Because It Is Bitter, and Because It Is My Heart

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Anddolmind?

  h: a luminosity as of liquid fire spilled into her veins and turned her radiant. Where there was the darkness of the mere body, the diseased uterus, there flowed fire.

  It entered through a vein, a delicate blue vein on the inside of her left wrist.

  She died, her skull opened onto blackness. a roaring assailed her there was God in His glory as a beacon of light searing but not blinding speaking not in words yet unmistakable His wisdom. Gwendolyn my daughter your childbearing years are over but others will bear children in your place and these children you will hold in your arms and love as If they were your own babies ofyour blood and desire and these children in turn will bear children and these children in their turn to the very end of human time thus when she woke from the anesthetic seemingly within seconds: the two hour operation performed on her body was swift as a flash of lightning in her brain she was buoyed upon God's certainty and the unflagging joy of this certainty beneath the terrible pain of which she could not in her weakened state speak, and as she regained her strength in the days following in the hospital, and then at home, she dared not speak except obliquely to her dear young friend Graice.

  What do I fear Graice, that others might think me mad? a God struck lunatic of the kind, in my girlhood, my family abhorred? the Negro sidewalk preacher shouting and wailingJesus! Jesus! Jesus! and the hill people shrieking in tongues dancing in ecstasy holding poisonous snakes aloft or twining them around their necks, kissing their mouths these creatures of 5a tan rendered harmless by Jesus's love but in truth she dared not say such things even to her young friend Graice for fear of revealing weakness to her, confiding too impulsively in her who surely looks to Gwendolyn Savage for strength , spilling her heart's inchoate desire as one must never do, as Gwendolyn Makepeace was counseled never to do, For once a truth is known it cannot be unknown, it can only be denied, her mother's own wisdom and that of her mother's mother, For once a truth is known it cannot be unknown, it can only be denied, better silence, better muteness, even in delirium muteness, for there was Byron above her gripping her hands in both his hands his strong capable hands as she rose from the anesthetic thick as fog in her brain, her beloved husband Byron calling to her across the distance telling her the operation was successful she was going to be all right telling her he loved her loved her loved her how brave and good a woman she was though confessing to her days afterward, when she was home, no longer an invalid though weak on her feet and still on a regimen of painkilling pills, confessing it had been one of the shocks of his life seeing her in the postoperative room so aged, so worn, so pale, her face like a mask, waxen and white as a death mask; he'd come close to breaking down having denied the seriousness of the impending operation and not having so much as a single time uttered the dread word tumor as if it were an obscenity somehow seeded in his beloved wife's body of which no gentleman could speak, confessing, I knew then I could not live without you my beloved Gwendolyn I realize I am a selfish man a self absorbed man a creature of infinite vanity but I am no one without you my dear, my darling wife, and though dazed with pain and painkilling pills she knew she must comfort him, she must soothe him, perhaps in his childlike way he had blamed her for the obscenity in her womb and now she was obliged to comfort him, poor Byron Savage to whom the most trivial interruption of his daily schedule is a matter of profound grief, the orderliness of the Savage household from the time the children were babies is a phenomenon wholly unexamined, as natural and as unquestioned to him as the laws of Euclidean geometry, and as impersonal in its workings, never to Byron Savage could she speak of her experience under the anesthetic the touch of God's fire in her brain, For once a truth is known it cannot be unknown, it can only be denied, and though she was deeply hurt that her own daughter failed to visit her, telephoned only three times, she rejoiced in the company of her young woman friend Graice in whose face that first day in the hospital she saw such raw fright she understood Ys there's love, there's love that cannot be simulated though she would certainly never embarrass the girl or herself by speaking in such a way except obliquely perhaps or, as now, by an exchange of glances, a quicksilver exchange of smiles, though it's true that more than once during the course of her convalescence when Graice came to visit, remaining with her for hours, so sweetly solicitous, so cheering, sometimes reading aloud to her Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Emma these novels Gwendolyn has re ad andare re ad since the age of eighteen, never tiring of so much as a single line and sometimes simply sitting quietly listening to the birds in the garden yes she'd yearned to tell her friend of God's luminosity pouring through her veins and God's promise that children of her blood and desire would be borne not by her who has been too old in any case to bear children for years but by way of her and these children in their turn will bear children to the very end of human time yet certainly Gwendolyn Savage didn't say such a thing though thinking Graice, how is it we lack speech,' who has deprived us of speech ? for all that Gwendolyn Savage is so articulate and practiced in speech of another kind, inquiring of her guests who will have coffee? who will have tea? a little honey in your tea?

