Read an Excerpt
Sarah and I do talk to each other. No problem there. We
must spend the better part of our lives hashing things out, settling
accounts. We converse in the middle of the night if necessary. Neither of us
is above waking the other if a salient point is to be made. It's as if by
compensating for a possible decline in physical intimacy, our relationship
grows increasingly verbal. Is that true? Is there some bizarre corollary
here? Language, the spoken word, taking precedence over sweet caress? Let me
turn that around: if I were to try putting a lid on it, cease trying to
always get in the last conclusive word, stop talking, would I better my
chances?
"What's got you so huffy?" Sarah asked, perched above this morning's bowl of
crunchy bran nuggets.
Sarah is the only person I've ever met who can roll out of bed and look
stunning. Her eyes looked as blue as the sea.
"All I said was 'Happy Birthday, Gatlin,'" she said. "You're acting like an
old grouch."
"I am not an old grouch," I replied, spooning runny golden egg onto my
toast. "What I said was I'm losing my edge, my ability to appreciate
things."
"Things?"
"People, places, smells, tastes. Everything's fading."
"Are you wearing your new glasses?"
"We're not discussing my eyesight, Sarah."
"You're half blind and vain as a palace peacock," she said. "It would be
just like you to stumble through life rather than wear your new glasses."
"I'm wearing the damned glasses. O.K.? We're not talking about the glasses
anymore. All right? We're talking about death, deterioration.". . .
"Well, I hope you're not heading for some kind of crack-up," Sarah said,
helping herself to another spoonful of rocks.
"Crack-up? What's that supposed to mean?"
"Crack-up, crisis, call it what you want. Women accept their mortality
better than men."
I had a good idea where Sarah was going with this, but I didn't know if I
could stop her.
"Some sort of biological advantage?" I said.
"Maybe," she said. "But I really think men define themselves in terms of
their physical prowess. A weakening of strength threatens your identity."
"And women are above that? So what's all this commotion with face-lifts and
tummy tucks and skin creams you ladies are so fond of? Name one woman we
know who doesn't color her hair."
"The preservation of one's natural looks and the fear of dying are separate
and distinct," Sarah said, brushing her black bangs off her high forehead.
"Men see decline and fear death. Women are more accepting."
"Let's assume, Sarah, let's assume for the moment that women are more
accepting. A harsh wind blows and the tall supple grasses of womanhood bend
accordingly. So how's that make you any better than us? Tell me."
"I didn't say women were better, just different," she said. "Besides,
without me, you would have fallen off the edge of the earth long ago."
Sarah stopped chewing and stared at me.
"And Gatlin," she said, "please use your napkin. You've got egg on your
chin."
