“DON’T NEVER FORGET YOU come from a harbor city!” the father would say, walking his brood of brother and sister down to the end of the pier, early of a spring evening, and standing there with his eyes as satisfied and his hands as pat on his stomach as if he’d just fished this out of the water, like a dirty pedigree. The self-congratulation of city-dwellers is endless, they say, and never worse than when the city is New York.

So be it sister. That’s how you came to have it. And to be ruined by it. If ruin was to be lying as she was, a nude body in moonlight, on the riverbank just across the road from her own house, in the beautiful zoned village of Grand River, on the Hudson an hour due north of that harbor, on the river’s opposite shore. Would it get up, this body, toward morning, to creep whitely across the road again, through the door and back into the last eighteen years? Or would it continue to lie there, breasts rising and falling in the red sun—and for age thirty-seven not uncomely—until the first commuter bus, passing at six-forty daylight saving, reports to itself a woman’s body with a face not unknown to it—“My God, isn’t that Lexie, Ray’s wife?” lying at almost eye-level on the dais of the riverbank—“Not their property even … They have river rights, though …” and no, not dead—“No, it moved … What a thing for the children!”—but alive, uncommonly alive?

Hush now; quiet as the body seems, the riverbank it lies on is slipping its moorings, heading downstream like those coal-barges on which a deckhand is never seen, to wash in perhaps just at sunset, twenty-odd miles on and almost as many years back—at the Morton Street pier.

“There you are, boys and girls,” her father said. “Cargo always coming in.”

There wasn’t a spar on the rosy water, but we knew what he meant, James and I. Down under the unused pier, watery light clambered over the cold green fur on the poles that held us. Across the harbor, Jersey—or the rim of it that was really our Palisades, marred by a few factory-stacks and the brokenly gilded windows of what must be Weehawken—looked more content than it could possibly be. Except for the fact that it was looking at us.

At that hour, alone for the moment on a dead-end jetty in the part of town that was still called “the Village,” and as close to the slabbery Hudson as three seals on a rock, we were the city. And felt the responsibility, like any family who’d cut short dessert in order to stroll out there and accept that grandly yellow sky for all the rest of them still in their houses. Which we did for free, as their city-authorized agents. Who else but us knew so well the cycles here?—how, now that the ballplayers and ropeskippers were gone for the day, the boys with the knives would be returning later to be our muggers and cruisers, alongside the heavier clans who’d lasted through spaghetti and more, and would shortly be out, breathing anisette into the dark and walking that dog which deposited the largest turds in the neighborhood, while the poncho’ed young couples would be wheeling those grasshopper strollers in which the thin, bargain-cheap babies sat as stiffly awake as racing-car drivers. Next to arrive would be the lovers of any age, sex or duration, either flopping about in the dark or stilled by it, all like fish on the same hook. Followed by the after-midnight vomiters, coughing it up. Who else but us knew the cycles here? Why they did, all of them. And when we three were unable to get here, acted as agents for us.

We three were maybe elite in our persistence, coming on all evenings except rainy ones—although the energies that pushed father, brother and sister to that joint walk were not the same. Father’s “Don’t never!” was humorous, the kind of double-negative indulged in by a college graduate who, as an exchange-scholar in history, had seen the world—and Aberystwyth, Wales—but had declined into advertising later. He was at this time editor of a “house-organ” (or company newspaper) for a large, second-rate industrial firm with a name which sounded like Western Electric but wasn’t, and a plant located across the river, in back of those same Palisades.

Even our mother never properly remembered the many companies who successively employed our father, their names always compounded of prefixes and suffixes like Therm, Aero and Dyne, to signify the elements these outfits were geared for, and always faintly disagreeable to her and us. The current name held our daily destiny, or half of it, in its robot-like palm, yet we and it never met, and there probably wouldn’t be time to. My father had solved this for himself by calling each place The Plant. He was a faithful worker, usually not too overqualified for the jobs he held in their publicity or promotion departments, but maybe too well-liked by his colleagues ever to be a threat—and so always the first to be let go. His weakness was that he wasn’t working at what he would really like to, but never quite found out what that was. The plant found that out, every time. His compensation, over and above salary, was that even when working in New Jersey, or once as far away as Philadelphia, from which he’d sternly commuted without ever mentioning this to family friends—he’d always kept the city and us together.