  though once boldly and humorously in July, on an afternoon she was feeling exceptionally fine she'd re marked to Graice that she didn't at all mind the removal of her uterus any more than she'd minded the cessation of menstruation; indeed, she assured Graice, there are losses in growing older one scarcely misses or even realizes that one should miss, and Graice smiled at her with a look of re lief but did not ask of Gwendolyn Savage what those losses are.

  Filthy habit, smoking. and Carter's strong smelling parchment colored Algerian cigarettes make it all the worse.

  He's saying reproachfully exhaling smoke in thin curling tusks, raising his voice to be heard over the din of the cafe', Alan, tu sais que tu es irresponsable. perfide. Moi, je Alan Savage says sharply, Speak English, for Christ's sake: you aren't French and neither am I.

  Carter stares at Alan Savage for a long astonished moment, the outburst is so uncharacteristic. Then, hurt, fumbling with his cigarette: I thought we'd come here to talk. To understand each other. French, English, what difference does it His voice trails off. The men sit silently, not looking at each other. Alan Savage feels his face heat, a vein begin to throb alarmingly in his head. Where is the waiter? A party of Americans enters the cafe, two couples in expensive sports clothes. Don't sit by us, Alan Savage thinks. The American voices, broad midwestern accents, are jarring to the ear.

  It's summer. Paris will shortly be emptying out. But the cafe in which the two men are sitting, on the place Saint Sulpice, one of numerous undistinguished neighborhood cafes Alan Savage has frequented in the past year, is companionably crowded, buzzing with voices.

  In the near distance the bells of Saint Sulpice begin. Alan wonders if it's possible to have heard these bells and to have felt one's heart curiously torn by them too many times.

  It's as if a lighted candle were thrust up close to her face, Graice Courtney smiles so beautifully.

  She's wearing a crocheted summer sweater, turquoise threaded with white. And white linen Bermuda shorts. given to her by Gwendolyn Savage, who'd bought them for herself earlier in the summer, wore them less than an hour, decided such fashions were no longer for her.

  Alan Savage, shaking Graice's hand, staring at her, says, Graice Courtney! I almost feel we know each other already, my mother has written me so much about you.

  The young man's words are either lightly ironic or a simple statement of fact, Graice can't determine. She senses that Alan Savage is one of those persons who speak ambiguously because their reading of the world and of others is ambiguous and ambivalent. But his handshake is forthright and friendly, and here on the lakeside terrace of the Savages' splendid white shingled summer house in Skaneate les, New York, in late August of 1963, Graice Courtney's happiness is suddenly effervescent as a bottle of sparkling water violently shaken.

  All three of the Savages looking on, she says, Well. Your mother h
asn't told me a word about you, and naturally they laugh in delight; doctor Savage's laughter is always explosive and hearty, wonderfully infectious, and Graice's vision mists over in the warmth and wonder and hope of the moment even as she's calmly calculating: Families like to laugh together: re member that.

  And all that long lovely summer Sunday Byron Savage continues to laugh, heartily and infectiously, and Gwendolyn Savage is the most radiantly happy she has been since her surgery the previous spring, and Alan Savage, temperamental Alan who has been since early boyhood edgy and sardonic and as nervously restless in company as a whippet, one of those highly bred dogs that love to run indeed, live primarily to run, their hearts beating naturally only when they run is gradually eased into relaxing. for Graice Courtney's shining presence amid the Savages is a subtle altering of the old family equation that no one, not even missis Savage, who has been eager for a very long time for her son and her new young woman friend to meet, quite anticipated.

