The Bell Jar Part 8

It never occurred to me to say no.

I wrapped my fingers around the rough, bruising snake of a rope that slithered through them, and went up.

But the rope dragged me, wobbling and balancing, so rapidly I couldn't hope to dissociate myself from it halfway. There was a skier in front of me and a skier behind me, and I'd have been knocked over and stuck full of skis and poles the minute I let go, and I didn't want to make trouble, so I hung quietly on.

At the top, though, I had second thoughts.

Buddy singled me out, hesitating there in the red jacket. His arms chopped the air like khaki windmills. Then I saw he was signaling me to come down a path that had opened in the middle of the weaving skiers. But as I poised, uneasy, with a dry throat, the smooth white path from my feet to his feet grew blurred.

A skier crossed it from the left, another crossed it from the right, and Buddy's arms went on waving feebly as antennae from the other side of a field swarming with tiny moving animalcules like germs, or bent, bright exclamation marks.

I looked up from that churning amphitheater to the view beyond it.

The great, gray eye of the sky looked back at me, its mistshrouded sun focusing all the white and silent distances that poured from every point of the compa.s.s, hill after pale hill, to stall at my feet.

The interior voice nagging me not to be a fool--to save my skin and take off my skis and walk down, camouflaged by the scrub pines bordering the slope--fled like a disconsolate mosquito. The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.

I measured the distance to Buddy with my eye.

His arms were folded, now, and he seemed of a piece with the split-rail fence behind him--numb, brown and inconsequential.

Edging to the rim of the hilltop, I dug the spikes of my poles into the snow and pushed myself into a flight I knew I couldn't stop by skill or any belated access of will.

I aimed straight down.

A keen wind that had been hiding itself struck me full in the mouth and raked the hair back horizontal on my head. I was descending, but the white sun rose no higher. It hung over the suspended waves of the hills, an insentient pivot without which the world would not exist..

A small, answering point in my own body flew toward it. I felt my lungs inflate with the inrush of scenery--air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, "This is what it is to be happy."

I plummeted down past the zigzaggers, the students, the experts, through year after year of doubleness and smiles and compromise, into my own past.

People and trees receded on either hand like the dark sides of a tunnel as I hurtled on to the still, bright point at the end of it, the pebble at the bottom of the well, the white sweet baby cradled in its mother's belly.

My teeth crunched a gravelly mouthful. Ice water seeped down my throat.

Buddy's face hung over me, near and huge, like a distracted planet. Other faces showed themselves up in back of his. Behind them, black dots swarmed on a plane of whiteness. Piece by piece, as at the strokes of a dull G.o.dmother's wand, the old world sprang back into position.

"You were doing fine," a familiar voice informed my ear, "until that man stepped into your path."

People were unfastening my bindings and collecting my ski poles from where they poked skyward, askew, in their separate s...o...b..nks. The lodge fence propped itself at my back.

Buddy bent to pull off my boots and the several pairs of white wool socks that padded them. His plump hand shut on my left foot, then inched up my ankle, closing and probing, as if feeling for a concealed weapon.

A dispa.s.sionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.

"I'm going up," I said. "I'm going to do it again."

"No, you're not."

A queer, satisfied expression came over Buddy's face.

"No, you're not," he repeated with a final smile. "Your leg's broken in two places. You'll be stuck in a cast for months."

9.

"I'm so glad they)re going to die."

Hilda arched her cat-lirnbs in a yawn, buried her head in her arms on the conference table and went back to sleep. A wisp of bilious green straw perched on her brow like a tropical bird.

Bile green. They were promoting it for fall, only Hilda, as usual, was half a year ahead of time. Bile green with black, bile green with white, bile green with nile green, its kissing cousin.

Fas.h.i.+on blurbs, silver and full of nothing, sent up their fishy bubbles in my brain. They surfaced with a hollow pop.

I'm so glad they)re going to die. I'm so glad they)re going to die.

