Annie Oakley's Girl (6 page)

“Come on, of course you do. It's really famous. You'd recognize it.”

You slapped my stomach.

“OK,” I sighed, “it's black and orange. The sky going crazy and you — you just have to feel it.” I couldn't imagine what you imagined this painting would look like.

That night in bed you leaned over me to turn out the light, the way you always did before, but hadn't since that first night after the concert when I asked you to leave it on because I needed to see you clearly and not be in the dark. I said, “What are you doing? Please don't.”

You were up on your elbow, one arm stretched over me towards the light. Your face was straight at me. You smiled as if to comfort me. Your lips moved, “It's OK, baby, it's OK.” Then it was dark and your palms were on my cheeks. You were lying down, pulling me down, too. I couldn't hear or see anything. You pulled my right hand under your neck and up over your face. You put it on your mouth. I felt your lips move and the warmth and moisture of air coming out of your mouth; you were talking. You put my left hand on your stomach. I felt the smooth skin of your stomach and your stomach muscles tightening under my hand. I felt the loose skin on the back of your hand and the soft line of hair that ran from your chest to your crotch and the stiff curly hair of your crotch. You pressed my hand to your moving lips, talking. I touched your neck. I could tell you were speaking aloud.

“What are you saying?” I tried to imagine what your lips looked like.

I started up, but you pulled me down and rolled on top of me. You lay over me, putting your mouth by my ear. Your lips were moving near my ear and your tongue and breath, but I couldn't hear anything. I imagined the sound of your voice saying my name out loud over and over and the sound the air made as you pulled it down into your throat with your mouth open when you came, which was the same sound as the last sound I heard, the gasp you gasped as I pushed out your eyes.

We're standing in the kitchen, arm's distance apart, facing each other. I have two shiny silver teaspoons, and you, the two wood-burning pens we'd found in your old toy box at home. We raise our tools to face level. Your eyes are the color of sky. The light, cool spoons are against your cheeks. I hear the soft muffled rustle of your hands against my hair, the swish of your palms against my cheeks, the hum of the electric burning pens. I keep my eyes open, then press the round cold spoons into your eye sockets, push the sides of them in, perpendicular to your face. You try to blink; I press them back. My head feels like coals. I can feel everything. I clench my eyes closed. Everything is hot again. You gasp.

You gasped. I jolted up, screaming. I felt the movement in my throat and vibrations in my head and I couldn't hear anything. You fell away from me but reached back to put your arms around me, your hand over my mouth. You sat up and held me.

I fumbled for the light and switched it on. When I looked at you, your eyes were wide open. Your lips were saying, “It's OK, it's OK, it's OK.”

We kept the light on the rest of the night and every night after that.

You learned Braille and I learned ASL. But we still didn't want anyone to know. I borrowed Braille books from the library and made it obvious to everyone I could see. One day, on a bus on the way home from the library, we sat across from a boy with a hearing aid. I watched him as unobtrusively as I could. We sat next to each other, your hand on my arm, and I didn't tell you. I watched his face to see if I could tell how much he could hear. He was travelling by himself. I sent off to the American Sign Language Association for information about teaching the deaf to speak. We had agreed to tell no one, but I knew you were becoming increasingly annoyed at my inability to control my voice. And I wanted to do something about it on my own. Besides, there was no way you could find out; I was in charge of the mail.

But when I got the information I realized I was more interested in the articles about operations and treatments that cured some kinds of deafness. I read that in some cases there was scar tissue that could be removed. I tried to figure out a way of going to see an ear specialist and leaving you alone. I thought about it for weeks.

You wrote me a note saying that the change in my voice was drastic. You wrote that it was not just a matter of tone or pitch anymore, it was my ability to form words, that sometimes I yelled and sometimes you could barely hear me, that I didn't speak clearly and I needed to work on my enunciation. You wrote that maybe I'd better cool it on talking until I could talk better.

Your note was sloppily written. The characters bumped into each other, the lines were crooked. Some of the words weren't even written completely on the page.

Our first big social occasion was the costume party. We even skipped the reception after my show at the Meyer Gallery. We went because we thought it would be safe because, if anything went wrong, we could plead drunk or “in character.” And, of course, we could always play up the “reclusive artist ill-at-ease in social situations” role. We went as two medieval saints: hair shirts, stigmati, crowns of thorns, the works. Any social shortcomings caused by our handicaps could be excused as part of our costumes.

It was a huge party and everyone was there. I recognized some people by height and build, or if their costume was simple; you recognized their voice. But everyone was wearing masks and I couldn't see anyone's lips. Sometimes people came up and shook my hand or kissed me or gave me a pat on the back. I wanted to know what they were saying. I kept asking you, tapping your hand or whispering, “What are they saying? What's going on?” But you didn't want me to interrupt your conversations.

Every time I leaned over to ask you or tap out something, I saw people chuckle and nudge each other. A courtier pinched me on the arm and winked, then mimicked our constant closeness by putting both arms around the troubador nearby and whispering. Later, I gave up talking with any of the faces I couldn't see.