At this time “the sunset advantages”, as he liked to say—or “the sunrise” as the case might be—were available to him “both coming and going”, since he at the moment was traveling to the plant via the West Shore Railroad, and the ferries to Manhattan which then connected it. Each evening he described to us how the New York skyline had looked as approached that dusk: “My God, tonight it was like a grail!” Often for my mother’s benefit adding hints of what the United Fruit Company, near where the ferry docked, was stocking. “Bananas, like a jungle!” Or “Tangerines, hon, get some, hunh? They must be cheap.” Now and again he told us how much wilder a scarlet the ferries had been when he was a boy down here, and how old Italian men, gruff but winsome, had played the violin on them.

The house we then lived in (after a descent from East Eighty-eighth Street during a lapse in funds) was a brownstone much like the one he’d grown up in, the same few blocks from the river, and we had rented a similar ground floor.

“Well, let’s go; let’s say ‘Good Evening’ to the evening!” he’d cry, after a spoonful of one of the boxed puddings my mother put to set the minute she came home from work—and we two always went. Once there, he made it clear that the sunset was the least of our advantages. “With this city at your back—” he’d sigh, and never finish. But we knew the end of that sentence: we could do anything, go anywhere.

“Which way is Paris, which way to Hong Kong?” we’d ask when we were younger, and he’d always pointed the same way, down the harbor. And the same hand scooped us back. Oh we wanted to travel; who didn’t? But when we got there, wherever it was, we’d always know we’d be its equals.

Our mother never came on these jaunts. A city social worker for eighteen years by then, promoted to supervisor for the last five, she alleged that she could see “old Gotham” and all her advantages just by rocking in her rocker—her feet up on a hassock, her salt-and-pepper hair loosed from its bun onto her shoulders—and by remembering her day. Each Christmas he gave her a new hassock. “Oh, I’ve adjusted to you, Charlie” she often said, in her lingo. Meaning that she was resigned to what Charlie said he got out of the city and his children’s response to it. After all, that was his career.

The last house, this was, the last one in which we were a city family and together; that’s how I remember it now. Also because my particular advantage was just then becoming clear to me, though hidden as well as I could hide. For of course our father hadn’t merely offered us New York’s beauties, but had also schooled us in its million-dollar choices, neighborhood by neighborhood. East Eighty-eighth Street had been the least successful to his mind; because of “too much Hitler,” Yorkville’s famous German cuisine, or its cranky small-craftsmen’s shops—upholstery, stained-glass—never much stirred him beyond a moody “You two’ll know Europe everywhere, even before you go.” So, just before the end of our tenure there, he’d been forced to stronger methods, seeing nothing wrong in a father of temperate habit and his teen-aged children canvassing the bars, which in those days were usually named for two-initialled Irishmen, and as he shortly concluded, “Provincial dull. And no preparation for Dublin whatsoever. Not that you two’ll need it, with your background.” We felt that too, very early—as with such a father, who wouldn’t? While we didn’t quite know what he was preparing us for, we knew that he was looking for it everywhere. And even after a dozen nightly rounds, and as many faces on and off the barroom floor, we hadn’t found P. J. Moriarty’s or M. L. Mackey’s that unrewarding, until our mother put a stop to it. “Your father’s an hysteric about this,” she’d said, pronouncing the “n” in “an” in her firm, totalitarian way. “When he works right in town, it always happens. Better that he should commute.” Shortly after, opportunity struck; he was canned again. We admired the way she not only weathered father’s job shifts but made psychological use of them. She’d adjusted damn well to those sunsets. And so of course had we.

Although by this time, brother James’ choices, lucky stiff, were well-fixed. Two important years older than me, he’d spent his most formative years near the Planetarium and the Museum of Natural History, when we were living on Central Park West, and during a time when Aerodyne or Thermaflux was so far down in Jersey that Father could do little more than arrive home to wheeze, “The ci-tee is a la-bor-a-toree,” Gilbert & Sullivan-style, and let James probe his advantages for himself. James had yearned first to be a Navaho, and failing that, an astronomer, but by the time of those spring nights on the pier he was seventeen, slated for Columbia pre-med in the fall, and through the kindness of our policeman on the block (Father again) had already seen his first corpse, at the morgue.

All that summer long, our pier-conversations were to be dotted with them, giving Father many a chance to point our James’s special opportunities. But the night when James had just that day seen his first—a drowning—is the night I recall best. For my own reasons as well.

