The Falls by Joyce Carol Oates Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
fingers were pressed to her bosom in an attitude of prayer.
The hair that in ordinary light was dull, faded, limp, was lustrous in the stage lighting. Subtle spots of rouge enlivened her face. All is calm, all is bright . . . G. clenched his fists thinking yes, yes he would love this remarkable woman. He would make her his.
Run for your life.
The wedding ceremony had passed in a haze like landscape glimpsed from the window of a speeding lurching vehicle. Though D.
was not present, hadn’t been able to attend, G. persisted in seeing him in the corner of his eye. D., smiling and nodding encouragement.
Yes! Good! I’ve done it, Gil, and so can you! At the reception she’d begun drinking and on the drive from Troy to Niagara Falls she’d fallen asleep, her head lolling against his shoulder in a way that annoyed him, it was so intimate and yet unconscious, brainless. And in their hotel room she’d drunk most of the bottle of champagne that awaited them. She chattered nervously, her words slurred. She giggled and wiped at her mouth. Lipstick on her teeth, her clothing disheveled.
Rising, she became dizzy and lost her balance; he’d had to jump up to steady her. “Ariah, dear!” Preparing for bed she giggled and hiccuped and stumbled to him. When he stooped to kiss her wet, parted lips he tasted alcohol and panic. His heart was lurching and kicking. The bed was ludicrously large, the mattress so high from the floor, Ariah insisted he “boost” her. Heart-shaped velvet cushions everywhere, lace coverlets like nets to catch unwary fish. This was a shrine to—what?
Ariah lay in the bed like an awkward sea otter in her ivory silk night-36 W Joyce Carol Oates
gown, hiccuping, jamming her knuckles against her mouth and trying not to burst into laughter. Or was it hysterical sobbing.
He hadn’t known what to expect, hadn’t wanted to think ahead, but, dear God, he hadn’t expected this. She drew him to kneel beside her aroused and trembling as in a fever dream of lurid degradation.
Beneath his hesitant weight she squirmed and moaned. Suddenly clasping her arms around his neck—tight!—tight as an octopus’s tentacles—and kissing him full on the lips. Was this Ariah Littrell the minister’s spinster daughter? Clumsily seductive, one of her eyelids drooping. He couldn’t bear it, her hot hands swiping blindly at him. She was moaning his name, that in her mouth sounded obscene.
Groping against his chest, his belly and groin. His penis! That any woman would touch him there, like that . . . In a guttural moan pleading Love me, why can’t you love me for God’s sake . Do it! DO IT! The bared gums, damp exposed teeth. A ragged swath of rust-colored hairs between her clutching thighs. She was ugly to him, repulsive.
Damn you please what’s wrong with you DO IT! Bucking her groin against his. Her bony pelvis. He wanted to strike her with his fists, pummel her until she lost consciousness and had no further knowledge of him.
He too was moaning, pleading Stop! Don’t! You disgust me. In fact he may have slapped her, not with the flat of his hand exactly, flailing out in instinctive self-defense, knocking her back into the oversized pillows. But she’d only laughed. Unless she was crying. The brass bed jiggled, creaked, lurched and careened like a drunken boat. His elbow raked against her breast. There was something offensive, obscene about the small hard breasts, the inflamed-looking nipples. He shouted and spat at her to leave him alone yet blindly she swiped at him, grabbed at him, her strong fingers gripped his penis as in the most lewd of adolescent sex-fantasies. To his horror a sharp shuddering cry escaped from his lips even as his milky seed leapt from him piercing-sweet like a swarm of honeybees. He collapsed upon her then, panting. His brain was extinguished, like a flame that has been blown out. His heart pounded dangerously. Their sweat-slick bodies held fast.
Later he would hear her gagging and
The hair that in ordinary light was dull, faded, limp, was lustrous in the stage lighting. Subtle spots of rouge enlivened her face. All is calm, all is bright . . . G. clenched his fists thinking yes, yes he would love this remarkable woman. He would make her his.
Run for your life.
The wedding ceremony had passed in a haze like landscape glimpsed from the window of a speeding lurching vehicle. Though D.
was not present, hadn’t been able to attend, G. persisted in seeing him in the corner of his eye. D., smiling and nodding encouragement.
Yes! Good! I’ve done it, Gil, and so can you! At the reception she’d begun drinking and on the drive from Troy to Niagara Falls she’d fallen asleep, her head lolling against his shoulder in a way that annoyed him, it was so intimate and yet unconscious, brainless. And in their hotel room she’d drunk most of the bottle of champagne that awaited them. She chattered nervously, her words slurred. She giggled and wiped at her mouth. Lipstick on her teeth, her clothing disheveled.
Rising, she became dizzy and lost her balance; he’d had to jump up to steady her. “Ariah, dear!” Preparing for bed she giggled and hiccuped and stumbled to him. When he stooped to kiss her wet, parted lips he tasted alcohol and panic. His heart was lurching and kicking. The bed was ludicrously large, the mattress so high from the floor, Ariah insisted he “boost” her. Heart-shaped velvet cushions everywhere, lace coverlets like nets to catch unwary fish. This was a shrine to—what?
Ariah lay in the bed like an awkward sea otter in her ivory silk night-36 W Joyce Carol Oates
gown, hiccuping, jamming her knuckles against her mouth and trying not to burst into laughter. Or was it hysterical sobbing.
He hadn’t known what to expect, hadn’t wanted to think ahead, but, dear God, he hadn’t expected this. She drew him to kneel beside her aroused and trembling as in a fever dream of lurid degradation.
Beneath his hesitant weight she squirmed and moaned. Suddenly clasping her arms around his neck—tight!—tight as an octopus’s tentacles—and kissing him full on the lips. Was this Ariah Littrell the minister’s spinster daughter? Clumsily seductive, one of her eyelids drooping. He couldn’t bear it, her hot hands swiping blindly at him. She was moaning his name, that in her mouth sounded obscene.
Groping against his chest, his belly and groin. His penis! That any woman would touch him there, like that . . . In a guttural moan pleading Love me, why can’t you love me for God’s sake . Do it! DO IT! The bared gums, damp exposed teeth. A ragged swath of rust-colored hairs between her clutching thighs. She was ugly to him, repulsive.
Damn you please what’s wrong with you DO IT! Bucking her groin against his. Her bony pelvis. He wanted to strike her with his fists, pummel her until she lost consciousness and had no further knowledge of him.
He too was moaning, pleading Stop! Don’t! You disgust me. In fact he may have slapped her, not with the flat of his hand exactly, flailing out in instinctive self-defense, knocking her back into the oversized pillows. But she’d only laughed. Unless she was crying. The brass bed jiggled, creaked, lurched and careened like a drunken boat. His elbow raked against her breast. There was something offensive, obscene about the small hard breasts, the inflamed-looking nipples. He shouted and spat at her to leave him alone yet blindly she swiped at him, grabbed at him, her strong fingers gripped his penis as in the most lewd of adolescent sex-fantasies. To his horror a sharp shuddering cry escaped from his lips even as his milky seed leapt from him piercing-sweet like a swarm of honeybees. He collapsed upon her then, panting. His brain was extinguished, like a flame that has been blown out. His heart pounded dangerously. Their sweat-slick bodies held fast.
Later he would hear her gagging and