Ray

LVI

RAY is crawling this afternoon. Many things have broken down in our nice house. The only glory I see is the glory I saw as a jet fighter. I went through the clouds and brought up the nose of the Phantom, lifting at twenty-one hundred land miles per hour. It was either them or me, by God. I loved those clean choices. And I loved my jet. I loved all those aerodynamics, the rising and diving.

Something’s wrong.

Westy and I are not close in the old way. My dreams are big discouraging monsters, hellish. Had one that was a walking building, which was my high school. It was my old high school chasing me down the block.

I tell you, if not for his old records and his Shakespeare, Ray would be a casualty of the American confusion.

Like yesterday. Eileen, DeSoto’s wife, wanted to talk with me at the office. She was pale and she had developed a dramatic deepness in her voice. It was huskier, more Northern. I think she comes from Selma, Alabama. I am not an expert on lesbianism, mind you.

“I want to describe what it is like, Ray,” she said.

I said, “First let me say that I am not an expert on lesbianism.”

“That’s okay,” she says, “I was shocked myself. I had fever and che shakes. It was like a big dream where you can’t help walking toward the place although it’s scary. There were a lot of voices and mouths. Then I became one of the mouths. I became one of the soft naked girls, and an ecstasy ran through every part of my mind. And I was there at the place and it was familiar, like coming back to something you had as a child.”

“Why’d you come see me?”

“Because you’re a friend of Charlie’s and he’s very hurt. Besides, you are a doctor, aren’t you?”

“Let me fuck you,” I say. “It will be good for you. Doctor’s orders,” I say. “Come on,” I say, “you crazy lesbian bitch — ohh, uhh, uhnn, touch it!”