The Falls by Joyce Carol Oates Read Free Book Online

had not asked Do you love this woman, Gil?
    He’d planned to say to D. As much as you love yours.
    The occasion had not arisen. In fact, no one asked G. Do you love this woman?
    Possibly G. had murmured to her, yes he did. He loved her. Possibly, stricken with shyness. Embarrassment. And the woman in turn stiff, self-conscious, blinking rapidly and her green-glassy eyes wavering from his eyes. Possibly she’d murmured to him, in turn. And I, I love you.
    So it was decided. He’d slid the ring on her thin finger.
    Run, run!
    Spray wetted his face like spit. The roar of The Falls had been steadily getting louder. His glasses were misted over, hardly could he see the pavement in front of him. That bridge. Goat Island Suspension Bridge. Love me why can’t you love me for God’s sake can’t you. Do it, DO IT! It was Goat Island he wanted. He’d marked on the tourist 34 W Joyce Carol Oates
    map. With the little silver pen she’d given him, inscribed with his initials G.S. His pride in this artifact! I’m loved, I’m saved.
    Their shy groping dry-mouthed kisses. Her stiffening body, the tough little skeleton holding her erect when he touched her, put his arms around her. Like they do in the movies. Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, let’s dance! It’s so easy.
    He’d known she hadn’t loved him. Of course he’d known.
    Yet he’d believed (almost!) that he loved her. He would come to love her, his lawfully wedded wife. In time.
    As his father had come to love his mother, he supposed. As all men came to love their wives.
    For had not God enjoined mankind to Increase and multiply.
    Run! The shame of it would paralyze him otherwise.
    Champagne at the reception, and in the hotel room. He had not known. Had not guessed. This delicate-boned woman drinking thirstily as a day laborer. Ignoring his tactful suggestions that maybe she’d had enough. Giggling, wiping her smeared mouth on the back of her hand. Kicking off her shoes. When she tried to stand she’d swayed, light-headed; he’d jumped up to steady her. She half-fell, pushed herself into his arms. How different from the stiff-backed minister’s daughter he’d known. Ariah Littrell in her white ruffled blouses, her Peter Pan collars and crisply ironed shirtwaist dresses and flannel skirts. Neatly polished high-heeled pumps and spotless white gloves. That Ariah was nearly three years older than G. secretly pleased him. It was like a trump card, for he knew she had to be grateful he’d chosen her. And he didn’t want an immature woman for a wife, he understood that he would be the immature spouse. Ariah would take care of Gilbert as his adoring mother had done for twenty-seven years. If he was hurt, sulky, irritable, disappointed, Ariah would understand and forgive. If he flared up in a childish temper, she would forgive. All this he was counting on. An ambitious young minister requires a canny, mature, responsible wife. Attractive but not overly attractive. And Ariah was gifted, in the way of small town, sequestered talent: he’d been impressed by her piano playing, and by the quality of her soprano voice. At a Christmas recital there was Ariah Littrell singing “Silent Night, Holy Night” so beautifully The Falls X 35
    you saw her as beautiful. The sallow skin was radiant! The rather chill, shrinking eyes were green-glowing as emeralds! The small pursed mouth was gracefully opened to shape surpassingly sweet words. Silent night, holy night . . . G., seated with Reverend and Mrs.
    Littrell, was taken by surprise. He hadn’t expected to much enjoy the recital but as soon as Ariah stepped out onstage, nodded to her pianist-accompanist and began to sing, he felt a thrill of—something.
    Pride? Covetousness? Sexual attraction? This beautiful, coolly poised young woman singing to an audience of admirers, strikingly dressed in a long wine-colored velvet skirt with a sash, and a long-sleeved white silk blouse. Her eyes were uplifted as if to heaven. Her narrow tapered