Chapter 25

Sound

He thoughtfully swallowed his steak. A dishtowel draped over his shoulder. He had sat complacently as estrogen fired across the table; teams had formed, the members suited up with verbal weapons of every kind, faces had flushed, and even Ginger, our trusty golden retriever, had turned away from the glistening, charbroiled flesh to the Gettysburg now erupting at the dinner table. In a moment of silence, he took his opportunity. He exhaled deeply from his nose, and the 5 emotionally volatile women at the table looked at him with the impatience and rage of starved harpies. Incredulous, as only women can be, at the perceived idiocy of men. As we heaved, hair being pushed from unsmiling faces, he began to speak.

I had a dream, he said calmly, as if he were talking to no one but himself. As if the tension in the room were not as dense and cold as ice cream. You’d have to use some serious muscle to remove any of it. I had a dream the other night that none of you had been born yet. That, as your father, I could choose whether each of you were going to grow up beautiful or intelligent. You couldn’t be both, you see. I thought long and hard. He took another bite of steak. Chewed and swallowed. By this point he had used a rather clever battle tactic; confuse the enemy. I know what I chose for each of you. At this point he stopped talking and looked at each of us. Said nothing.

Well?! Becca shrieked. The speed with which ambience can change is at least twice as fast as the speed at which a voice can change.

He looked up, startled, as if he had just remembered that we were there. He opened his mouth to speak, but as the first calculated sounds escape, Jennifer interrupted. I like being pretty, she said. She lifted her chin, tossing her heavy, waist-length blond hair over her shoulder and settling back into her chair. It seemed to melt the female silence, as we all broke into laughter. Everyone except dad. He continued cutting and chewing his meal, amused but obviously not finished with his discourse. As our claws retracted and our laughter died down, we all turned back to him. Patiently waiting this already calculated result, he considered us. I chose correctly, he said simply. Rebecca, you chose beauty as well. Debby and Leah, you chose your intellect, sacrificing physical beauty for an unobserved complexity of mind. As your lives progressed, he continued, you all became successful, important women. Jennifer and Rebecca, your beauty got you far in life. Took you places that you otherwise couldn’t have gone. Debby and Leah, your intellect, combined with hard work, placed you finally in powerful, respectable positions.

And then he stopped talking. Returned to his dinner, as if what he had said was not profound or life changing. As if it wouldn’t inspire years of contemplation, jealousy or sleepless nights. As if I wouldn’t wish, for years, for the dissolution of my intellect. Stupid people are happier with less. Mindless 18 year old brides, content with mediocrity because their limited brain powers can’t even comprehend anything more. Smiling in identical wedding dresses with identical husbands who will grow identical pot bellies as the years pass. Tract homes, average children, never knowing defeat or victory. Why does the mundane repulse me more than failure or despair?

Dye your hair. He was saying it as if it were scripture. As if he were allowing me in on a trade secret. Condensing and condescending his extensive knowledge into three little words. And stop being so effervescent. People can’t respect a ditz. And people can work for people they don’t respect. This was not an isolated incident; George had repeatedly called me into his office throughout our entire interaction. Usually under some pretense of official business or other. Class business. I wasn’t in any of his classes at the time. To be honest, I’ve only ever been in one of his classes. Ever. And yet he would call me into his office, or I would voluntarily wander into it, to hear personal criticisms, shrouded in the soft cloak of humor and stamped with the seal of advice.

How’s your dating life? Good. I have a date tonight. Don’t wear that weird skirt you’re wearing.

Whatever you’re doing with your hair, this crinkly look, I don’t like it. And I’m a boy. Boys don’t like it.

If I didn’t know you, I would think you were unstable and foolish. That’s what you sound like.

How old are you now? 23, George. All the boys are younger than you. You’re not going to find anyone.

Somehow I would leave his office convinced that he was correct. But as time passed, I would laugh at myself. Realize that he had taken me in again.

Dye your hair. I looked at him mockingly. What is the stereotype associated with blondes?

Words can be cotton. They can be sweat. They can be a spring blossom, or death’s hand, or a mountain. His words were lead. Poisoning my brain as he delicately poured in his carefully prepared lies. Warmed to a temperature of false security, scented with falsity.

It’s the sound of people’s voices; familiar or not. Just listening to his voice on the phone would stir emotions in me. It wasn’t soothing, or quiet, or deep. I just knew that he was the one choosing and uttering the sounds. But the singular vibrations of his voicebox, coming through his mouth, just… moved me. Senses are a decision. I let the vibrations of his voice resonate in my heart, my mind. And I let them turn me on. Not that it’s hard or anything.