You and I were sitting on a couch; you were talking to two people to our right, and had been for forty minutes. My hand was on your knee. You were gesturing wildly. I felt your body shake as you laughed. You slapped your hand down on mine, grabbed it tightly, then released it. Your hands went in the air again and you weren't touching me. I thought about how familiar and common our bodies were with one another; your slapping my hand when you laughed was as natural as slapping your own thigh, as if there was no difference between them.

Then a skeleton yanked me away from the couch and pulled me out to the dance floor. I think you must have shouted after my being pulled away from you: it felt like the slow, hard pull between two magnets, then the snap of release. I positioned myself facing you. You were shaking your head frantically right and left. You must have been shouting because the couple next to you put their arms around you to comfort you. I imagined them telling you to settle down, that it was OK, that of course I wasn't upset with you.

They looked at me and back at you, trying to figure us out. I waved and smiled, indicating there was nothing really wrong, that you were just the way you were sometimes, high strung.

I tried to catch the rhythm of the dance from watching everyone else move. But I didn't know if I was moving on the beat or on the half-beat. I hoped the music was loud enough so my partner wouldn't try to talk to me. I felt the rhythm on the floor. I felt my blood go faster inside my temples and the moisture warming inside my clothes.

When the dance was over I came back and sat down. You threw your arms around me and put your head under my chin and on my shoulder. You were trying to cry. I felt the warmth and wetness of the sweat and saliva through my costume. I felt the trembling of your body. I lifted your face up. Your eyes were closed. Your face was red but you couldn't cry. I thought how you must have felt, trying to cry but not being able to, like trying to vomit and all you could do was the dry heaves. Your stomach was moving, short and quick. You were gasping. You were holding my hand with both of yours. You were squeezing it, “Home — home — home — ”

We both smelled like cigarettes and sweat, but neither of us showered before we went to bed. You lay there shaking without crying. I imagined the sound of your sobbing. I wanted to say something, that I was sorry: for the dance, for the party, for everything, for what we'd done. But I didn't. I didn't open my mouth because I knew I couldn't talk clearly anymore. And that, though you would probably understand me, the sound of my voice was horrible to you. I wanted to tap out “I'm sorry” on your skin. I put my hand on your naked stomach. I started to raise and lower my fingers, but I stopped. I hated talking this way, the only way we could communicate in the same way; I hated it because it was the only way.

I didn't tap out the words “I'm sorry” because I didn't know what they meant. And because I didn't really mean that. But I had to take the risk that you would know what I meant. That what I meant by not using our only way of communicating, our little, secret way, was that I wanted us to have a new one. That this new way was how I would tell you I would never leave you. Ever, even for an instant out in the world. That we would stay and watch out for each other.

That was what I meant when I flattened my palm out straight and still on your stomach and put my head on your chest to sleep.

But I don't know if you knew what I meant; you were almost still; your sobbing had stopped. I think we slept.

So we didn't go out again. We stayed inside with one another. During the day you composed and I painted. At night we read or I watched
TV
and you listened to the radio in our room. It was nice because we fit each other like glove and hand. If I wanted to go to sleep early but you wanted to listen to the radio, the noise didn't bother me. I could fall asleep in your arms while you listened to the
1812 Overture
. Or if you wanted to sleep and I wanted to watch
TV
, I could keep it on and the flickering of the screen wouldn't bother you.

Our house was warm and peaceful. We shared everything. What was yours was mine; what was mine was yours. We had no ambitions and no fear.

One night I wanted to stay up and do some studies for my new piece,
Voices
. It was a huge red-orange fiery roundish globe with lines of blue and white curling over it. It was an abstract piece about the sound the air made when you pulled it down into your throat with your mouth open.

I was very taken with my work then. Sometimes I would stay up working very late. My canvases had grown huge. My work was very physical and massive. I knew I must have made lots of noise, so I worked downstairs where you couldn't hear me.

That night I worked till three. When I started upstairs to our room, something smelled wrong. As I reached the landing I saw the light in our room was off. I wondered if it had burnt out because we always kept it on for me. You would never have turned it off. But when I reached the top of the stairs I saw into our room.

You were sprawled on the bed in a pool of blood. Your neck and stomach and crotch and hands and face and mouth were red. The sheets were red. I didn't know you had so much blood. And there kept on being more.

Then I heard the sound of the running blood and I heard the sound inside myself of mine. Inside of me it sounded like snow, like I was driving into a tunnel under snow. I hadn't heard like that before. It was the first thing I had heard since we had done it.

I walked to the bed and sat on the bed and sat beside your body and picked up the phone. I couldn't hear the dial tone but I dialed 911. I couldn't hear when they picked up the phone or if or when they answered, and I didn't know and I couldn't tell, if whoever it was could understand what I was trying to say. So I kept saying over again, “Hello? Hello? Something's happened — Hello? There's something wrong — Hello? There's someone stabbed — I didn't hear — I couldn't hear — Hello?”

