Three Women at the Water's Edge (21 page)

“Tell me about Dad,” Daisy said, and Dale said, “Oh, God, you don’t want to hear about Dad
now,
” and then they went quiet until Dale said, “Tell me about Mother,” and Daisy said, “Oh, God, you don’t want to hear about Mother
now
.” And they both burst out laughing, and that was the way the evening went. They ended up gossiping about people they had known in Liberty, and telling secrets that had been worth dying over when they were seventeen but which seemed ludicrously unimportant to them now, and the whole world was so full of absurd things that there was nothing to do but to become more and more gay. Somehow they came to a conversation about their toes: Dale’s were long and knobby and humorous; Daisy’s were short and plump, like a bouquet of thumbs; and they just couldn’t understand how two sisters could have such different toes. This led them to the contemplation of Dale’s little toe, which was shorter than the others because it had been quickly chopped in half one summer afternoon: Daisy and her mother and Dale had been in the car returning from the swimming pool, wearing only swimsuits and nothing on their feet, and Daisy had wanted to do something, go to a friend’s house for overnight perhaps, and Margaret had said gently, no, and Daisy had yelled, “Oh, Mother!” and jumped out of the car, slamming the door furiously behind her, right on innocent Dale’s bare foot. Dale had screamed with the pain, and then had sat there holding the severed piece of flesh in her hand, saying over and over again in shock: “I’m holding my toe in my hand. I’m holding my toe in my hand.” Daisy had been overcome with guilt and had vowed that she would never slam a car door for the rest of her life, she would always be
good
. She had tried to chastise herself by not swimming that summer—Dale hadn’t been able to go for a long while, because her toe was done up in an elaborate bandage—and Daisy stayed home too and played paper dolls or Clue with Dale. Dale had loved it—had loved having her five-years-older sister hanging around trying to please her. Actually, Dale had never thought that Daisy should have taken such a burden of guilt on herself, after all it had been stupid of Dale to try to get out of the car when it was so obvious that Daisy was angry, was going to slam the door.

“I never thought you did anything really wrong,” Dale confessed. “I idolized you, you know. You were so brave and so pretty and had so many friends.”

“But you were so
smart
,” Daisy countered. “And you turned out every bit as pretty as I, you know that.”

“Oh, that’s not true, that’s not true,” Dale said. “You’ll always be prettier than I; you just can’t help it.”

So they got into a tussle of compliments and ended up going up to Daisy’s bedroom and throwing off their robes, to stand naked in front of the enormous mirror, studying their bodies and faces, and laughing at the sight.

“I had to learn to walk all over again without putting weight on that little toe,” Dale said. “Remember? It’s amazing how important one fraction of a toe can be to the whole balance of your body.”

So of course Daisy had to try to walk around her bedroom without putting any weight on her little toe, and that set them off laughing again, the sight of naked Daisy lumbering lopsidedly about.

“Still,” Dale concluded, “even fat and pregnant, you’re still the more beautiful, Daisy.” She spoke with complete honesty.

“Do you really think so?” Daisy asked, amazed. “How in the world can you think so? Look how fat I am, and all the veins running about all over my skin, and look how my breasts sag, and after the baby my stomach will sag, too. And then look at you—why,
you’re perfect
.”

“Oh, I’m okay,” Dale said. “I’m acceptable enough, but something’s lacking about me; I’m too—bland. You look voluptuous and successful
—that’s what you look: successful. You have a successful body.”

“I do?” Daisy asked in amazement, and stared at herself again in the mirror, at all her fat appurtenances. “Well,” she said at last, “I must admit, I’m
busy
.”

“Oh, Daisy,” Dale said, and wrapped her arms around her sister and hugged her.

“Oh, Dale,” Daisy said, and hugged her sister back. They stood there, hugging awkwardly around the bulge of Daisy’s tummy, and it was lovely, the touch of skin.

“Do you want to know something?” Dale said, withdrawing a bit from Daisy’s embrace, holding Daisy at arm’s length, one hand on each upper arm, scrutinizing her. “I’m jealous of you. Of that.” She nodded at Daisy’s belly. “I can’t imagine how it must feel to have a real
baby
inside. I think you must feel very
smug
.”

