Joyce Oates: Sourland

In a wistful voice Sophie said, “You loved him! — did you.”

Kolk spoke haltingly, not entirely coherently. He said that the canoe had overturned in white-water rapids, on a river south of Elliot Lake. It was their second day of canoeing. There were two canoes, his and Matt’s was in the lead. In the rock-strewn stream the canoe had plunged downward much faster than they’d expected, and had overturned — both men were thrown into the water — Matt struck his head on a rock — his clothes were soaked at once — except that Kolk had been able to grab hold of Matt, he’d have been swept downstream and drowned.

So fast it happened, like all accidents. A matter of seconds and the rest of your life might be required to figure it out.

Matt had thanked Kolk for saving his life. He’d been deeply moved, he’d been badly frightened, some sense of himself had passed from him in the white-water rapids in the Ontario wilderness, and was gone. Never would Matt Quinn regain whatever it was he’d lost.

“We never talked about it afterward,” Kolk said.

Sophie said, “Why did you cut yourself off from us! You could have seen us, all those years.” Quickly Sophie spoke, a little drunkenly. Saying that Matt would have wanted to see him — he’d have forgiven him, for their political quarrel. For whatever it was, he’d called Matt. An ugly word — fink . Sophie had never heard that word uttered, before or since. Whatever those old quarrels had been — “escalated resistance” — the Viet Cong, Cambodia, Kissinger, war criminals….

She was wounded, hurt. She was very angry. Fumbling for the jam-glass. She was very drunk now. If she were to stand up — the room would tilt, lurch, spin, collapse. This was funny to anticipate — she had to be cautious, not to succumb. For she was angry, and not wanting to laugh. And when the man moved closer, she bit at her lip — her freaky swollen lip — and did not move away. Seeing her hand reach out to Kolk — to Kolk’s stiff-raised shoulder — to Kolk’s face — daring to touch the melted-away flesh at Kolk’s jawline, that was like hardened wax, serrated scar tissue.

She felt a sick-swooning sensation, vertigo. Badly she wanted to kiss the man’s mouth, that was mutilated. Kolk grabbed her hand, twisting the fingers to make Sophie wince.

Was he angry? Repelled by her? He touched her swollen lip, that seemed to fascinate him. Another time he murmured Sorry! Leaning close to Sophie and suddenly he was looming over her, upon her, seizing her face in his hands, kissing her. Sophie’s instinct was to shrink away but Kolk held her tight, unmoving. There came then a strange sort of kissing, mauling — the way a large cat would kiss — a panther, mountain lion — the man’s mouth was wet, hungry, groping — the man smelled of whiskey, and of his body — a sweaty-yeasty smell — a smell of unwashed clothes, bed linens, flesh — Kolk might have tried to bathe or in some way cleanse himself but dirt was embedded in his skin, beneath his fingernails. The most thorough soaking could not cleanse this man. Kolk had become a mountain-man, in a few years Kolk would be a crazed old mountain-man, beyond reclamation. No woman could live with such a man, it was folly for Sophie to have thought she might live with such a man. Wildly she began to laugh, she could not breathe for his tongue in her mouth, his hot panther-mouth pressed against hers and sucking all the oxygen from her. With the years Kolk’s whiskers would sprout more wildly from his jaws, like jimsonweed. His soot-colored eyes would grow crooked and glaring in his bald hard head like rock. His stubby-yellow teeth would grow into tusks. Winters Kolk would hibernate, in bedclothes stiffened with dirt. He and Cerberus the guard-dog of Hades, pig-pitbull with a milky eye, a freak like his master in a stuporous winter sleep, in their own filth wallowing, no woman would consent to such a life — had Sophie come here to Sourland, to this life, of her own volition?

