Joseph McElroy
Women and Men
1987
My thanks to Alice Quinn, my editor at Knopf, for hours, weeks, and months she spent on this book. Thanks also to Margaret Cheney, the copy editor, who has followed every parenthesis and sentence with the most exacting attention. And thanks to my friend Robert Walsh, a young writer and editor of great gifts, who has read the book several times and encouraged me at every turn to believe in the American heart of its common sense and heartfelt and humorous extremities. And thanks to Chris Carroll for help when I needed it.
My thanks also to the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts for grants, and to Queens College of The City University of New York for paid time-off from teaching, and to the University of New Mexico for the D. H. Lawrence Fellowship in San Cristobal, New Mexico.
J.M.
I always think of the child as a girl. What if it’s a boy?
Oh, it couldn’t be . . .
Martha Martin
Revelations, Diaries of Women
Nothing new here, except my marrying, which to me, is matter of profound wonder.
A. Lincoln
Letter to a fellow lawyer
November 9, 1842
division of labor unknown
After all she was not so sure what had happened, or when it had started. Which was probably not a correct state to be in, because what had happened made the biggest difference in her life so far. Hours of life that worked her back full to breaking of pain and drained it of its work when the back of her child’s head with a slick of dark hair and its rounded shoulders gave her that last extra push to free its arms still held inside her. She would tell her husband later—she knew she would—and she did tell him. She told her husband and he told others for weeks afterward. Also he had his own side to tell. She loved his excitement.
Pain all in her back worked free of her at the end, dropping away into a void below, and it could almost not be recalled. This pain had been new and undreamt of. As new as the height of the young obstetrician whom she had never seen until she arrived at the hospital, he stood in surgical green against the ceiling above her head, then at her feet, at a distance down there between the stirrups tilting his head this way and that way between her thighs, and the green cap on his head was as far away as the bright, fairly unmetallic room she was giving birth to her child in, and the young obstetrician’s words were the talk that went almost and sharply along with the pain her husband Shay —she was thinking of him as Shay—also in surgical green, could not draw off into the ten-buck pocket watch he’d timed her with (where was it? in a pocket? mislaid? she didn’t care where it was). Her husband Shay’s chin hung close to her; I will always be here, his chin might have said, and his hand out of sight somewhere gripped hers, his hand might have been invisible for all she knew; but then he had to see for himself what was going on at the other end and he moved down to the foot of the delivery table and he peered over the doctor’s shoulder as if they were both in it together, and then Shay half looked up from that end against his better judgment she was sure and frowned at her but with love smiled the old smile. He needed a shave, his tan had grown seedy. The doctor stood up between her thighs and said they were getting there.
She was just with it enough to be embarrassed and so she didn’t say she didn’t want Shay down there looking. He was already there. Her baby had changed. It had felt older last week, older than their marriage. One night he had told her with his tongue just what he would do to her when the head began to show, and she didn’t think he meant it but she didn’t tell him. Now he heard her pain. He couldn’t see it. She could see it on the blank ceiling, oh God oh blank, and it was coming to birth, that pain, and would always be there like a steady supply of marrow-to-burn mashed out of her from her skull downward.
The men there between her thighs said, "Hey" and "Oh" at the same time (doctor, husband, respectively). They spoke at once, like song.
What’s she look like down there? Oh God oh God. What’s she sucking spitting look like down sucking splitting there? Look like? Well, she never really had known, so why should she know now? A saddle of well-worked mutton? A new dimension of Her. Later she was encouraged to recall it all. As if she did.
Afterward she did recall a thought about being an invalid that had escaped her during the pain, the labor, and came back at a later moment of the pain when she was not really trying very hard to recall another, different thing that she couldn’t at that moment even refer to (so how did she know there was anything to recall?), it suddenly quite naturally during the pain took the place of the invalid insight and it had to do with Shay moving the way he moved when they were at last in the delivery room and he’d been at her side holding her hand. He moved then slowly away from her head to the foot of the delivery table to look at the very top of the baby’s head (girl head or boy head). But also at the part of her he said opened like an animal looking to be a flower. But now with the baby coming down, she was pushing against what Shay would be seeing, whatever that was, and the thing that had come to her had to do with his moving from one end of her to the other, from the upper part where her eyes were, downward—the way he did it, walked to the foot of the table, and the way this turned her into something but she lost it—had it, lost it, a wrinkle in her mind somewhere stirred like the start of a laugh— and later she found herself recalling this thing about being an invalid: that, here she was perfectly healthy, never more, and healthier than Shay with his sinus; and in order to have this baby she had to become an invalid, and she got the picture again of her recurrent dream she’d never told Shay, of gazing out the endless window of her lab and seeing a man led to execution who she learned had been in the hospital getting better for several weeks until he was able to have the punishment executed on him which then she saw was a thousand and one strokes; then he was to crawl back to the infirmary he had just walked out of: but she saw that her thinking was incorrect and she was not an invalid at all, she was using herself, that was what she was doing, being fruitful. Her husband had hated his first name when he was eleven and had been Dave for a while and then, of all things, Shay, he hadn’t gotten over it, she called him Shay sometimes, hadn’t gotten over what? it sounded like a movie actor. What is the fruit of a cross between an animal and a flower?