I cursed the luck that had timed my arrival in the hotel cafeteria to coincide with Hilda's. After a late night I felt too dull to think up the excuse that would take me back to my room for the glove, the handkerchief, the umbrella, the notebook I forgot. My penalty was the long, dead walk from the frosted gla.s.s doors of the Amazon to the strawberry-marble slab of our entry on Madison Avenue. I cursed the luck that had timed my arrival in the hotel cafeteria to coincide with Hilda's. After a late night I felt too dull to think up the excuse that would take me back to my room for the glove, the handkerchief, the umbrella, the notebook I forgot. My penalty was the long, dead walk from the frosted gla.s.s doors of the Amazon to the strawberry-marble slab of our entry on Madison Avenue.

Hilda moved like a mannequin the whole way.

"That's a lovely hat, did you make it?"

I half expected Hilda to turn on me and say, "You sound sick," but she only extended and then retracted her swanny neck.

"Yes."

The night before I'd seen a play where the heroine was possessed by a dybbuk, and when the dybbuk spoke from her mouth its voice sounded so cavernous and deep you couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman. Well, Hilda's voice sounded just like the voice of that dybbuk.

She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist. The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.

So I said, "Isn't it awful about the Rosenbergs?"

The Rosenbergs were to be electrocuted late that night.

"Yes!" Hilda said, and at last I felt I had touched a human string in the cat's cradle of her heart. It was only as the two of us waited for the others in the tomblike morning gloom of the conference room that Hilda amplified that Yes of hers.

"It's awful such people should be alive."

She yawned then, and her pale orange mouth opened on a large darkness. Fascinated, I stared at the blind cave behind her face until the two lips met and moved and the dybbuk spoke out of its hiding place, "I'm so glad they're going to die."

"Come on, give us a smile."

I sat on the pink velvet loveseat in Jay Cee's office, holding a paper rose and facing the magazine photographer. I was the last of the twelve to have my picture taken. I had tried concealing myself in the powder room, but it didn't work. Betsy had spied my feet under the doors.

I didn't want my picture taken because I was going to cry. I didn't know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I'd cry for a week. I could feel the tears br.i.m.m.i.n.g and slos.h.i.+ng in me like water in a gla.s.s that is unsteady and too full.

This was the last round of photographs before the magazine went to press and we returned to Tulsa or Biloxi or Teaneck or Coos Bay or wherever we've come from, and we were supposed to be photographed with props to show what we wanted to be.

Betsy held an ear of corn to show she wanted to be a farmer's wife, and Hilda held the bald, faceless head of a hatmaker's dummy to show she wanted to design hats, and Doreen held a gold-embroidered sari to show she wanted to be a social worker in India (she didn't really, she told me, she only wanted to get her hands on a sari).

When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.

"Oh, sure you know," the photographer said.

"She wants," said Jay Cee wittily, "to be everything."

I said I wanted to be a poet.

Then they scouted about for something for me to hold.

Jay Cee suggested a book of poems, but the photographer said no, that was too obvious. It should be something that showed what inspired the poems. Finally Jay Cee unclipped the single, long-stemmed paper rose from her latest hat.

The photographer fiddled with his hot white lights. "Show us how happy it makes you to write a poem."

I stared through the frieze of rubber-plant leaves in Jay Cee's window to the blue sky beyond. A few stagey cloud puffs were traveling from right to left. I fixed my eyes on the largest cloud, as if, when it pa.s.sed out of sight, I might have the good luck to pa.s.s with it.

I felt it was very important to keep the line of my mouth level.

"Give us a smile."

At last, obediently, like the mouth of a ventriloquist's dummy, my own mouth started to quirk up.

"Hey," the photographer protested, with sudden foreboding, "you look like you're going to cry."

I couldn't stop.

I buried my face in the pink velvet facade of Jay Cee's loveseat and with immense relief the salt tears and miserable noises that had been prowling around in me all morning burst out into the room.

When I lifted my head, the photographer had vanished. Jay Cee had vanished as well. I felt limp and betrayed, like the skin shed by a terrible animal. It was a relief to be free of the animal, but it seemed to have taken my spirit with it, and everything else it could lay its paws on.

I fumbled in my pocketbook for the gilt compact with the mascara and the mascara brush and the eyeshadow and the three lipsticks and the side mirror. The face that peered back at me seemed to be peering from the grating of a prison cell after a prolonged beating. It looked bruised and puffy and all the wrong colors. It was a face that needed soap and water and Christian tolerance.

I started to paint it with small heart.

Jay Cee breezed back after a decent interval with an armful of ma.n.u.scripts.