“I do feel smug,” Daisy said. “I always have, each time I’ve been pregnant. There’s nothing like it. I feel self-contained, and self-content, and excited and hopeful, and oh, just terribly, terribly pleased. I’d love to have fifteen children. And I can’t blame Paul, you know, for going off; he really can’t share this pleasure. No matter what, he’s still got only his cold hard empty lonely body; he’ll never hold any magic—and that’s what it is, you know, no matter how many photographs or clinical books are brought out on the subject—that’s what it is, making a baby: magic. It’s not fair, I know—and I really don’t understand it. Why should nature deny half of the human race the joy of being magic? Poor little Danny; it
kills
him because he can’t grow up and have a baby in his tummy. You know, I think all that stuff about penis envy is absurd, a hoax, or maybe Freud thought it up hoping to make men feel better about themselves, less powerless. Jenny has never said she wanted a penis—although she has pulled Danny’s from time to time, I mean it does hang down there, just looking like it should be pulled. But Danny has said over and over again that he wished he could have a baby in his tummy like me, and when I sat down and tried to explain it all to the children, that Jenny would get to when she grew up because she was a girl, but Danny wouldn’t because he was a boy, well, Danny was just terribly upset. Heartbroken. No, I think it’s good that Paul will have Monica—that she’ll tie her tubes and he’ll get a vasectomy, and that way neither one of them will be able to make a baby, to make magic, and they’ll really be
equals
then, and probably have a very
equal
relationship. As for me, I wouldn’t trade one of my children, not even this new unborn one for a lifetime with Paul. My only regret is that I won’t be able to have more children. And it’s hormonal, a trick of body chemistry, this continual high, this delicious sense of well-being, and self-importance, and superiority, and smug delight; it’s a trick of body chemistry—but so is love, and so is recovering after being sick. And of course, there’s always the other side of it—morning sickness, and stretch marks, and the real exhaustion that wears you down after you have the baby and must tend to it. I’d rather be pregnant for three years, and give birth to a three-year-old—I think I’d be much more energetic!” Daisy smiled, and as if her thoughts suddenly weighed her down, sank onto the carpet awkwardly, catching herself with both hands, and lay on her back on the floor. She stared up at Dale, tall naked Dale, whose skin was firm and flawless, without a mark, like whole fabric, smooth and perfect. Tears began to trickle out of Daisy’s eyes and down the side of her face into her hair. Finally she was crying. She had wondered when it would come, when it would hit: and here it was. Dale’s presence provided just enough safety; so she let the tears come.

“You know, one really can’t go on being pregnant forever. You’ve got to have the baby, and there it is, and you love it with all your life, and that is what life
is
then—those children, their health and safety and happiness. The joy of holding them. And the work. But once you’ve had them—oh, Dale, don’t envy
me. I envy you
. You’re
young
. Look at your body. It’s so lovely. You’re so lovely. You look so young and firm and appealing. And look at me, look at my breasts: those stretch marks won’t go away. Oh, when I’m through nursing my breasts will get smaller, but those little silver streaks will always be there, on my breasts, my hips, my belly; even if I lose weight I will never again be able to look like you. Oh, Dale, I’m getting old, old, and no one will ever love me again, no one will ever take care of me, give me presents, help me. I’m so old and fat and tired—” Daisy closed her eyes and tears trickled out and down her face.

“Daisy,” Dale said, alarmed, and knelt beside her sister. “Please don’t talk that way. Don’t even
think
that way. You are lovely; you will be lovelier; men will want you again—”

Daisy was lying flat on her back on the rug, arms crossed protectively over her belly. Tears kept flowing. “No, no,” she said, not opening her eyes. “It’s all over. Don’t envy me, Dale; it’s all over, gone—my youth, my prettiness, my slim body, my hopes. Things change, and that’s the truth, and there’s no way to get around it. Things change. We age. We get older. We begin to sag. Children are the compensation, the reward, but the truth is we still after a while begin to lose it all—the energy, the body, the shining face. Life really is a series of rooms, and we go from one into the other, but the door goes only one way, and we can never go back. It happens to everyone. Youth—love
—children—
loss. Not a circle, but a straight inflexible line. Youth—love
—children—
loss. It’s all in front of you. But it’s all behind me, and I can’t go back. Oh, Dale, I am so tired. And so cold.”