and sweaty, filled with nightmares,
desperation, phone calls in the middle of the night just to hear his
cold cold voice.
she had known now for a while about his other women, women just
like her. how had God made so many women just like her. smart,
strong, killers every one. this one and that one. she hated them all,
all of them, she hated them and she hated anyone like them, anyone
who reminded her of them, any woman with ambition, she hated,
any woman with strength, she hated, his woman if he ever finds her.
get rid of her now.
she curled up in bed for days, for weeks, sometimes it was there,
just around the comer behind her ear, sometimes it was on her,
somewhere, crawling, hanging as if in midair, just as she went to
sleep it would brush past her.
she wanted to be dead.
that summer she went to Europe and there she had become pregnant
for the third time,
who he was, she would not say.
what it had been like, she would not say.
bitter, was the truth,
short and sordid, was the truth,
unimportant, she wanted to believe.
the one she loved had talked with her often about having a child,
he wanted one, a son. it would be his. it would be nice to have a little
Che Guevara, he would say, I want a little Che.
she had seen herself as the mother of this little Che, honored,
special, different, that holy one honored through the ages, not
touched, not soiled, useful at last, the one who could give what was
wanted, they together would have this little Che and he would be different from all the others.
now this little Che was inside of her, not his, hers, she would have
this little Che. she would have this little Che and that would make
her different from all the others.
together, even though they were not together, for him, even though
he could not stand to look at her. for him, no matter what.
a woman who has killed her father can do anything, she thought. I
am such a woman, she thought, holding on to that, he doesnt know,
none of them know, wobbly inside, teetering inside, shrill and
screaming inside, festering, silent, lonely inside. I will have this
child, inside. I will make him sorry, inside. I will make him love me,
inside, this little Che will be mine, inside.
then, the bleeding started and the pain in her gut. each day,
nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, a running stream of diluted blood, runny, watery, whose blood, she wondered, mine or his. what is mine and what is his. his blood, his blood is seeping out of me, flowing
out. I will bleed him to death.
she continued working, growing weak, bleeding, then, like a leaking faucet, sometimes the blood sputtering out.
she went south to a university to teach a special class, alone in a
rooming house, blood, cramps, her whole midpart a solid aching
heaving mass, would she die, here alone, would she die. a woman
who has killed her father can do anything, she thought. I can do
anything.
who would be with her, someone, she must have someone with her.
his friends, this one and that one. one by one. she tried them out.
seduction, on her knees in front of this one and that one, smiling
prettily, smiling her seductive smile. I want you, she would smile,
you are different, she would smile.
I am a woman, she would seem to say. then, she would get down on
her knees and smile up at him, whichever one it was. I will be yours,
she seemed to promise, then, he, whoever, this one or that one,
would be on top of her. afterward she would whisper just barely, I
am pregnant but you are the one I love, no, they would say. each one
would say no.
alone now in her room down south, refused over and over again,
her insides seeping blood, her insides coming out slowly, bit by bit.
then, she called him. I am pregnant, she said. I am in trouble, she
said, oh, he said. I am going to have this little Che, she said, trying to
tease, maybe I will die, she said. I am bleeding, she said, no, he said
coldly, you will not die. please let me call you, she asked in a whisper,
all right, he said.
she would work in the day, distracted, sick, bleeding, at night she
would hide away in her room, bleeding, nauseous, her heart dark
and sad, the taste in her mouth bitter without end.
she would call him at 7, before he went out for the evening, she
would call him after midnight when he returned, she could hear the
man or woman he had brought home with him mulling around,
touching his neck, holding his hand, he kept his voice low and their
conversations short. I have found a way into his life, she thought,
now I am back in his life.
then it stopped, she did not call him. she did not answer the phone,
she did not go to classes, she did not go to the doctor. I will die here
alone, she thought.
she sat in her room, not sleeping at all. she bled, then, it was over,