“Palomino it was, the exact color of a palomino,” James said. “And swollen. The head was the shape of a sugarloaf. Those mountains they call sugarloaf.” He swallowed, and pulled his five fingers in a line from his nose. “Long.”

“Shame on you, James,” Father said. “Seeing all of those Western movies. Or seeing in terms of them. A boy like you. When you’ve got the morgue.”

A city boy, he meant. Good New Yorkers didn’t stoop to a lot of things. Father had whole lists of them. Increased by what he saw on the outskirts.

“Right,” I said. “That’s for people who have to go to drive-ins.” I was almost fifteen, brat-protective of myself on the outside, but mushy within.

“Never saw a real palomino,” James said, thoughtful. “Never had the opportunity. It was the head reminded me. Of a horse.” He leaned over the pier-edge, looking at the water, which because of lack of cooperation from the sky that evening was a tobacco-shadowed gray, occasionally rippling in the wind to a sheet of what could have been one of Father’s past products—duro-aluminium. With the second “i” put in because the plant making it had been a British Shell subsidiary. Every now and then a brief city wave chopped to a glint; that was the “i.”

“Good place for a suicide,” James said. “Wonder if they ever get them from here?”

The pier was crowding up with all the regulars.

“I don’t see what good the dead do you for medicine,” I said. “Until you’ve dissected them. And until the second year, you can’t.” I was jealous of him for having more to feed his imagination than I had, at my schlocky dayschool. Where I learned works like “schlocky.” A private school, but so full of the kids of social workers, teachers and radical lawyers, and so pre-selected to a “random” scattering around the norm, that it had gone simple on me. I was very much my father’s child, if he had only known.

It would seem odd that he hadn’t. I’ve the same large hazel eyes, not glassy, but clear. You could drop a pebble, I’ve been told, and never find it. Neither would I. The same surprised eyebrows, the nose just as pudgy and inquiring, though on a girl it might be appealing. The mouth maybe more bowed. Looking in the mirror, the mouth was the only part that gave me hope. It looked as if it might yet spit that pebble out.

But water was my sure element. Why else am I lying here instead of picking myself up and titupping home like a good householder with a bun on, a wee drunkie mother, but one with good family intentions of baking guiltbread all the next day? No intention of sliding down in though, nostrils open and weed-hair dragging. I want to float on, out of the dream-tangle, maybe even rowing hard at the end.

What was bothering me that night—well, watch out here, Lexie. Take care not to re-interpret your old girlish life according to modern intentions. The way biographers will push Freud right through the brain of some poor emperor or poet or mass-murderer—or Sappho or President Taft or P. T. Barnum—born too soon ever to have heard of him.

But it is true that Father was always vaguer about my opportunities. And that night I was feeling it.

“Father. What’s the city going to do for me?”

That mouth of ours opposite me fell open. At the heresy. “Why, Girlbud!”

I’m sorry to report this, but that is what he said. His mother was a Southerner.

“Why, Girlbud… don’t you know?”

He meant that if my response to the city wasn’t already so granulated into my flesh that it would take one of his industrial processes to part us, then he had failed me. Or I him. Though to be fair, he never thought of himself as failed toward. The companies had taken care of that.

“Yeah, I know,” I say sullenly, through hair I’d taken to wearing like a veil. “But what am I going to do with it?” With which I close my eyes, pull my veil further over my nose and lean my head on one palm.

I’d known what New York was to me ever since I was nine or so, when a bus seat had lent a manipulative hand while I was staring up at a skyscraper, and. I’d immediately made poetry of the matter. I’d’ve known even younger if I’d been allowed to ride buses by myself sooner. For such an occasion, one has to be alone. And perhaps it wasn’t a skyscraper—or even the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, which in those days my bus from school passed often. Maybe it was only some tenement with the late light on it, or a misty patch of Hudson afternoon, or a square of that violet-glass sidewalk which looked like some semi-precious stone you were going to be able to wear. Or maybe the pier. More likely, it was all of those together, and then some. For I’d known for some time now that the city could melt me physically, to a yearning I had no words for, no comparisons.

But I have now. Oh water, wheel past me, Hudsoning by me and through me to that seat of my sensations. Weeds and rushes, fringe my face, while I lie here and laugh. While the harbor is mo-oaning. The city’s a certain kind of zone for me—not the deepest of our lot maybe, but often the truest. New York to me—and maybe Paris and Hong Kong too; the list of world capitals dizzies me if I think too much on it—to me a city itself is an erogenous zone.