I stayed on the phone and repeated this over and over because I didn't know when someone would answer, or how long it would take to understand, or if somebody ever would, or why I couldn't say right what had happened, why I couldn't tell what we'd done.

LOVE POEM

It's like art, making and unmaking. You're attracted to misshapen blocks. You like to chisel and form them into something beautiful and show yourself that you can do it. And you can do it. You do it beautifully. Why, look at all the things you've made beautiful. You've had shows in internationally renowned galleries. Everyone loves your work. Everyone says what a miracle worker you are, and you are. Here are some of your works:
Lazarus, The Woman Who Died, Spring in December, A Sunny Day in Chicago in November, Piña Colada in Salt Lake City, Love Among the Ruins, Blood From Stone, A Fine Shoot of Green in the Arctic, Love Among the Ruins II, Love Among the Ruins III
. You're acclaimed. Everyone clamors about you. Everyone loves you.

But they don't know your secret.

One night after your opening at the Tate last September — the Queen came, the Prime Minister came, David Bowie came, John Lennon came, Peter Cook and Dudley Moore came — one night after your opening, someone broke into the gallery and tore apart all your beautiful canvases. Someone soldered down all your beautiful metal sculpture. They broke your marbles. They smashed your glass. They burnt your wood. (You work in many mediums.)

The next day, the papers were full of it and the
Times
and the
Guardian
interviewed you. There were correspondents from New York, Washington, L.A., Chicago. They interviewed you about the destruction of your beautiful work and took pictures of you crying over the destruction of your beautiful work. But you wouldn't let them take many pictures or ask many questions because, as you and your agent told them repeatedly, you were much too distraught about the destruction of your beautiful work. How could anyone want to, you asked. Everyone asked: how could anyone want to? Everyone shook their heads. Such beautiful work — irreplaceable. Your picture on the front page of the
Times
was poignant and moving. I could barely see your face (your head was turned from the camera), but I could see your tears. I saw your tears and they looked real even to me. They streaked down your face gorgeously, like one of your drip paintings after Helen Frankenthaller. Yes, you were very beautiful.

I had the paper sent up to my room where I was staying at the Y near Russell Square. I'd paid the paper boy the day before because I knew you'd be in the paper.

I knew because you and I had done it. We'd done it for old times' sake. We'd had a few quick ones at the Prince of Wales, and then we'd done it. We did it to finish off something we'd left undone. I did it because I wanted to. You did it because you wanted to, too, because I told you I was the only person who knew you wanted to, and because I was the only person who would tell you that, and because I was the only person who would help you do it. You also did it for the insurance.

We let ourselves into the Tate with your master key, which had been entrusted to you by the Tate Gallery Trustees. I took chains and knives and razors and a whip and a machine gun and a sword and a cat-o'-nine-tails and three hand grenades and a liter of sulphuric acid and a power drill with four big drill bits. You didn't take anything because you wanted to do it with your own bare hands. The only thing you carried was a flashlight.

We went in and didn't turn on any of the lights. We did that for old times' sake, too. We went through your exhibition and destroyed everything. I slashed and shot and blowtorched and cut and soldered and blasted and whipped and drilled. You hit and kicked and tore and bit and clawed. Some pieces we did separately and some pieces we did under the soft grey glow of your flashlight. We worked almost the whole night and made rubble of everything.

But then I asked you if we could turn the lights on, please, because suddenly my old fear of the dark was on me again, and I was afraid. But you said we couldn't because you couldn't see anything because you had to look surprised when the sympathetic police and curators brought you here tomorrow to see what horrid vandalism had occurred the night before. I said I understood, and I closed my eyes to pretend it was only dark because I had my eyes closed and that it was really light. And then I asked you to tell me it was light and you said, but it wasn't, and I said, did you think I was a fool, of course I knew it was dark, but I just wanted to be told it wasn't, and you didn't understand, but I said, Lie to me, dammit, lie to me, so you did.

You took me in your arms and you said, It's light, it's light, it's light, it's light, and you held me and told me that it was light through the rest of the night until just before morning, and then we had to leave before the gallery opened. You led me to the exit door by the hand (my eyes were still closed), and outside where it was beginning to be light, and you told me to open my eyes, that it was beginning to get light. I did and then we shook hands on the steps of the gallery and patted each other on the shoulders like comrades and vowed secrecy. Then we each went home. You took a cab to Grosvenor Square and I hurried to the Russell Square Station Y. I went to bed for a few minutes and dreamt. This is what I dreamt:

I dreamt that I became an artist, too, and what I did was make and destroy things just like you. But no matter what I did, either in making or destroying it, no one cared. They didn't consider me an artist or a criminal. They didn't say, what a shame. They never gave me coverage. They never noticed me and I didn't know why, because, after all, I was just doing exactly what you had done and, not only that, what I had taught you to do and what you and I had done together.

I woke up when the paper boy brought me the paper with your picture and the articles about your show. I thought how I was the only person in the world who knew the real story. I knew that you knew it too, but I also knew that you would never think about it, that you would forget it.

I will not forget it. I will tell it to myself again and again and again.