The men looking her over, head to toe, were glad to be there and so was she to have them, and so was the nurse and so was she to have the nurse and so were they to have the nurse, and so were they glad to have her and her pain and the baby that she could remember looking ahead to: the truth was not head to toe, it was the men looking when they couldn’t see in, until they saw what was coming out to meet them, which was nice, wasn’t it.
How did you feel?
It was (she sips the last of her daiquiri which now is not so chilled) the most beautiful experience of my life. No, it was rough, it was painful, but I couldn’t remember all the pain. It was an experience I wouldn’t have missed.
Have another?
O.K.
She was glad it was ending, glad Shay wanted to be there with her, she was alone with her pain whittling at her, but no, we are not alone.
Shay and the chin he was hitched to moved away but down and near the foot of the delivery table in the bright delivery room, and he moved politely as if he didn’t want to notice himself moving. She found on his face a pursed-lip fixity sharing her pain, she knew he shared it. It was love. She was glad, so glad. She couldn’t have done it without him, later that was what she was telling everyone again. Having apparently already told them. For how else could there be an again? She heard herself.
And recalled the word for what Shay had made her into when he respectfully moved with a Sunday museum-goer’s slowness, from her hi
gher to her lower, from her eyes and dry mouth that he’d kissed and that hadn’t changed, to the action down there—she thought of him as Shay during the labor—and he mustn’t look back at her, this was what she felt, or felt he felt, as if he could share her labor only by not looking back at her. Well, it wasn’t as if she couldn’t have had a mirror to follow the action. But he, who had been impatient for the baby to come and who had said the time had never gone faster, had looked along her length so that by his slowness she had become a model.
Of what? A model of a woman on a scale not to be sniffed at.
Still, a model. A model woman? In the mouths of others. Scientist, lover, mother of a fetus nearing term, nutritionist at the bar of the breakfast nook, creator soft and trim who’d give you a hand and a thigh, demonstrate relative acceleration, share a birth with you, be tracked by your pocket clock through space to the next contraction (breathing quick and regular, hhh—hhh—hhh —hhh, as she and Shay had been shown at the natural childbirth sessions), while she’d often said (knowing she will often later say) that she must have (later had had to have) you there, it must follow as the timer her and she the timer that she must have you there in that time between the looking forward full of love, hope, content (and looking forward itself), and the looking backward full of love, content, tiredness, blab, work, and looking forward. Well obviously he went down there to that end of her to see what was happening; the baby was more slowly downward bound than he; and her pain was bound to her until it dropped downward with no speed at all or she dropped through it—its bind—into a void like the death which, she always thought, wasn’t like relief for the doer of the dying, because the doer unlike the really relieved was unfeelingly dead. It wasn’t a child she had in her hands, for if she had had one, the grip would have crunched the little beautiful child who was inside her still while her hands gripped whatever they gripped, gripped the bright hospital room she was in, all by herself, except for Shay, the nurse (but there were two nurses then), the doctor, and the baby who was getting the fuck out since there was no room in.
Her husband would describe her pain, she was sure. He had heard enough about it even though she didn’t so much recall it as hold on to its weight. He could look back better than she and see the glazed, willful eyes of their three-minute-old child, a tube (he said, but she didn’t remember) in a nostril, the fluid draining out, the amniotic fluid (he said), which doesn’t touch her because saying "amniotic fluid" was not recalling anything, not looking back (at her or whatever he looked back at); but what, then, did he lose in that looking back?
He had his hands clasped behind his back at some point she was sure as he moved to the foot of the delivery table. Museum, or lab, one like hers, and a model was on view, and you walked along it and around it, looked through its windows and its valves and if there was an equals sign looked through the equals sign to what it led to, but to this model there was more than met the eye, and it was a gap between last night’s lipstick and this morning’s extra-careful shave—at least she did not sport a five-o’clock shadow!—or you had balls with rods sticking out of them from ball to ball, and then another cluster of balls with rods, but between the clusters nothing, and you put the two parts of the one model together but without doing anything to them, for you put them together in mind.
And she was in that gap there in the middle which was still an empty gap no matter how much of her was in it, she was what was in that gap in the middle, but she was there just for a moment, and it was the thought looking either way that she and no one else caused him to get that hard-on, she was what had done it, but then also that, well, he got it, a hard-on, he got his hard-on regardless, and having gotten it he would get it into an available cunt. So long as he did not look at the ceiling. She had looked at the ceiling and didn’t know herself any more, knew only her baby inside her and God like a blank perfectly painted.
Push. She had no choice but to.
He came back to her, held her hand in his, he knew when to grip harder when she pushed. She had worked hard enough but her work went on. She couldn’t have done it without him there. She actually believed that. So push. She had no choice but to.