One of mine in fact. Father’d done his work too blindly. My body, sleepily arising to whatever objects presented it in the new dark of sensation, had engorged too well. And could Father now tell me what to do with that condition. I found I didn’t want him to. Let me hoard it, and hide.

“Why honey,” he said. “You’ll be like your mother. I hope.”

And I saw he really did.

James and I sideglanced each other. James often gave me those brotherly comforts. Without further advice. He was embarrassed just then to be a brother, I think. Being further on with women than we knew. And with women who were further on.

“Like Mother?” I said. “Why’s she’s a—a parasite.”

“A—a what?” Father said. But I could see the idea intrigued. Mother—with her forty-five-hour-week bunions, and those meals—made out of thousands of boxes maybe, but by her. Mother—with her pulled-crepe-paper hair, which went to the tongs for help only if a caseworker’s convention needed her, along with her gray, socially justified sweaters and skirts.

“Yes, a parasite. Who happens to work.”

On the way home, we three were silent. With my usual talent for missing the true target, I was angry at James. For encouraging me to go too far, and leaving me to cope with the results.

Father shared that talent, also. “I don’t know—” he sighed. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with your mind.”

Late that night, when the others were bedded down, I get up again, and take the body that inhabits my mind back to the Morton Street pier. By then it’s late for cruisers, but beginning for lovers, mostly gay. Drizzling a little. And no sign of the whores I’m looking for. I know a few by sight but have never spoken to one. For a while, I can’t think of anything except the family anyway. James, on the daybed in the dining room, rolling to a city noise now and then, sometimes onto the floor. Father, dead to the world in his twinbed, wearing the singlet that is cool to his psoriasis. Mother in her twinbed, sleeping the sleep of the just, in pajamas with feet. Because of being a girl, I had a room alone, and the old double-bed they’d been married in. That ought to tell me something.

Until our policeman on the beat comes by—he knows us, but he’ll surely chase me—I have so little time. He himself must have the very information I want—not that he’ll give it. And I need the female view of it.

Shortly—it’s raining by now—Mother comes down the block to give me hers. She slips her arm in mine confidingly, the same as she sometimes does when she sneaks into my bed, a refugee from Father’s snore. I turn my back on her, the way I always do. And then turn round again, as usual.

“Anything I can do to help?” she says.

That’s kind of her. But I wonder why she thinks any woman with pajamas stuffed in galoshes, and a man’s lumberjack covering her dropseat, has advice I can use.

“The city disturbs me.” I know that in the end I’ll tell her how. But nothing ever got past her language—certainly not her emotions. And that would be that, I thought.

I was wrong.

“Dad told me what you said.” She sighs. “He’s so vulnerable.”

“He is.” I flip back my hair. “Huh.”

That interested her. She studied gesture. “You mean you are? And you’re denying that quality in him?”

I flip my hair forward, wetting my nose. “Maybe. I meant—you’re the masochist.”

“Those puddings!” she says at once. “You’re right. Nobody needs dessert.”

I put my arms up, and shriek a little.

The cop on the beat passes, eyeing us. Yeah, he knows us; he’s the one referred James to the morgue. “Now, girls—” he says, shaking his head. “Now girls.” He didn’t like fights.

“See—you stopped the rain,” Mother says to me, soothing. And giving him the high sign to leave us be. “But you got it twisted about me, lady … I’m a worker. Who happens to be a parasite.” She stashed her hands on her hips. “Why else do you suppose I’m a radical?”

Lying here in the weeds—there are stars up there now—it’s my firm conviction that life teaches everybody to be humorous about at least one thing. If so, it came to her and me late.

“You suppose I could ask Officer Maraglia?” I say. “How to be a prostitute? A streetwalker, I mean.” What joy—to walk these streets.

She looks over to where he’s disappearing, before she answers me. “Or a callgirl, maybe? Your arches are weak.”

But then she feels my forehead, my cheeks. Draws me to her by the wrists, kisses one of them. And sits down so hard on a wooden piling that I fall into her lap. I can’t stay there. She can’t stay on the piling. We both stand up.

“Wait a minute—” I say. One side of her dropseat’s been snagged open by the piling. I button her up again. “You suppose they have little dropseats, sort of out front? Or is that a vulgar thought?”