"These'll amuse you," she said. "Have a good read."

Every morning a snowy avalanche of ma.n.u.scripts swelled the dust-gray piles in the office of the Fiction Editor. Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing. Say someone or other finished a ma.n.u.script every minute; in five minutes that would be five ma.n.u.scripts stacked on the Fiction Editor's desk. Within the hour there would be sixty, crowding each other onto the floor. And in a year...

I smiled, seeing a pristine, imaginary ma.n.u.script floating in mid-air, with Esther Greenwood typed in the upper-right-hand corner. After my month on the magazine I'd applied for a summer school course with a famous writer where you sent in the ma.n.u.script of a story and he read it and said whether you were good enough to be admitted into his cla.s.s.

Of course, it was a very small cla.s.s, and I had sent in my story a long time ago and hadn't heard from the writer yet, but I was sure I'd find the letter of acceptance waiting on the mail table at home.

I decided I'd surprise Jay Cee and send in a couple of the stories I wrote in this cla.s.s under a pseudonym. Then one day the Fiction Editor would come in to Jay Cee personally and plop the stories down on her desk and say, "Here's something a cut above the usual," and Jay Cee would agree and accept them and ask the author to lunch and it would be me.

"Honestly," Doreen said, "this one'll be different."

"Tell me about him," I said stonily.

"He's from Peru."

"They're squat," I said. "They're ugly as Aztecs."

"No, no, no, sweetie, I've already met him."

We were sitting on my bed in a mess of dirty cotton dresses and laddered nylons and gray underwear, and for ten minutes Doreen had been trying to persuade me to go to a country club dance with a friend of somebody Lenny knew which, she insisted, was a very different thing from a friend of Lenny's, but as I was catching the eight o'clock train home the next morning I felt I should make some attempt to pack.

I also had a dim idea that if I walked the streets of New York by myself all night something of the city's mystery and magnificence might rub off on to me at last.

But I gave it up.

It was becoming more and more difficult for me to decide to do anything in those last days. And when I eventually did did decide to do something, such as packing a suitcase, I only dragged all my grubby, expensive clothes out of the bureau and the closet and spread them on the chairs and the bed and the floor and then sat and stared at them, utterly perplexed. They seemed to have a separate, mulish ident.i.ty of their own that refused to be washed and folded and stowed. decide to do something, such as packing a suitcase, I only dragged all my grubby, expensive clothes out of the bureau and the closet and spread them on the chairs and the bed and the floor and then sat and stared at them, utterly perplexed. They seemed to have a separate, mulish ident.i.ty of their own that refused to be washed and folded and stowed.

"It's these clothes," I told Doreen. "I just can't face these clothes when I come back."

"That's easy."

And in her beautiful, one-track way, Doreen started to s.n.a.t.c.h up slips and stockings and the elaborate strapless bra, full of steel springs--a free gift from the Primrose Corset Company, which rd never had the courage to wear--and finally, one by one, the sad array of queerly cut forty-dollar dresses....

"Hey, leave that one out. I'm wearing it."

Doreen extricated a black sc.r.a.p from her bundle and dropped it in my lap. Then, s...o...b..lling the rest of the clothes into one soft, conglomerate ma.s.s, she stuffed them out of sight under the bed.

Doreen knocked on the green door with the gold k.n.o.b.

Scuffling and a man's laugh, cut short, sounded from inside. Then a tall boy in s.h.i.+rtsleeves and a blond crew cut inched the door open and peered out.

"Baby!" he roared.

Doreen disappeared in his arms. I thought it must be the person Lenny knew.

I stood quietly in the doorway in my black sheath and my black stole with the fringe, yellower than ever, but expecting less. "I am an observer," I told myself, as I watched Doreen being handed into the room by the blond boy to another man, who was also tall, but dark, with slightly longer hair. This man was wearing an immaculate white suit, a pale blue s.h.i.+rt and a yellow satin tie with a bright stickpin.

I couldn't take my eyes off that stickpin.

A great white light seemed to shoot out of it, illuminating the room. Then the light withdrew into itself, leaving a dewdrop on a field of gold.

I put one foot in front of the other.

"That's a diamond," somebody said, and a lot of people burst out laughing.

My nail tapped a gla.s.sy facet.