bent back as she jabbed at it. Carolyn watched for a few more seconds. “I don’t think so, honey. They’re arguing about something but—”
“Ma’s really mad. I can tell.”
Neal dog-paddled back to the pool steps. Carolyn steered her raft after him.
“The whole trouble with women like you,” Paul said, “is simple.” He grabbed his crotch. “You don’t have this. You want one. Deny biology till you turn blue. Only men can fuck—you got that? Women don’t have the cocks to do the fucking that needs to be done in this world. They know it and you know it. Most women don’t want what you feminists think they want. The women’s movement is over. Women have had a good look and they don’t want it.”
“How would you know? You’re a Neanderthal who still thinks everything should be done with a club or a cock.” She pointed scornfully at his crotch. “You’re stuck with that.”
“If I’m a Neanderthal, you’re an Amazon—and that makes you a myth. I’ve worked with women, normal women, in the North and South and now out West for twelve years. Thank God none of them were feminists. You’re the only feminist I’ve ever met. ”
Out of her rage came the clear thought that she had never hated anyone with as much passion as she hated this man. She said in a low, deadly voice, “I’m not the first feminist you’ve met. You’ve met hundreds. Thousands. Do you think the slaves who said ‘Yes Massa’ loved their masters? Do you think there aren’t millions of women every day who say ‘Yes sir’ or ‘Yes dear’ and in their hearts hate their lives and hate—”
“Not real women. You call yourself a real woman? Look at you. Look at—”
“Paul!”
His rage was jarred by Carolyn’s expulsion of his name, another concussive sound amid the firecrackers exploding in the yards around them. He turned from Val Hunter. The red haze of hatred in his vision took in his wife.
“Ma, let’s go.” Staring at him, Neal Hunter backed away.
“You poor little bastard,” he said to Neal. “God only knows what your dyke of a mother’s doing to you—”
“Paul!”
Val Hunter rose and moved swiftly toward the house, the hem of her dress strained to its utmost by the length of her strides, Carolyn running after her.
Val Hunter stopped at the glass door. A hand reached, touched, clasped Carolyn’s bare forearm. “I’m truly sorry, Carrie. Good night.”
He did not hear his wife’s reply; he was outraged by the familiarity of Val Hunter’s touching Carolyn, by that offensively familiar nickname.
Val Hunter released Carolyn, disappeared into the house, her son in her wake. Carolyn whirled around and came toward him, her eyes narrowed slits, her fists clenched.
“That Amazon bitch. How could you possibly like that bitch, that—”
“You bastard.” Her voice was flat, glacial. “You can’t stand me having a friend of my own. You can’t stand it that I did one thing on my own, that I had the gall to buy a work of art—”
“Art, my ass. That piece of mud hanging on the living room wall is no more art than—”
She picked up the chair in which Val Hunter had been sitting—his director’s chair.
“Carolyn!” he screamed as he understood what she would do.
She swung the chair viciously at the barbecue. Foilwrapped potatoes and burning coals were strewn all over his manicured lawn, sizzling like lighted firecrackers.
“Christ, oh Christ.” He leaped for the garden tools he kept at the side of the house. “Jesus, look what you’ve done!”
Chapter 13
Val tried to explain to Neal. “It’s like blending yellow and red and blue—it comes out black or gray. People can be like colors—fine by themselves but put them together and they’re ugly.”
He said fiercely, “I should’ve popped him one when he said you were dykey.” Still in his bathing trunks, he stood militantly in their living room, feet spread apart, hands on his hips.
She fluffed his hair, grinning at the
“Ma’s really mad. I can tell.”
Neal dog-paddled back to the pool steps. Carolyn steered her raft after him.
“The whole trouble with women like you,” Paul said, “is simple.” He grabbed his crotch. “You don’t have this. You want one. Deny biology till you turn blue. Only men can fuck—you got that? Women don’t have the cocks to do the fucking that needs to be done in this world. They know it and you know it. Most women don’t want what you feminists think they want. The women’s movement is over. Women have had a good look and they don’t want it.”
“How would you know? You’re a Neanderthal who still thinks everything should be done with a club or a cock.” She pointed scornfully at his crotch. “You’re stuck with that.”
“If I’m a Neanderthal, you’re an Amazon—and that makes you a myth. I’ve worked with women, normal women, in the North and South and now out West for twelve years. Thank God none of them were feminists. You’re the only feminist I’ve ever met. ”
Out of her rage came the clear thought that she had never hated anyone with as much passion as she hated this man. She said in a low, deadly voice, “I’m not the first feminist you’ve met. You’ve met hundreds. Thousands. Do you think the slaves who said ‘Yes Massa’ loved their masters? Do you think there aren’t millions of women every day who say ‘Yes sir’ or ‘Yes dear’ and in their hearts hate their lives and hate—”
“Not real women. You call yourself a real woman? Look at you. Look at—”
“Paul!”
His rage was jarred by Carolyn’s expulsion of his name, another concussive sound amid the firecrackers exploding in the yards around them. He turned from Val Hunter. The red haze of hatred in his vision took in his wife.
“Ma, let’s go.” Staring at him, Neal Hunter backed away.
“You poor little bastard,” he said to Neal. “God only knows what your dyke of a mother’s doing to you—”
“Paul!”
Val Hunter rose and moved swiftly toward the house, the hem of her dress strained to its utmost by the length of her strides, Carolyn running after her.
Val Hunter stopped at the glass door. A hand reached, touched, clasped Carolyn’s bare forearm. “I’m truly sorry, Carrie. Good night.”
He did not hear his wife’s reply; he was outraged by the familiarity of Val Hunter’s touching Carolyn, by that offensively familiar nickname.
Val Hunter released Carolyn, disappeared into the house, her son in her wake. Carolyn whirled around and came toward him, her eyes narrowed slits, her fists clenched.
“That Amazon bitch. How could you possibly like that bitch, that—”
“You bastard.” Her voice was flat, glacial. “You can’t stand me having a friend of my own. You can’t stand it that I did one thing on my own, that I had the gall to buy a work of art—”
“Art, my ass. That piece of mud hanging on the living room wall is no more art than—”
She picked up the chair in which Val Hunter had been sitting—his director’s chair.
“Carolyn!” he screamed as he understood what she would do.
She swung the chair viciously at the barbecue. Foilwrapped potatoes and burning coals were strewn all over his manicured lawn, sizzling like lighted firecrackers.
“Christ, oh Christ.” He leaped for the garden tools he kept at the side of the house. “Jesus, look what you’ve done!”
Chapter 13
Val tried to explain to Neal. “It’s like blending yellow and red and blue—it comes out black or gray. People can be like colors—fine by themselves but put them together and they’re ugly.”
He said fiercely, “I should’ve popped him one when he said you were dykey.” Still in his bathing trunks, he stood militantly in their living room, feet spread apart, hands on his hips.
She fluffed his hair, grinning at the
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