She stares at the harbor. “I warned Charlie. That you were already over-prepared.”

James comes up just then. I know he’s fond of me, though he’ll never let on. Still won’t. “Schizophrenia?” he says. “Often starts at fifteen.”

“Seventeen,” Mother says, turning on me. “And lay off her. I’m the caseworker here.”

My father comes down the pier, scratching. He’s wearing my mother’s green Loden cape. “Beautiful night, isn’t it. I couldn’t sleep either.” He moons at the river as if he’s forgotten he’ll be crossing it again, come daylight. But he’s heard her. “Come on, Renata, give it a rest. Give Lexie here.”

As if it isn’t him who always harangues.

James and I sideswipe glances again. We’re decently dressed, for us. For the hour, even formally. With parents like ours, we do what we can to restore the balance. Not that it works.

I address them all. “Mother has her clients. And you have the plant. Plants.” (I couldn’t pluralize those now; he was vulnerable.) “And you both have James and me.” (I wouldn’t call that an advantage now, either. But for my short hour, I was relentless.) “And James has the morgue. What have I got?” I see Father open the mouth I’m already afraid is mine too. “And if you ever call me Girlbud again, I’ll positively leave.”

“She wants a vocation, Charlie,” Mother says. “But she doesn’t know what.”

I gnaw my lip, betrayed. And betray back, quick as I can. “I do so know. I’m not him.”

James’s eyes widen. “Do you, Sis. You never said.”

I couldn’t. There are technical words for sense-confusion; I know that now. And many avenues to it. Music that confuses us with pictures, of a kind the composer never planned. Odors with a little hush to them. Gin that makes Bach smell like flowers. My son, at six, said “Wednesday is pink.”

“The city—” I wanted to say to them. “That you have burdened me with. No—trusted me with, too soon. Like jewels I’m to inherit but haven’t yet. I want the city, between my thighs.”

“Want to study medicine too?” Mother says. “Maybe we could stake you.” Her tone’s as false as her puddings. “When it comes time.”

“Sibling jealousy?” Father shakes his head, doubting; he’s the one who spends time with us. “No—I don’t think.”

How smart they think they are, James signals me. About each other. And never see themselves. Or us.

“No, I don’t want,” I say violently. “I hate horses.”

Mother trembles. She feels professionally close to madness in others, but doesn’t want it in the family. “Overstimulated, see? And two years away from college yet. We’ll have to organize.”

The policeman drifts over. Maybe he’s never been sure of us completely. A family who’ll stand on a pier at four in the morning, discussing its business … Outré, yes? And no doubt responsible for the way I can lie up here now, at almost the same hour, calmly discussing my life—with my life…

“Organize?” the cop says, addressing James as the most decently clothed. “Who’s organizing what?”

“We are,” James says, pointing. “Her.”

So that’s how, as soon as school is out that summer and next, I go to study to be a medical secretary. And never get to college at all. As Mother says, “James’ll be bringing plenty of interns home.”

As Father says the day I marry one, “You women never look farther than your nose.”

This is in reference to the foreign tour he’d briefly spirited me away on to persuade me otherwise, the minute I’d announced my intentions. He’d aimed for Canada, but the hired car had failed us—and perhaps the money too. “Will you just look at the world!” he’d said to me from a window of the Hotel Oswego in Cooperstown, New York. “Look. Look!”

Let them fade now as parents do, into the ruins but still alive. Mother at sixty still repairing the city volunteer—all the way from the Gulf. Father leaving the city altogether—like people who so love cats, but desert them—to follow his nose into retirement with a richer wife—her nightgowns being especially luxe.

James’s imagination, bachelor again after two tries, has proved most durable. Often after he’s been up the river for the weekend with us, and is off for the city again, he’ll whisper something to me, while brother-in-law Raymond kindly goes to extricate James’s car from those others which on Sunday afternoons are often pulled up on the various front lawns of the houses along the road here, like lines of shoats. James’s sibling eye is meanwhile casting a small judgment on me—a large woman—like those tiny, flat metal stampings of the Statue of Liberty the class used to be sent home with, after toiling up her inner staircase to look out at her spikes. His wicked diagnosis tickles my ear. “Honorable sister,” his voice says. “Float down the river to me any day suits you. Only, not as a corpse.” A city judgment.

So here I am—as organized.