  That long lovely summer Sunday: missis Savage whispers in her husband's ear, in quiet triumph, Aren't they a perfect couple!

  Aren't they getting along well! Didn't I tell you! and doctor Savage, who perceives his wife's maternal solicitude in this as in other instances as a finely calibrated species of female hysteria, simply smiles his enigmatic smile and places a forefinger over his lips and says, Gwendolyn, love: caution.

  Says missis Savage, mildly offended by her husband's obtuseness, Oh, of course, Byron. I know.

  It might be the case that Byron Savage hopes for the union, if there is to be a union, if it isn't entirely female fantasizing, as much as Gwendolyn Savage. for he knows a good deal more than she why marriage, and marriage fairly quickly, might be well advised for their son. And this little Graice Courtney, despite her shadowy back ground, might be ideal: she's an outstanding student, she's a very beautiful young woman, she's clearly yet not cravenly adoring of Byron Savage.

  Before dinner, there's a rowdy game of croquet played on the grassy slope above the lake, with missis Savage looking on. This long lovely summer Sunday shading into dusk.

  Below, Skaneateles Lake mirrors the flawless sky, bluest of blues.

  And there's blue in the Savages' immaculately tended lawn: hydrangeas, missis Savage's favorite flower.

  The croquet game, played by the Savages, father and son, and Graice Courtney and three local guests, is alternately serious and slapdash.

  Sitting in a canvas chair close by, missis Savage is caught up in the action; she's the kind of sympathetic spectator who is always caught up in others' games and never very good at games herself.

  forthright competition wasn't part of Gwendolyn Savage's upbringing.

  But now she's gaily absorbed in the players' antics: roguish doctor Savage, who swings his mallet with such gusto the others cringe, and beetle browed Alan, who plans his moves shrewdly, then swings wildly and misses or scores by default, muttering in comic deadpan, It's only a game! Only a game! and Graice Courtney, who has never gripped a croquet mallet in her hands before today yet whose playing is so inspired. and so funny. If one of the chipped balls ricochets off a wicket, or flies into the hedge, or rolls drunkenly down the hill, it is invariably Graice Courtney's, and much good natured hilarity attends the retrieving of these balls. old and battered as they are, dating back, in the Savage family's history, to when the children were very young.

  From time to time missis Savage calls out breathlessly, Graice, don't let Byron distract you take care! And, Graice, you're learning!

  Lord, are you learning! And, Now, Alan, you take care, don't get reckless Since her operation the previous spring that operation of which, in mixed company in particular, missis Savage is loath to speak , missis Savage has been frequently breathless and tires easily, but today she's clearly the happiest she has been in a very long time.

  In another minute she'll go into the house to oversee the preparation of the evening's dinner, but for the moment she's intent upon watching the game: watching Graice Courtney, who's so clumsy and graceful at the same time, and such an attractive girl, the color up in her face, her springy hair laced with silver like frostwork, her young body quivering with life. lean, lightly tanned legs spread, as she swings her mallet with an athlete's natural sense of equilibrium. missis Savage sees a gleam of perspiration on Graice's face and hopes the girl won't overheat herself and turn suddenly sullen, like poor Jenny, years ago.

  Jennifer Savage, never good at games, always bested by her older brother.

  Thinks Graice Courtney, quickly showering and changing her clothes for dinner, This is the happiest day of my life. isn't it?

  In her delicate, musical voice Gwendolyn Savage calls out, Will you all please come in? Dinner is ready

  Dinner is served, not in the house but on a screened in porch at the rear of the house, overlooking the dark glittering lake; the table is circular, glass topped, made of wrought iron painted white.