Yet Sophie was kissing the man — out of schoolgirl politeness, good manners — out of schoolgirl terror — Sophie dared not resist, as the man hungrily kissed her — he was a predator, ravenous for prey — he kissed and bit at her lips — he sucked into his mouth the swollen lip — this lip that beat and throbbed with venomous heat was delicious to him — and there was the taste of the man, in Sophie’s mouth — a whiskey-taste, an acrid-taste, a taste as of ashes — the man’s gigantic tongue protruding into her mouth — snaky, damp, not warm but oddly cool. He will strangle me. Choke me like this. For she could not breathe, she could not move her head away from the man’s mouth, the man’s tongue. She could not free her head from the grip of the man’s fingers. She did not want to offend the man. She knew, a woman dares not offend a man, at such a time. In the throes of desire. In the throes of a ravenous appetite. A woman who has touched a man as Sophie had touched this man, dares not then retract the touch. She did not dare to enflame him. She did not dare to provoke him. She did not dare to insult him. She did not wish him to cease liking her. She did not wish him to cease wanting her. It was essential for her survival in Sourland, as in all of the world, that the man not cease wanting her. Sophie knew this — she had been a wife, and she was now a widow — and so she knew this — with a part of her mind, calmly — yet she was losing control, her limbs seemed to be going numb — along the pathways of her nerves, eerie rippling flames. The spider bite throbbed in her lip. In other parts of her body spider bites throbbed. Like any besotted lover Kolk was saying her name — a name — Soph-ie — Soph-ie — she felt a thrill of triumph, at last the man knew her name. She had made him know her name, finally. She felt a thrill of triumph, the man was wanting her. Now wanting began, it could not be made to stop.

Soph-ie! Won’t hurt you Soph-ie — Kolk was urging her to come with him — pulling at her, impatiently — his strong-muscled arms lifted her to her feet — he was half-carrying her somewhere — not to the brass bed in a corner of the warm firelit room but into the other, smaller room — back to the room with the girl-sized bed, the blue-striped comforter in a tangle on the floor. Now Sophie was resisting, or trying to resist — the man was pulling at her clothes — Sophie had the option to help the man undress her, or risk the man tearing her clothes — he was laughing in delight, or moaning — he was very excited — Sophie did not want to impede his excitement — Sophie did not want to antagonize him — he was breathing heavily, arduously — still he was kissing her, hunched over her — this was a kind of kissing — the bulldog had been wakened rudely and was rushing about barking, clicking his toenails against the plank floor — Kolk cursed the dog, and kicked the dog out of his way — as one might kick a child’s toy dog out of the way, as if the fat little dog weighed no more than a child’s toy dog Kolk kicked S’reebi aside — pushed Sophie onto the bed and with his foot shut the door behind them, as the dog yipped and whined like one bereft.

Kolk was telling Sophie that he loved her — he loved her and he wanted her — he loved her, that she had come to him — in Sourland, where he’d dreamt of her — for so long he’d dreamt of her in Sourland — mistaking the woman’s agitation for passion, for a sexual need ravenous as his own — was this it? — was this what was happening? — for it was true, Sophie clutched at the man — as a drunken dancer clutches at her partner, so Sophie clutched at the man, to keep from falling — each was only part-dressed now — the man’s shirt was open, the man’s trousers were open — he’d pulled the cashmere sweater over her head — the linen shirt he’d unbuttoned hurriedly, tearing off a button — on the bed amid the rumpled bedclothes the lovers were lying asprawl — like lovers drowning together they were clutching at each other’s bodies — Kolk pushed Sophie’s legs apart — Kolk pushed Sophie’s thighs apart with his knees — he’d pulled down her fine-woolen trousers, he’d torn at her white silk panties — his fingers were inside her suddenly — Sophie screamed, Sophie gripped his shoulders with her fingernails Oh oh oh! the man’s fist was rubbing against her, hard between her legs, her crinkly pubic hair, her tender vagina — with his knuckles the man was rubbing against her — in a rhythmic beat the man was rubbing against her — he was breathing hotly, crudely into her face — in terror of drowning Sophie clutched at him, his back, his shoulders, his muscled upper arms — in terror she was kissing him, trying to kiss him — this was a way of placating the man, kissing the man — hoping to control the man or at least to accommodate him, she feared the man’s roughness, she feared the man’s superior strength, she feared the man’s impatience and his abruptness and his waywardness which was the waywardness of a runaway vehicle on a steep grade and she feared the pain he could inflict if he wished to inflict pain — she felt a quivering sort of sensation, a sudden desire for him — a desire delicate as the fluttering of a candle flame — if the man was rough with her in an instant all sensation would vanish, her sense of herself that was her bodily self would vanish, a net of sheer sensation, the slightest mis-touch tore the net, she would feel nothing except discomfort, pain. His knee between her legs, the man was moaning, angry-sounding the man was moaning for possibly he believed that Sophie liked this, a woman would like this, the woman’s response was passionate and not fearful, the woman’s response was ardent and not panicked, it was sexual yearning that made her cry, pant, half-sob, now the man was mashing his hot scarred face against her thigh, the soft skin of her thighs, and between her legs where she was open to him, split open like a nut — she gave a cry, a sharp startled cry, the man had touched the very quick of her, with his mouth, his tongue — as if he’d reached inside her — as if in his fingers he held her quivering heart.