When I married Raymond, the tallest, palest (with effort) and most careful of the interns James brought home, the “Dr.” had just been attached to him: two perfect initials which swing from him, and sound as he walks. And are never lost. Later on I gave him a matched tiepin and cufflinks of those same initials, which he wears proudly still. Doctors love simple jokes, the grim dears, and in return for the life they lead, a wife whose jokes are not the same may still cooperate. Sometimes when I lay with him, looking deeply into his chest hairs, a few of these would whorl themselves into those same initials, pair upon pair. And until the finalities that brought me here, there was a pattern of moles on his windpipe that my mind’s eye was working on.

A blameless man; try as I may, no blame will ever attach to him. Or to his parents. The basement of their house as I first saw it remains the most finished basement in America. With outlines drawn on the floor—garden-shears to roto-cutters, to ladders and floor-sanders—in which all implements are placed. The ladders being aluminum without the added “i”; theirs is a household local to the very end. Which end may be those milkcans Ray’s mother paints black with bald eagles on them—which no longer hold milk. Around the cellar walls, trunks from another generation stand rigid with non-travel. “A hysterical basement,” I report to James, after the engagement visit. “Someday those empty trunks will explode.”

And I add how “Since I’ll have to pick up my education piecemeal from now on,” I’ve already learned from my father-in-law-to-be that a veterinarian is a man who doesn’t kick dogs but doesn’t pat them either. Or allow them into the house.

Ray and I’ve already chosen the shabby Victorian mansion from which he will practice. And in which I will live—needless to say—so I don’t.

A lie. (What needed more to be said?) An inversion of the past by the future—which is at least me, lying on the river-bank, chilly but not dead, on grass that gets plushier as my thoughts grow clearer—in front of that same house.

Not angry, really. As my mother used to say in her lingo: “Concerned.” Taken me such a long time to realize I’ve no lingo of my own. But being in the nude here helps. And there are still some hours to dawn. When I must decide. Whether I’ll stay here, and wait to be found, with all my buttons not just buttoned, but off. Or whether I’ll get up just in time, and sneak back into the house.

That report to James was the first of many over the years, and in his fraternal eyes I’m accustomed to seeing his verdict, long since fixed. For no matter what’s going on in the newspapers or on the battlefields of civilization, while I mouse from stove to village, from planned-parenthood to puddings bidden straight from the natural egg—the word “hysterical” is what’s now firmly applied to me. Even by myself.

When did I first look around the hillocky streets of this white river-village to find the trees grimacing against the houses they shelter, the river running away to ask the city: “Su-boo-burbia, is that what her hystery-sterical is”?

The answer’s no.

That wasn’t lingo, that was prayer.

Why’s he have to take you thirty miles upriver?” Father said, just before the wedding.

After the ceremony, he said “People don’t grow, in places like that. It all goes into the chlorophyll.”

After that, he washed his hands of me. It was at the wedding that he met the lady with the nightgowns.

“Ray isn’t planning to grow, Father; he’s planning to settle.” Funny how I knew that, even then. And what was one lost erogenous zone?—at twenty I had them to spare. And had a strong interest in nightwear myself at the moment. Pink satin pajamas, the bridal night, and nile-green, panels blowing, the second day; then the honeymoon ascended by stages to a purple velvet hostess-gown; after the first Sunday, I planned a repeat. So, by easy cycles, to the door of the maternity ward. Four times.

Where we stand before God with a clutch of rubber nipples, or real ones, and we can never go back. Nor would I, if one could. Even if in my small way, I intend to change the imagery of the world to conform with what happens there.

In my small way, it’s not popular liberty I’m lying here for. Got that back in grade-school, like some of the blacks. Board of Education gave it to thirty thousand of the best pupils in the city—a little enamel flag that James could grow up to wear in his lapel or on his hatband, but which it was understood I could never fly from my grave—and that’s sibling jealousy … After which we were all back in private circumstances again, including the blacks.

So, lying on my riverbank, what do I want from the parliaments of the world? Membership? Sure, that’s okay. But come on, what good is it to me, or will it be, in my private practice, which is nothing like Ray’s? What profiteth it a woman even if she gain half the token world by genito-urinary contract? What she needs most, is to find her own lingo—and have them publish the Congressional Record in it. At least half of the time. (With automatic translation-boxes on the backs of all theatre-seats, park benches and public conveniences. Including the men’s room at Ray’s club, which they let the wives use once-a-month on Wednesdays—perhaps just above that little cigar-rest which is screwed to each lav door.)

