She’d had a nice long session with Dr. King, talking freely about her mother. She decided that she felt better, understood the woman more, although the doctor had not done any more than George had done. He had mainly just allowed her to voice her opinions.
“You know,” she told herself, “you’ve really got it made.”
At their age they were unusually secure, thanks to George’s father’s belief in insurance. George liked his work. They had a beautiful home. There were dark areas in her life, but a monthly show of red had negated one of her most awful worries. She was not pregnant by the meter reader.
It was really unbelievable, that thing that had happened. If she lived to be a hundred, she’d never understand her actions, but there, in the hot sun, with the cool water laving her feet, she no longer felt suicidal about it. Desperately sorry, yes. She thought she’d give her right hand to erase that event. Then she wondered why she’d thought of that particular old bromide. She shook her head. She didn’t want to think of unpleasant things, the dreams for example. She felt that she was on the way back and was going to beat it, whatever it was. It was simple to accept the Freudian thing and blame it all on mama.
She had so much that she was not going to throw it away, a great man, a fine life, and all the love she could handle—taking the meaning of the word both ways.
She lay back and covered her eyes with one arm. It was so peaceful there. She was dozing when the bulldozers started work again. The muffled roars caused her to frown. Even that would pass. People had babies and the babies grew up and used electricity. There had to be power plants or the race would go back to cave-man living, and she would not have liked that. She liked having a nice stereo set with records which turned her on, liked the ease of electric cooking and washing and ironing and all that. It would pass. She pushed the engine sounds into the back of her mind and tried to regain that drowsy sense of well-being.
She thought of the island as it once was, wild, huge trees never touched by saw or ax. The trees would have closed off the floor of the forest from the sun, and there, underneath a shady canopy, would be only a thick mulch of pine straw and leaves, clear, cool. It was a nice thought. She’d never seen a virgin forest, only second-growth timber with thick underbrush and weedy plants. She imagined the forest of three hundred years past and then, further than that, back through the eons to ages of giant ferns and strange, lumbering animals.
Something crawled on her foot. She kicked and looked down. A pulpy tentacle of the water plant which covered the bottom of the pond had drifted across her instep. She stretched, her heels in the very edge of the water, and yawned. The sun felt so good, the water so cool. An image. She, like a plant, head lifted to the sun, feet, roots, in cool, wet earth. She dug her feet into the wet sand, sighed with the feel of it. What would she be? A rose? A giant sequoia? Or that desert tree which lived thousands, wasn’t it, of years? A rose was glamorous, but there were all sorts of things that ate it. A tree. Sequoia. Hundreds of years old. A line from a song, “and if you could speak, what a fascinating tale you could tell.” She would want some defense, however, so that when the loggers came she could drop a limb on their heads. Well, they’d just build cages to protect them, like the bulldozer operator.
Idle mind, idle thoughts, she told herself, thinking about going inside to have a bite of something or to paint. But she was so lazy.
There is a delicious feeling of contentment when one falls asleep slowly for a practice nap. As she shaded her eyes from the sun with one arm, she thought, If I could be this sleepy when I go to bed I’d never dream. Pure luxury. Letting the eyes close, the lids so heavy, so heavy. And half-sleep, an awareness of sounds, but as if they came from a distance. Comfort. Lazy comfort. Peace. Around her the living things were known, friendly, and symbiotic. Shared things, the perfume of flowers, the rich fruit given freely, she, herself, knowing the goodness of the rich earth, yet mobile, returning to it for health and sustenance. At the end of the day planting herself, coming back to the rich earth. Feeding. An absence of pain and fear. It was a beautiful dream and it was real and the landscape was eerily familiar, yet strange.
She felt heavy and ripe. It was a good, natural feeling. A bee buzzed on a weed flower near her ear. Birds called, and a mosquito whined near her head but did not bite. She sat up, feeling languidly at peace. Her clothes constrained her. She loosened her blouse and left it open to the waist. The sun felt good on her bare skin. She wore a small, natural-feel tricot bra. She felt like saying, “Yum,” when she breathed the air, it was so pure, so delicately flavored with the sweet oxygen given off by the growing things around her.
A noise at the far end of the pond caused her to turn her head, not in panic, in interest, slowly. Sam started barking. Two teen-age boys came out of the brush, did not see her, halted to look at the pond. Ripe, swollen, heavy. Good, natural. She stretched, pushing out her breasts. She raised a hand, waved at them. They saw and waved back hesitantly.
“Come here,” she called, just loudly enough to be heard.
They consulted, moved slowly around the pond. She waited, ripe, mellow, natural.
“No.” She heard it deep inside, a small voice. “No.” That part of her knew, recognized the feeling of ripeness. That part of her screamed, protested. The two boys, tall, lithe, and handsome, moved toward her, walking slowly around the far end of the clear pond.
“I won’t,” she whispered. “I will not.”
She was talking to someone or something. She couldn’t see or hear that someone or that something, but it was there. “I won’t.”
“Yes, yes,” the very air seemed to be saying. “Yes,” inside her. Open yourself here, naturally, on the grass.
They were fifty yards away, nearing her. She shook her head, fighting the conflicting desires, the ripe, natural, sweet want versus the agony of knowledge. If she yielded to her impulses, she could not live with herself.
Sam, barking, escorted them. Her stomach and her scantily covered breasts were exposed. They could see. “No, please,” she begged. “No.”
There was an alternative. It was so frightening that she screamed, the sound shrill, harsh, breaking the silence. The two boys halted. The alternative was presented again, vividly. She screamed anew, and the two boys broke into a run and crashed away into the brush. She stood, breathing hard, tears wetting her face. “No,” she said. “Oh, no.”
Then, in sudden contrast, the scene of pure bliss, endless peace, immortality, heaven. Strange, lovely landscape. The moment of terror was wiped away. It was if it had never happened. She saw and understood. She had a choice, but that choice did not include inactivity. As if to drive home the point, she was swept with unbearable agony, terminal agony, twisted, torn, and rended, her limbs being shattered. It was only a moment, but in that terrifying moment she saw more and understood more and knew, with regret and a sweet, unreachable sadness, what she must do.
A quick summer shower crossed the island as George came home. As he entered the drive, the windshield wipers making rhythmic sweeps, he saw Gwen, her blouse open, her hair wet and streaming down her back, standing down by the pond. He was dry, but he would have to change from his work clothes anyhow. It was a warm, pleasant summer shower, so he ran through it and yelped at her. She turned around and smiled.