  There are four guests, including Graice Courtney, who has begun to perceive the advantage of a public domesticity, to alleviate the difficulties of marriage.

  How lovely!

  The night air.

  the lake, can't you?

  a smell of autumn.

  A young black woman has been brought out from Syracuse to help missis Savage serve dinner: her name is Evie or Ava, it isn clear which.

  She smiles at everyone and no one. A gold filling prominent between her two front teeth.

  Drawn by the glimmering pale heat of the candle flames, moths and other insects throw themselves repeatedly against the screen, but very few penetrate it, and there are no mosquitoes at all.

  Thank God, says doctor Savage, with a humorous little shudder. If there's one insect I can't abide, it's the mosquito.

  Says Alan Savage slyly, engrossed in cutting his food on his plate, That's probably because you haven't had much experience with the bedbug, Father.

  Graice hears missis Savage's intake of breath. Tactfully, no one pursues the subject.

  Instead, there's talk of sailing on Skaneateles Lake, the most beautiful of the Finger Lakes, where motorboats are forbidden; and the local summer stock production of Porgy and Bess, which is so moving and authentic seeming; and the Moscow Washington, D. C. the lephone hot line installed this very day in the hope of preventing an accidental nuclear war Which doesn't prevent the possibility of a deliberate nuclear war, doctor Savage wryly observes ; and the wayward manners of a prominent resident sheepdog; and since Alan Savage is newly re turned from Europe there is a good deal of talk reminiscing, speculative, complainingof Europe; and there are discreet inquiries into missis Savage's health and Alan Savage's future plans he'll be dividing his time between Syracuse and New York, completing his re search on the Surrealist artist Man Ray primarily, visiting Boston too, and the Rare Book and Manu script Library at Yale ; and Byron Savage's future plans he'll be on sabbatical from Syracuse University but he will continue to edit The Journal of art and Aesthetics between trips to London for purposes of research and his lectures on Constable at the Courtauld Institute ; there is a generalized lament for the passing of summer.

  the fact of cooler nights, the scent of autumn, the approach of winter.

  Conversation rippling and rhythmic as music, and a celebratory air beneath itthough what, at such times, is being celebrated? Graice Courtney wonders.

  She's happy, she's hardly listening. Candlelight blazing in her eyes.

  Seated beside doctor Savage on her left and a middle aged man named Flann or Flynn on her right, almost directly across from

  Alan Savage, who in this dreamy muted light more clearly re seen bles his mother than he had outdoors on the lawn, and many times during the ninety minute meal Graice feels his eyes shift onto her.

  hook onto her. Though he doesn't in fact address her directly at all.

  And she lifts her gaze to his and smiles.

  Thinking calmly, You're the one.

  Her heart beating calmly against her ribs, You're the one.
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  She sees that the son lacks the father's spirit, yes, she perceives that at once; very likely he lacks the mother's warmth too, that can't be helped. But he's an attractive man. His hair curling over his shirt collar, his skeptical smile, slender shoulders, preoccupied air, brusque at times, yet kindly. yes, Graice is certain that Alan Savage is kindly, in his heart.

  missis Savage's word for him is sweet.

  It's a word missis Savage employs as the highest praise: sweet.

  Graice wonders if she, Graice Courtney, has been described to Alan Savage as sweet.

  Thinks Graice, smiling, Am I sweet?

  It's memory, or is it fantasy, the way Jinx Fairchild cupped her breasts in his hands, kissed and sucked at the nipples, in play, only in play, Mmmmmmmm, little sweetheart! he'd said. But only in play.

  White titties. Black nigger cock.

  Only in play.

  Graice Courtney has been quiet, though giving every appearance of listening attentively to her elders, listening and laughing and wonderfully absorbed, so like Gwendolyn Savage in this respect, so feminine. She wears crimson lipstick for these occasions, and it suits her. Powders her face with a pale apricot powder, and it suits her.