And alongside the mirrors of all medicine-cabinets in private domiciles.

Meanwhile the world is thrashing toward dawn without much help from me—and what shall I be saying to whoever leans over this patch of ground which is not even our property—“I am your representative from the Nude?”

Since it appears that even to pee, I am not going inside to do it, and perhaps not ever—except to telephone James “I’m sailing southward. Meet me at 4 A.M., at the Morton Street Pier.” Friends welcome.

Let us organize me. It’s been done before.

Dear Ray:

For you are dear to me, as the customs allow.

You do not kick humans—and have been known to pat them.

I am a woman not entirely zoneless.

And the children have been consecutive. Four times.

Forgive me if I recall their births better than their conceptions. I know I was trained not to.

“You’ll forget it in a day,” the gynecologist says, with a fifty-dollar smile. “Your abdominal muscles are first-class.”

Nothing to it, he said.

“But it’s my zone,” I say. “I can’t be expected to give up all of them.”

He laughs, without charging me more for it. “You won’t want to stay there long.”

So I shut my mouth. His office is in New York, and the women in our village cherish any good excuse for going there. I’m looking forward to nine months of it.

Since it’s to be a natural birth, you Ray, the father, are allowed in. I invite James too, as a brother and medical man, but he refuses. On the grounds that he’s a doctor of the public health only. I’m disappointed, but of course that is his field.

“The private is not my sphere, Lexie,” he says on the telephone. “Thanks a lot.”

You’re there in a peculiar capacity, Ray, for you. A doctor, with his hands tied. As a father, they’re even afraid you might faint. “Some do,” Dr. Gyno says, with his cutrate grin. The nurse agrees with him.

So then I ride in, Joan of Arc for a day. Into the stirrups for you, Girlbud—then into the burning bath. At the height, the flames are considerable. But I too have my hands tied. “She’s one of those who won’t scream,” I hear the nurse say scornfully. I thought I had; later she swore not. But perhaps that’s how they’re trained too.

… I remember you though, Ray, leaning over me like a spindle of damp wood which isn’t afraid it’ll ignite. The lower half of my body is almost totally consumed. I am on the point—the absolute point, of learning my lingo. And then I lost it…

“Scream for me, Lexie,” you said.

So I deliver silently.

A minute after, I’m watching all your antics like at a spectator-sport at which the tables have been suddenly turned.

“Breathe, you little bastard,” the doctor says, slapping. And inaccurate to the last.

Above your mask, you’re weeping. “A boy, Alexandra. But we’ll name him ‘Alex,’ you bet.” On the spot, you’re always generous.

“How are you, Mother?” the nurse said.

All my insides feel pearly now—the placenta, perhaps. I feel all nacre, the way I do when a man leaves me—mother-of-pearl. But it’s blood, I bet. If I choose to look down. I see they don’t want me to. Yes, it’s blood. My mouth falls open. Though never so wide as the opening down there. I see they want me to close up shop as quickly as decent. Nurse mops. I’m a little heady with what I’ve done down below. Why, I’ve given birth to all of you—is what I’m thinking. All of you. In my time. Why can’t I speak of it?

The baby does it for me.

“Wah!”—it says “—I’m the only normal one here.”

You know how children are.

“Everyone speaks for me,” I said.

I apologize to all of you, for remembering anyway. Such an unnatural act.

James reported that his friend Dr. Gyno thought I took things too hard. “‘Very poetical girl, is she, your sister?’” he said.

“And what did you say?”

“I said, ‘No. Over qualified.’”

But he never will tell me for what.

So the next time I go to Maternity, I scream like everybody else. And have many more visitors afterward. From our village road especially. People are shy, I begin to notice. Too shy to say how living really is—even the loud ones. Mutual screaming helps.

But then I stop going to hospital. “Four times, we agreed upon, Ray—remember? And of course you do. Words which are said—signed, sealed and delivered—are the way you remember your acts.” (Between phonecalls which take you gratefully away from them.) Your word is your bond. “Yes,” you say thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should rest from our labors for awhile. Having them so close—I warned you. But you were always—”

“Yes,” I say. “Hysterical.”

So after that, we make love for ourselves entirely. I agree with the Catholics; that’s dangerous. That way, you can better scrutinize the sex, and the partner.

So after a while we have rested entirely. Dear Ray.