The hand went away and she had hold of something else but it was the ceiling he’d never looked at that she wanted to grip though it was beyond the birth of her baby which was happening and happening.
Her husband would thoughtfully ask all she’d felt. Did he want to know?
Between us, it was what marriage was all about. We suffer alone. We are not alone. There’s life elsewhere. We have each other. Till death do us part.
The baby inside her, had it been speaking all the time? But speaking to her? Why her? Why not anyone? Why not him? But more her than him. For she and the baby had both been inside her and might have come to an old understanding. Yet this felt like how he would think.
She stood, as she’d known she would, in a gown you could see through and held the stem of her glass while a man poured a daiquiri into it and the lime smelled the roots of her mouth which watered. The talk went on, women and men comparing experiences of birth, some in this room probably in the process of losing one another, maybe a woman and a man looking right at each other to see each other. Where? There was a moment of no talk and a woman said, "Sue," and everyone laughed. The pouring ended neatly and the daiquiri at the brim was almost like the first and as she smiled at the man named Marvin or Martin who had filled her glass and who she’d heard from her husband was a free-lance diver who had worked for the police and in oceanography, she heard in the empty moment of silence behind her her husband laugh and say to someone, "Division of labor," and a man laughed.
But at the end when the elbows and hands and bottom and knees came free, slip, blip, grind no bump—and she only much later thought of the gunk draining out then, and nothing seemed to matter except the glistening baby that was younger than last month and was a baby beyond boy or girl, beyond not before, and then without strangeness nothing at all for quite a long moment seemed to matter—or be between them—not even the baby that was O.K., she’d looked at her husband behind the young doctor’s hands and she found tears on her husband’s seedy unshaven cheeks, tears from the wonderful vagueness in his eyes and on his forehead too, as if he had wept upward into his thick, bristly hair. But later she remembered what she could remember, as if she might have receded into her own breathing and part of her was never to be seen again, and knew he told the truth when he said it hurt him to see her in pain, and then she recalled those tears upon his forehead and saw that of course they were sweat. And she knew that while he did not look at her while he waited down there between her legs with the doctor, the tears that he could not keep from running out onto his face were not only for his daughter, because they did not—she was sure, she was sure—fill up his eyes and drop onto his skin until suddenly he had looked up past the appearing baby to look her in the eye—us, us—as he had not been able to down there at that end of the delivery table before now.
And so, weeks later, balancing her fresh-brimmed daiquiri against the poor flippancy she’d heard her husband speak behind her, she did not turn to look him angrily in the eye.
BETWEEN US: A BREATHER AT THE BEGINNING
We already remember what’s been going on. How is another question.
Isn’t that a large shadow on the road running parallel to us or our dream? Is it loaded?—it’s approaching in some opposite direction too, looking for its light. Check it out. It is to be shared, and with us, we think. Do we deserve to know what is outside coming near? We really forget if it was in the prophecies, there is so much to do now.
Once a mother who did not tell stories sent her two sons away. To be human, she told one of them certainly. But each son felt that the leaving had been hers, not his. Though his own future motion was real enough: hence relative to hers as hers to his.
To go on, once there was a power vacuum. An as yet unfixed emptiness simply asking power to rush in. This much was agreed. By people sitting
down together, all their legs near one another under a table. The table took shape from month to month, year to year—round oblong oval round—century to century, we heard—while under the table the legs of all the people developed protocol. A new kind of leg work. High energy, was the report. And aren’t they your responsibility too? we asked each other—and answered, The legs or the people? (Legwork, one called.) But while some of this was to be tabled, power vacuum was generally agreed a possibility. Like the human thigh, it had evolved in the mind. Like femur for "thigh." But power vacuum: think of it.
The words took hold. In them a daughter had a name for Father. But in the midst of a time that would rush us into bastardy, why we had a name for us period that got us off the ground bam bam whoosh thank-U-Dad; for Power Vac was just the label to market our dream. So take this trip, a leg of it anyway, to market, babe. Power Vacuum was all the handle we need.
Oh handle for what?
I know what’s been going on, an unknown child says to a changing grownup. Like, don’t think I don’t know.
Handle with care. The shadow on the road, the high road, is a Wide Load, its sign says it is, and this Wide Load (a house or other container) which we took to be running parallel to us we can’t seem to pass or not pass. Yet after it has been arduously and dangerously passed, isn’t it ahead of us again? That’s correct. Could it not stop for us, as we could not for it? It had windows and half-open blinds. It had signs on it WIDE LOAD, and the back that we remember so well we can almost see it facing us was as wide as the dark scenery we passed through in our native, late-model vehicle, our bicycles on the sun roof fixed mountainous flashing their spokes like this Wide Load vehicle’s great double wheels now up ahead and spinning slowly backward as reflected in the mirror-faced low offices of an insurance-type firm at the outskirts of a new village.
Women and Men Page 1
