to make me stop punching her she had stabbed me in the face with the scissors. She removed the towel and placed another against my cheek, pressing hard this time to stanch the flow of blood. “We must never hurt one another like this again,” she said.
“Did I hurt you?”
“I think you broke my ribs. Yes, you hurt me very much.” She almost started sobbing but stopped herself for the sake of the medical emergency. “Can you see out of your right eye?”
I opened it.
“Can you see?”
I nodded.
“I was aiming for your eye, you know. I would never have been able to forgive myself had I succeeded in blinding you.”
“How about stabbing me in the face? Can you forgive yourself for that?”
“As I said, you were hurting me a great deal. I am not prepared to be a martyr.”
I was relieved to hear her say that. After we returned from the emergency room, she finished the haircut. I looked like a boy. There was not too big of a puncture gash in my face, but for the next several weeks it hurt if I moved around much. For the first day or two, I sat for hours at a time on the big living room couch with my cut face, and Skip Hartman sat beside me with her broken ribs, and we just sat there being stunned.
Having to remain still for so long, I then accidentally discovered the pleasures of reading. I read
Pride and Prejudice
and
Jane Eyre
(my favorites) and
Great Expectations
and
Mediocre Expectations
and
James and the Giant Peach
and
The Red and the Black
and
The Martin Luther King Story
. My heartfelt big during that time. I know it wasn’t really all that big. I mean, let’s face it, this Mary character is not very nice. But I can guarantee you this: she wishes she were. If she wounds the woman she loves most in all the world, if she loves her more fiercely than tenderly, it is not because she wants to do it that way, but because she does not know how else to do it. Dear reader, she cannot tell you herself, so I will tell you for her: she is trying to learn how!
5 I Am Not Embraced by Everyone
Wearing my new short haircut and a large square Mickey Mouse Band-Aid below my right eye, I went downtown one fine winter Monday to the place called Studio Joe. As I entered the low concrete building along the Hudson River, I could feel myself floating further adrift from the prescripted school-day life of a twelve-year-old.
Inside the building, thin, delicate people in extravagant outfits rushed about in thick heels on the gray cement floor looking desperately glamorous. They were exerting themselves toward some objective. They dressed in a certain way so as not to be nothing. You have to do everything you can to make yourself distinct from these white walls, their body shapesand outfits and manners seemed to be saying; you have to be ready at all times for that moment when you meet the person who’ll carry you out of your life that is impoverished by the lack of that one intangible thing; ready to be carried into the other life that someone would carry you into if only you could meet him or her and be assured of saying or doing what you’re supposed to say or do and looking how you’re supposed to look, as you’ve always known you could, because secretly you’re sure it has been willed where that can be done which has been willed, maybe.
“Yes, young man?” someone behind a tall marble embankment said to me.
“I’m here to see Joe Samuels and Ruella Forecourt.”
“Of course you are.”
I looked up, and saw the black boy whose pot I had stolen in the park, and felt sick.
“I’m really sorry,” I said. “It was a dumb mistake.”
“I have no doubt that it was,” he said.
“Can you forgive me?”
“I cannot.”
“I’ll pay you the twenty dollars.”
“You could pay me the million dollars, boy, and that would not change a thing.”
I was now standing more or less directly below this person sitting behind the high marble embankment. I looked up into his face. He seemed to be trying to
“Did I hurt you?”
“I think you broke my ribs. Yes, you hurt me very much.” She almost started sobbing but stopped herself for the sake of the medical emergency. “Can you see out of your right eye?”
I opened it.
“Can you see?”
I nodded.
“I was aiming for your eye, you know. I would never have been able to forgive myself had I succeeded in blinding you.”
“How about stabbing me in the face? Can you forgive yourself for that?”
“As I said, you were hurting me a great deal. I am not prepared to be a martyr.”
I was relieved to hear her say that. After we returned from the emergency room, she finished the haircut. I looked like a boy. There was not too big of a puncture gash in my face, but for the next several weeks it hurt if I moved around much. For the first day or two, I sat for hours at a time on the big living room couch with my cut face, and Skip Hartman sat beside me with her broken ribs, and we just sat there being stunned.
Having to remain still for so long, I then accidentally discovered the pleasures of reading. I read
Pride and Prejudice
and
Jane Eyre
(my favorites) and
Great Expectations
and
Mediocre Expectations
and
James and the Giant Peach
and
The Red and the Black
and
The Martin Luther King Story
. My heartfelt big during that time. I know it wasn’t really all that big. I mean, let’s face it, this Mary character is not very nice. But I can guarantee you this: she wishes she were. If she wounds the woman she loves most in all the world, if she loves her more fiercely than tenderly, it is not because she wants to do it that way, but because she does not know how else to do it. Dear reader, she cannot tell you herself, so I will tell you for her: she is trying to learn how!
5 I Am Not Embraced by Everyone
Wearing my new short haircut and a large square Mickey Mouse Band-Aid below my right eye, I went downtown one fine winter Monday to the place called Studio Joe. As I entered the low concrete building along the Hudson River, I could feel myself floating further adrift from the prescripted school-day life of a twelve-year-old.
Inside the building, thin, delicate people in extravagant outfits rushed about in thick heels on the gray cement floor looking desperately glamorous. They were exerting themselves toward some objective. They dressed in a certain way so as not to be nothing. You have to do everything you can to make yourself distinct from these white walls, their body shapesand outfits and manners seemed to be saying; you have to be ready at all times for that moment when you meet the person who’ll carry you out of your life that is impoverished by the lack of that one intangible thing; ready to be carried into the other life that someone would carry you into if only you could meet him or her and be assured of saying or doing what you’re supposed to say or do and looking how you’re supposed to look, as you’ve always known you could, because secretly you’re sure it has been willed where that can be done which has been willed, maybe.
“Yes, young man?” someone behind a tall marble embankment said to me.
“I’m here to see Joe Samuels and Ruella Forecourt.”
“Of course you are.”
I looked up, and saw the black boy whose pot I had stolen in the park, and felt sick.
“I’m really sorry,” I said. “It was a dumb mistake.”
“I have no doubt that it was,” he said.
“Can you forgive me?”
“I cannot.”
“I’ll pay you the twenty dollars.”
“You could pay me the million dollars, boy, and that would not change a thing.”
I was now standing more or less directly below this person sitting behind the high marble embankment. I looked up into his face. He seemed to be trying to
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