Middlesex

I accepted the Object’s invitation to sleep over. Mrs. Object called Tessie to see if it was all right and, by eleven o’clock, my friend and I went up to bed together. She gave me a T-shirt to wear. It said “Fessenden” on the front. I put it on and the Object snickered.

“What?”

“That’s Jerome’s T-shirt. Does it reek?”

“Why’d you give me his shirt?” I said, going stiff, shrinking from the cotton’s touch while still wearing it.

“Mine are too small. You want one of Daddy’s? They smell like cologne.”

“Your dad wears cologne?”

“He lived in Paris after the war. He’s got all kinds of fruity habits.” She was climbing up onto the big bed now. “Plus he slept with about a million French prostitutes.”

“He told you that?”

“Not exactly. But whenever Daddy talks about France he acts all horny. He was in the Army there. He was like in charge of running Paris after the war. And Mummy gets really pissed when he talks about it.” She imitated her mother now. “ ‘That’s enough Francophilia for one evening, dear.’ ” As usual, when she did something dramatic, her IQ suddenly soared. Then she flopped onto her stomach. “He killed people, too.”

“He did?”

“Yeah,” said the Object, adding by way of explanation, “Nazis.”

I climbed into the big bed. At home I had one pillow. Here there were six.

“Back rub,” the Object called out cheerily.

“I’ll do you if you do me.”

“Deal.”

I sat astride her, on the saddle of her hips, and started with her shoulders. Her hair was in the way, so I moved it. We were quiet for a while, me rubbing, and then I asked, “Have you ever been to a gynecologist?”

The Object nodded into her pillow.

“What’s it like?”

“It’s torture. I hate it.”

“What do they do?”

“First they make you strip and put this little gown on. It’s made of paper and all this cold air gets in. You freeze. Then they make you lie on this table, spread-eagled.”

“Spread-eagled?”

“Yep. You have to put your legs in these metal things. Then the gyno gives you a pelvic exam, which kills.”

“What do you mean, pelvic exam?”

“I thought you were supposed to be the sex expert.”

“Come on.”

“A pelvic exam is, you know, inside. They shove this little doohickey in you to spread you all open and everything.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“It kills. And it’s freezing. Plus you’ve got the gyno making lame jokes while he’s nosing around in there. But the worst is what he does with his hands.”

“What?”

“Basically he reaches in until he can tickle your tonsils.”

Now I was mute. Absolutely paralyzed with shock and fear.

“Who are you going to?” the Object asked.

“Someone named Dr. Bauer.”

“Dr. Bauer! That’s Renee’s dad. He’s a total perv!”

“What do you mean?”

“I went swimming over at Renee’s one time. They have a pool. Dr. Bauer came out and stood there, watching. Then he goes, ‘Your legs have perfect proportions. Absolutely perfect proportions.’ God, what a perv! Dr. Bauer. I pity you.”

She raised her stomach in order to free her shirt. I massaged her lower back, reaching under the shirt to knead her shoulder blades.

The Object got quiet after that. So did I. I kept my mind off gynecology by losing myself in the back rub. It wasn’t hard. Her honey- or apricot-colored back tapered at the waist in a way mine didn’t. There were white spots here and there, anti-freckles. Wherever I rubbed, her skin flushed. I was aware of the blood underneath, coursing and draining. Her underarms were rough like a cat’s tongue. Below them the sides of her breasts swelled out, flattened against the mattress.

“Okay,” I said, after a long while, “my turn.”

But that night was like all the others. She was asleep.

It was never my turn with the Object.

They come back to me, the scattered days of that summer with the Object, each encased in a souvenir snow globe. Let me shake them up again. Watch the flakes float down:

We are lying in bed together on a Saturday morning. The Object is on her back. I’m fulcrumed on one elbow, leaning over to inspect her face.

“You know what sleep is?” I say.

“What?”

“Snot.”

“It is not.”

“It is. It’s mucus. It’s snot that comes out your eyes.”

“That’s so gross!”

“You’ve got a little sleep in your eyes, my dear,” I say in a fake deep voice. With my finger I flick the crust from the Object’s eyelashes.

“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” she says. “You’re touching my snot.”

We look at each other a moment.

“I’m touching your snot!” I scream. And we writhe around, throwing pillows and screaming some more.

On another day, the Object is taking a bath. She has her own bathroom. I’m on the bed, reading a gossip magazine.

“You can tell Jane Fonda isn’t really naked in that movie,” I say.

“How?”

“She’s got a body stocking on. You can see it.”

I go into the bathroom to show her. In the claw-footed tub, under a layer of whipped cream, the Object lolls, pumicing one heel.

She looks at the photograph and says, “You’re never naked, either.”

I am frozen, speechless.

“Do you have some kind of complex?”

“No, I don’t have a complex.”

“What are you afraid of, then?”

“I’m not afraid.”