Free The Unpossessed by Tess Slesinger

listless at the kitchen door, watching Jeffrey range his bottles. From the living-room beyond came the sound of Miles’ and Norah’s voices, carrying on their desultory off-stage drama. “Yes,” Miles was saying, “oh yes, of course; living in the country is quite another thing; there you’re less aware of trends because you’re busy making them—grubbing away knee-deep in dirt, you can’t haul off and get a mental eyeful.” And Norah’s hearty murmur, scarcely audible, muffled by the din of Jeffrey opening bottles; words here and there like the thrusting undercurrent of the second violin, her father’s orchard, her mother’s brood of hens; and Miles again, patient, didactic, uninterested, politely intoning the theme-song from a corner of his shell. Margaret Flinders shivered. Cold? why yes, Mrs. Salvemini, chilled to the bone and heart; it was the coldest walk I ever took—winter is certainly in the air, Mrs. Salvemini . But another coat, Mrs. Salvemini’s shawl itself, would not have helped. For Miles had effectually shut her out, locked and double-barred the door which closed his shell; she had wandered many times around it, her fingers ached with battering vainly on its brittle walls. Let Norah try the empty shell-step now! She thought of Miles; and turned with relief to Jeffrey, preparing an altar on the kitchen table for the rite of mixing drinks.
    â€œno age for repressions, my dear,” Jeffrey spoke in a low and irritable voice, its deadline the kitchen door and the discretion of her ears. “Will you hand me the squeezer, please Maggie? Your repressions are unhealthy, a damned unhealthy lie.”
    â€œnot a question of repressions, I’ve told you that before.” It was such a very old play; her lines came easily. She rummaged on the shelf for Norah’s lemon-squeezer.
    â€œso utterly bourgeois, not like you.” He took the squeezer angrily. “This gin,” he pointed to it proudly, it might be a bonus offered with himself, “is made with hardly any juniper; but lots of glycerine to make it smooth. And it’s not just that I’m arguing my own case,” he brought his large and beautiful eyes to stare like a baleful preacher’s into hers, “it’s for your sake just as much. I wish you’d read my book—where in hell is the ice-pick? the dynamics of healthy sex,” he finished absently. He forgot her; the dynamics of healthy sex slithered to the floor. His eyes and his quick nervous hands darted through the kitchen drawers.
    â€œYou really don’t mix cocktails, you perform them,” Margaret said; and gave herself over to the joy of watching a man in love with what he did. She thought of Miles; from the outer room the sounds came vaguer, Miles withdrawing deeper in his hard impenetrable shell—poor Norah! She thought of Miles. But Miles for all his scorn of Jeffrey’s catholic amours, had brought her here himself; Miles had not lifted his eyes when on the flimsiest pretext (for she had shivered in his presence, found it impossible to raise her voice from spirits sunk so deep) she had followed Jeffrey wildly to the kitchen. Then let Miles go! forget him! forget Norah too, her friend. Forget them both (she urged herself on; she needed courage); let them go on sitting there, discussing Marx, if she knew Miles! in whatever state they might: Norah in her hearty silence, Miles laboriously making faces from the safety of his cloistered shell. She thought of Miles; and turned with warmth to Jeffrey. “Two parts gin without juniper, and about ten parts Jeffrey’s soul,” she said; she paused; “if you put as much ardor into your courtship , Jeffrey . . .” She let her eyes smile mockingly.
    â€œAnd that’s just where you’re wrong,” he said, taking her look and swallowing it with his own egocentric brand of salt, “that’s just