by Dea
I just finished reading "Black Water" last night, by Joyce Carol Oates. The book is a fictionalized truth accounting of the 1969 Chappaquiddick incident from the point of view of Mary Jo Kopechne, the 28 year old woman who died in the car Senator Ted Kennedy drove into the pond. I could not put the book down and read until 2 a.m. The book is incredible because Joyce Carol Oates has a way of writing that puts you right there with the character as she weaves the details of the events that lead to the accident and how Ted Kennedy (R.I.P.) left the scene of the accident and did not report what happened until the next morning. The young woman managed to live for 2-3 hours after he walked away. The story takes place in her mind as she is dying. She was sure he had gone for help and she was waiting for an ambulance. She was pinned in and "the black water filled her lungs, and she died".
Anyway, the story shook me up, horrified me, made me sad, made me mad and I had all sorts of emotions sticking out all over the place in the middle of the night. I tried having some milk, a little peanut butter but all I got was cold feet from prowling around the house grubbing for food.
So there I was staring into our dark bedroom trying to shift my mood. My husband was sleeping soundly, the cat was head butting me, purring very loudly and trying to plant her butt on my face and I am trying to extract myself from the sensation of being in that car.
Yes, I know I should not read these types of books at night but I am on a Joyce Carol Oates trip these days and also finished "Little Bird of Heaven" and am now onto "Gravediggers Daughter". I can only imagine what she must go through writing these books. She writes like Picasso painted.
Then I look at HIM, my warm snuggly, peaceful husband and he looks like my salvation, my hero, my buddy, my unsuspecting warm friend who has no idea his wife is freaked out and on the prowl for comfort. I think I will go for a snuggle. Not so simple.
He is a Viet Nam Veteran and I have learned to approach him with a sneaky kind of stealth. I have learned through the years that if I just wrap my arms around him, he'll throw me off, kick at me or recoil. Like a walleye fish that sneaks up to the bait on a fishing line and tap tap taps the bait and then takes off with it, leaving you to think it was just a current in the water you felt.
Well, that's what I do, I sneak up on him and just barely start the spooning position by keeping a quarter of an inch between him and me and then very carefully I put my great toe out and touch his foot and if he doesn't pull back, I do it again. Oooo la la, it is victory when he rubs my leg with his nice warm foot because somewhere in his sleep conscious he has figured out it is me or the cat.
Ah ha, the gate is open, there I go, full spooning throttle ahead and I wrap around him like an Anaconda (only I can't constrict on this big lug of a guy) (why would I want to) (never know, women can be that way sometimes) (putting on some lipstick, looking harmless one minute and wham knock ya up side the head with a look). (just because). I AM IN. He accepts me and now with his warm cushy butt against my stomach, I get centered and I am not in that car upside down in a pond waiting for someone to save me.
So today we are going for a walk and I told him about my dilemna last night and how I went "snuggle hunting" and how grateful I was that his cushy butt was better than any type of meditation I have ever tried to calm me down. And of course I was rewarded by his response of "geez, geez".
It's good to be married.
Hmmmm.
He's working tonight.
Think I'll read a magazine.
