THE BELL JAR // sylvia plath

Chapter Ten

THE FACE IN THE MIRROR looked like a sick Indian. I dropped the compact into my pocketbook and stared out of the train window. Like a colossal junkyard, the swamps and back lots of Connecticut flashed past, one broken-down fragment bearing no relation to another. What a hotchpotch the world was! I glanced down at my unfamiliar skirt and blouse. The skirt was a green dirndl with tiny black, white and electric-blue shapes swarming across it, and it stuck out like a lampshade. Instead of sleeves, the white eyelet blouse had frills at the shoulder, floppy as the wings of a new angel. I'd forgotten to save any day clothes from the ones I let fly over New York, so Betsy had traded me a blouse and skirt for my bathrobe with the cornflowers on it.

A wan reflection of myself, white wings, brown ponytail and all, ghosted over the landscape. "Pollyanna Cowgirl," I said out loud.
A woman in the seat opposite looked up from her magazine. I hadn't, at the last moment, felt like washing off the two diagonal lines of dried blood that marked my cheeks. They seemed touching, and rather spectacular, and I thought I would carry them around with me, like the relic of a dead lover, till they wore off of their own accord. Of course, if I smiled or moved my face much, the blood would flake away in no time, so I kept my face immobile, and when I had to speak I spoke through my teeth, without disturbing my lips. I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.

My gray suitcase rode on the rack over my head, empty except for The Thirty Best Short Stories of the Year, a white plastic sunglasses case and two dozen avocado pears, a parting present from Doreen. The pears were unripe, so they would keep well, and whenever I lifted my suitcase up or down or simply carried it along, they cannoned from one end to the other with a special little thunder of their own. "Root Wan Twenny Ate!" the conductor bawled. The domesticated wilderness of pine, maple and oak rolled to a halt and stuck in the frame of the train window like a bad picture. My suitcase grumbled and bumped as I negotiated the long aisle.

I stepped from the air-conditioned compartment onto the station platform, and the motherly breath of the suburbs enfolded me. It smelt of lawn sprinklers and station wagons and tennis rackets and dogs and babies. A summer calm laid its soothing hand over everything, like death. My mother was waiting by the glove-gray Chevrolet. "Why lovey, what's happened to your face?"

"Cut myself," I said briefly, and crawled into the back seat after my suitcase. I didn't want her staring at me the whole way home.
The upholstery felt slippery and clean. My mother climbed behind the wheel and tossed a few letters into my lap, then turned her back The car purred into life. "I think I should tell you right away," she said, and I could see bad news in the set of her neck, "you didn't make that writing course." The air punched out of my stomach. All through June the writing course stretched before me like a bright, safe bridge over the dull gulf of the summer. Now I saw it totter and dissolve, and a body in a white blouse and green skirt plummet into the gap.

Then my mouth shaped itself sourly. I had expected it. I slunk down on the middle of my spine, my nose level with the rim of the
window, and watched the houses of outer Boston glide by. As the houses grew more familiar I slunk still lower. I felt it was very important not to be recognized. The gray, padded car roof closed over my head like the roof of a prison van, and the white, shining, identical clapboard houses with their interstices of well-groomed green proceeded past, one bar after another in a large but escape proof cage. I had never spent a summer in the suburbs before. The soprano screak of carriage wheels punished my ear. Sun, seeping through the blinds, filled the bedroom with a sulphurous light. I didn't know how long I had slept, but I felt one big twitch of exhaustion.

The twin bed next to mine was empty and unmade. At seven I had heard my mother get up, slip into her clothes and tiptoe out of the room. Then the buzz of the orange squeezer sounded from downstairs, and the smell of coffee and bacon filtered under my door. Then the sink water ran from the tap and dishes clinked as my mother dried them and put them back in the cupboard. Then the front door opened and shut. Then the car door opened and shut, and the motor went broom-broom and, edging off with a crunch of gravel, faded into the distance. My mother was teaching shorthand and typing to a lot of city college girls and wouldn't be home till the middle of the afternoon.