Jeffrey Eugenides - Middlesex

“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.”

The Object knows this isn’t true. But her intentions aren’t malicious. She isn’t trying to catch me out, only to put me at ease. My modesty baffles her.

“I don’t know what you’re so worried about,” she says. “You’re my best friend.”

I pretend to be engrossed in the magazine. I can’t get myself to look away. Inside, however, I’m bursting with happiness. I’m erupting with joy, but I keep staring at the magazine as though I’m mad at it.

It’s late. We’ve stayed up watching TV. The Object is brushing her teeth when I come into the bathroom. I pull down my underpants and sit on the toilet. I do this sometimes as a compensatory tactic. The T-shirt is long enough to cover my lap. I pee while the Object brushes.

It’s then I smell smoke. Looking up, I see, besides a toothbrush in the Object’s mouth, a cigarette.

“You even smoke while you brush your teeth?”

She looks at me sideways. “Menthol,” she says.

The thing about those souvenirs, though: the glitter falls fast.

A reminder taped to our refrigerator brought me back to reality: “Dr. Bauer, July 22, 2P.M. ”

I was filled with dread. Dread of the perverted gynecologist and his inquisitorial instruments. Dread of the metal things that would spread my legs and of the doohickey that would spread something else. And dread of what all this spreading might reveal.

It was in this state, this emotional foxhole, that I started going to church again. One Sunday in early July my mother and I dressed up (Tessie in heels, me not) and drove down to Assumption. Tessie was suffering, too. It had been six months since Chapter Eleven had sped away from Middlesex on his motorcycle, and since that time he hadn’t been back. Worse, in April he had broken the news that he was dropping out of college. He was planning to move to the Upper Peninsula with some friends and, as he put it, live off the land. “You don’t think he’d do something crazy like run off and marry that Meg, do you?” Tessie asked Milton. “Let’s hope not,” he answered. Tessie worried that Chapter Eleven wasn’t taking care of himself, either. He wasn’t going to the dentist regularly. His vegetarianism made him pale. And he was losing his hair. At the age of twenty. This made Tessie feel suddenly old.

United in anxiety, seeking solace for differing complaints (Tessie wanting to get rid of her pains while I wanted mine to begin), we entered the church. As far as I could tell, what happened every Sunday at Assumption Greek Orthodox Church was that the priests got together and read the Bible out loud. They started with Genesis and kept going straight through Numbers and Deuteronomy. Then on through Psalms and Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel, all the way up to the New Testament. Then they read that. Given the length of our services, I saw no other possibility.

They chanted as the church slowly filled up. Finally the central chandelier flicked on and Father Mike, like a life-size puppet, sprang through the icon screen. The transformation my uncle went through every Sunday always amazed me. At church Father Mike appeared and disappeared with the capriciousness of a divinity. One minute he was up on the balcony, singing in his tender, tone-deaf voice. The next minute he was back on ground level, swinging his censer. Glittering, bejeweled, as overdone in his vestments as a Fabergé egg, he promenaded around the church, giving us God’s blessing. Sometimes his censer produced so much smoke it seemed that Father Mike had the ability to cloak himself in a mist. When the mist dispersed, however, later that afternoon in our living room, he was once again a short, shy man, in black, polyester-blend clothes and a plastic collar.

Aunt Zoë’s authority went in the opposite direction. At church she was meek. The round gray hat she wore looked like the head of a screw fastening her to her pew. She was constantly pinching her sons to keep them awake. I could barely connect the anxious person hunched down every week in front of us to the funny woman who, under the inspiration of wine, launched into comedy routines in our kitchen. “You men stay out!” she’d shout, dancing with my mother. “We’ve got knives in here.”

So startling was the contrast between churchgoing Zoë and wine-drinking Zoë that I always made a point of watching her closely during the liturgy. On most Sundays, when my mother tapped her on the shoulder in greeting, Aunt Zo responded only with a weak smile. Her large nose looked swollen with grief. Then she turned back, crossed herself, and settled in for the duration.