Read Online Vida by Marge Piercy - Free Book Online
Authors: Marge Piercy
Tags: General Fiction
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the beach was settling with families and couples.
On the blanket filched from the motel she sat eating slowly and trying in memorize each moment. She felt distended with happiness. Leigh took off his shirt and lay propped on an elbow, savoring the champagne drunk out of a paper cup. That was Leigh, all right: the best for his palate and he’d eat it out of an old shoe. A champagne picnic on a scuzzy blanket. That was so typical and so reminiscent of good times together in the past that she had to clutch herself to keep from crawling all over him with affection the way he detested. Instead, she finally got him to play two of his specials on his little cassette player, one about longshoremen and the other about an old folks’ commune. He gave her a couple to carry away to hear when she could. Then she would burn them; her life at times reeked of burning tapes, tapes the Network sometimes used to communicate internally and with the outside world. She wished he had played the programs in the motel room. She had trouble concentrating under the mild blue sky and the warm soporific sun.
A couple ran over the dune. Immediately she shut off the player. The man and woman were photographing each other, mugging, posing, shooting from a crouch, lying back languorously. She would have liked a picture of Leigh to carry with her. She would have liked to give him a photo of her, not to forget her, to carry her with him, but that was a pleasure as forbidden as strolling into her own building, greeting Julio and gossiping a few minutes as she picked up her mail, riding up in the elevator and walking into her own apartment. Among the furniture they had bought together so long ago she would sit down with one of her own books. In the wonderful old tub long enough to lie down in, she would run the water very hot and pour in her pomander bath oil. Then she would dry and come into her own bedroom with the red velvet draperies or into Leigh’s with the Venetian blinds and the blue burlap curtains.
They had always had separate rooms. Leigh’s overflowed with clippings, tapes he was editing, splicing equipment, files, a dandruff of loose papers she could not endure. Leigh suffered from occasional fierce insomnia, stands of nights when he could not bear anyone in the bed with him, when he would get up and read at 3 A.M., work on an article, record his ideas or projects. Her room had been consciously sensual, a place to make love, to sleep, to talk hour after hour curled among heaped cushions on the big bed under the Cretan hanging, a room with two mirrors and a hanging light with a stained-glass shade, a modern imitation of Tiffany but lovely, lavender, cobalt, maroon …
“Do you and Susannah have separate bedrooms?” she asked.
“What?” He was shielding his eyes from the sun, stripped down to his swim trunks now. “I had to move the bed out of my office a while ago. I’ve got too many files. I put in a couch. It’s big enough for fucking” He grinned. “Black Naugahyde, looks like a doctor’s office. I can do decent recording there. I had it soundproofed. Not studio quality, but decent.”
Time was spinning faster and faster. When the couple wandered off, she turned on the cassette player again, listening as Leigh dozed. She bent over him. He had gained some weight. He had a visible soft stomach, but he was in remarkable shape considering he almost never did any physical exercise beyond making love and climbing steps out of the subway. He did walk a lot, blocks, miles around New York, often preferring to walk from 69th to 42nd or from their apartment up to Columbia, rather than take public transportation or a taxi. Somehow he burned up the good eating.
As he dozed, stirring in his sleep, grimacing slightly, she sat over him while his rich voice came tiny from the cassette interviewing a multitude of other New York voices. He was aging some, nicely. White hair flecked his beard, glinting in his brows. Lines were etched under his
On the blanket filched from the motel she sat eating slowly and trying in memorize each moment. She felt distended with happiness. Leigh took off his shirt and lay propped on an elbow, savoring the champagne drunk out of a paper cup. That was Leigh, all right: the best for his palate and he’d eat it out of an old shoe. A champagne picnic on a scuzzy blanket. That was so typical and so reminiscent of good times together in the past that she had to clutch herself to keep from crawling all over him with affection the way he detested. Instead, she finally got him to play two of his specials on his little cassette player, one about longshoremen and the other about an old folks’ commune. He gave her a couple to carry away to hear when she could. Then she would burn them; her life at times reeked of burning tapes, tapes the Network sometimes used to communicate internally and with the outside world. She wished he had played the programs in the motel room. She had trouble concentrating under the mild blue sky and the warm soporific sun.
A couple ran over the dune. Immediately she shut off the player. The man and woman were photographing each other, mugging, posing, shooting from a crouch, lying back languorously. She would have liked a picture of Leigh to carry with her. She would have liked to give him a photo of her, not to forget her, to carry her with him, but that was a pleasure as forbidden as strolling into her own building, greeting Julio and gossiping a few minutes as she picked up her mail, riding up in the elevator and walking into her own apartment. Among the furniture they had bought together so long ago she would sit down with one of her own books. In the wonderful old tub long enough to lie down in, she would run the water very hot and pour in her pomander bath oil. Then she would dry and come into her own bedroom with the red velvet draperies or into Leigh’s with the Venetian blinds and the blue burlap curtains.
They had always had separate rooms. Leigh’s overflowed with clippings, tapes he was editing, splicing equipment, files, a dandruff of loose papers she could not endure. Leigh suffered from occasional fierce insomnia, stands of nights when he could not bear anyone in the bed with him, when he would get up and read at 3 A.M., work on an article, record his ideas or projects. Her room had been consciously sensual, a place to make love, to sleep, to talk hour after hour curled among heaped cushions on the big bed under the Cretan hanging, a room with two mirrors and a hanging light with a stained-glass shade, a modern imitation of Tiffany but lovely, lavender, cobalt, maroon …
“Do you and Susannah have separate bedrooms?” she asked.
“What?” He was shielding his eyes from the sun, stripped down to his swim trunks now. “I had to move the bed out of my office a while ago. I’ve got too many files. I put in a couch. It’s big enough for fucking” He grinned. “Black Naugahyde, looks like a doctor’s office. I can do decent recording there. I had it soundproofed. Not studio quality, but decent.”
Time was spinning faster and faster. When the couple wandered off, she turned on the cassette player again, listening as Leigh dozed. She bent over him. He had gained some weight. He had a visible soft stomach, but he was in remarkable shape considering he almost never did any physical exercise beyond making love and climbing steps out of the subway. He did walk a lot, blocks, miles around New York, often preferring to walk from 69th to 42nd or from their apartment up to Columbia, rather than take public transportation or a taxi. Somehow he burned up the good eating.
As he dozed, stirring in his sleep, grimacing slightly, she sat over him while his rich voice came tiny from the cassette interviewing a multitude of other New York voices. He was aging some, nicely. White hair flecked his beard, glinting in his brows. Lines were etched under his
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