speaking.
After Joel had left, she could only sit down again in the wicker rocker, and practice calm. Had one of the Illinois tornadoes blown away the whole house, leaving her and the rocker intact, she could not have sat there more oblivious to outside happenings. She knew this was a principal, albeit spectacularly unforeseen, event of her life. All other attachments, loves, husbands, events in her life seemed faint and unreal. There had never been a Harold Winternitz, and there was certainly now no Bernie Gladhart. She cried a little as she saw Bernie disappearing. He had needed her, and probably still did, but it was a hurricane after all that sometimes made you wake up. She knew now he could never be a writer. Those querulous phone calls told her, for on a telephone one finally hears the real voice isolated from the flesh that contains it. What she heard coming to her from Brooklyn was only a mewling infant, missing its milk. It had been for her a kind of drug to believe the impossible, to believe in Bernie, but suddenly her belief was dead.
Carrie knew of course what was coming this evening, and she prepared to make herself ready. She rested, she drank bowl after bowl of nourishing clam soup, and every so often just a nip of brandy. She telephoned a fashionable Hungarian restaurant which, on being pressed, would send out a complete dinner for two.
There would be no more empty hours in the wedding-bower, she told herself, aloud. After all, she had tried the impossible with Bernie, and she was glad her punishment was over. Waiting for evening, dressed only in her foundation, but with her wired bra lifted to dizzy heights, she snuggled under a coverlet covered with lily-pads for design.
In bed with Joel late that night, Carrie scarcely was aware of the telephone’s ringing, as freeing herself briefly from her lover’s smoky arms, she achieved consciousness long enough to say a few words into the mouthpiece. She could hardly remember what she said, for her body satisfaction, akin to a coma, owing to Joel’s expert lovemaking, prevented her from either recognizing what Bernie said in his puzzled voice, or saying anything much to him in reply.
In her special physical state, and her longing to be back in Joel’s arms, she had let the phone fall to the floor, remaining connected with Brooklyn and permitting Bernie to enter the wedding-bower, and by the miracle of electronics hear everything as clearly as if he were listening at the door.
AT FIRST IT was difficult for Bernie even to take it in, let alone believe his own ears. He felt like a man who had tuned in the radio to hear the announcement of his own death. Yet he was unable to leave off listening, and the earpiece seemed to have become attached to his face.
Carrie’s bed was always immediately adjacent to the phone, and her words to Joel Ullay came clear and merciless, leaving nothing in doubt. Bernie heard all, listening for what seemed hours at Carrie’s expense both financially (collect call) and spiritually (her soul laid bare). He heard, that is, not merely their lovemaking which in its eclipse of his own left him feeling annihilated, but toward dawn Carrie, speaking in quiet sober tones, declared that Joel was to succeed to all bower rights from now on. This was followed by her analysis of Bernie’s own spectacular failure as man and provider, then in turn by a vigorous new set of coitus, with cries of animal pleasure and yelps from an unidentified throat, at which Bernie himself seemed to lose consciousness, being awakened again by renewed cries and moans emanating from Chicago.
The last thing Bernie heard before he hung up once and for all was Carrie’s telling Joel that not only was Bernie pedestrian in bed, but he would never, even by wildest chance, finish the story of Cabot Wright.
Bernie planned immediately to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, but a headache of such exquisite pain and tender pulsation started that he could not even walk out of the
After Joel had left, she could only sit down again in the wicker rocker, and practice calm. Had one of the Illinois tornadoes blown away the whole house, leaving her and the rocker intact, she could not have sat there more oblivious to outside happenings. She knew this was a principal, albeit spectacularly unforeseen, event of her life. All other attachments, loves, husbands, events in her life seemed faint and unreal. There had never been a Harold Winternitz, and there was certainly now no Bernie Gladhart. She cried a little as she saw Bernie disappearing. He had needed her, and probably still did, but it was a hurricane after all that sometimes made you wake up. She knew now he could never be a writer. Those querulous phone calls told her, for on a telephone one finally hears the real voice isolated from the flesh that contains it. What she heard coming to her from Brooklyn was only a mewling infant, missing its milk. It had been for her a kind of drug to believe the impossible, to believe in Bernie, but suddenly her belief was dead.
Carrie knew of course what was coming this evening, and she prepared to make herself ready. She rested, she drank bowl after bowl of nourishing clam soup, and every so often just a nip of brandy. She telephoned a fashionable Hungarian restaurant which, on being pressed, would send out a complete dinner for two.
There would be no more empty hours in the wedding-bower, she told herself, aloud. After all, she had tried the impossible with Bernie, and she was glad her punishment was over. Waiting for evening, dressed only in her foundation, but with her wired bra lifted to dizzy heights, she snuggled under a coverlet covered with lily-pads for design.
In bed with Joel late that night, Carrie scarcely was aware of the telephone’s ringing, as freeing herself briefly from her lover’s smoky arms, she achieved consciousness long enough to say a few words into the mouthpiece. She could hardly remember what she said, for her body satisfaction, akin to a coma, owing to Joel’s expert lovemaking, prevented her from either recognizing what Bernie said in his puzzled voice, or saying anything much to him in reply.
In her special physical state, and her longing to be back in Joel’s arms, she had let the phone fall to the floor, remaining connected with Brooklyn and permitting Bernie to enter the wedding-bower, and by the miracle of electronics hear everything as clearly as if he were listening at the door.
AT FIRST IT was difficult for Bernie even to take it in, let alone believe his own ears. He felt like a man who had tuned in the radio to hear the announcement of his own death. Yet he was unable to leave off listening, and the earpiece seemed to have become attached to his face.
Carrie’s bed was always immediately adjacent to the phone, and her words to Joel Ullay came clear and merciless, leaving nothing in doubt. Bernie heard all, listening for what seemed hours at Carrie’s expense both financially (collect call) and spiritually (her soul laid bare). He heard, that is, not merely their lovemaking which in its eclipse of his own left him feeling annihilated, but toward dawn Carrie, speaking in quiet sober tones, declared that Joel was to succeed to all bower rights from now on. This was followed by her analysis of Bernie’s own spectacular failure as man and provider, then in turn by a vigorous new set of coitus, with cries of animal pleasure and yelps from an unidentified throat, at which Bernie himself seemed to lose consciousness, being awakened again by renewed cries and moans emanating from Chicago.
The last thing Bernie heard before he hung up once and for all was Carrie’s telling Joel that not only was Bernie pedestrian in bed, but he would never, even by wildest chance, finish the story of Cabot Wright.
Bernie planned immediately to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, but a headache of such exquisite pain and tender pulsation started that he could not even walk out of the
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