The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen Page A

her perfect, tender pancreas. The sweetness of her little socks, and the thought of the even littler socks of her all too proximate girlhood, and the image of a hopeful bright romantic sophomore packing clothes for a trip with her esteemed professor—each sentimental association added fuel to his shame, each image recalled him to the unfunny raw comedy of what he’d doneto her. The jismic grunting butt-oink. The jiggling frantic nut-swing.
    By now his shame was boiling so furiously it felt liable to burst things in his brain. Nevertheless, while keeping a close eye on Melissa’s sleeping form, he managed to paw her clothing a second time. Only after he’d resqueezed and rehandled each piece of it did he conclude that the Mexican A was in the big zippered outer pocket of her bag. This zipper he eased open tooth by tooth, clenching his own teeth to survive the noise of it. He’d worked the pocket open just far enough to push his hand through it (and the stress of this latest of his penetrations released fresh gusts of flammable memory; he felt mortified by each of the manual liberties he’d taken with Melissa here in Room 23, by the insatiable lewd avidity of his fingers; he wished he could have left her alone ) when the cell phone on the nightstand tinkled and with a groan she came awake.
    He snatched his hand from the forbidden place, ran to the bathroom, and took a long shower. By the time he came out, Melissa was dressed and had repacked her bag. She looked utterly uncarnal in the morning light. She was whistling a happy tune.
    “Darling, a change of plans,” she said. “My father, who really is a lovely man, is coming out to Westport for the day. I want to go be with them.”
    Chip wished he could fail to feel the shame that she was failing to feel; but to beg for another pill was acutely embarrassing. “What about our dinner?” he said.
    “I’m sorry. It’s just really important that I be there.”
    “So it’s not enough to be on the phone with them for a couple of hours every day.”
    “Chip, I’m sorry. But we’re talking about my best friends.”
    Chip had never liked the sound of Tom Paquette: a dilettante rocker and trust-fund baby who ditched his familyfor a roller blader. And in the last few days Clair’s boundless capacity to yak about herself while Melissa listened had turned Chip against her, too.
    “Great,” he said. “I’ll take you to Westport.”
    Melissa flipped her hair so that it fanned across her back. “Darling? Don’t be mad.”
    “If you don’t want to go to the Cape, you don’t want to go to the Cape. I’ll take you to Westport.”
    “Good. Are you going to get dressed?”
    “It’s just that, Melissa, you know, there’s something a little sick about being so close to your parents.”
    She seemed not to have heard him. She went to the mirror and applied mascara. She put on lipstick. Chip stood in the middle of the room with a towel around his waist. He felt warty and egregious. He felt that Melissa was right to be disgusted by him. And yet he wanted to be clear.
    “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    “Darling. Chip.” She pressed her painted lips together. “Get dressed.”
    “I’m saying, Melissa, that children are not supposed to get along with their parents. Your parents are not supposed to be your best friends. There’s supposed to be some element of rebellion. That’s how you define yourself as a person.”
    “Maybe it’s how you define yourself,” she said. “But then you’re not exactly an advertisement for happy adulthood.”
    He grinned and bore this.
    “I like myself,” she said. “But you don’t seem to like yourself so much.”
    “Your parents seem very fond of themselves, too,” he said. “You seem very fond of yourselves as a family.”
    He’d never seen Melissa really angry. “I love myself,” she said. “What’s wrong with that?”
    He was unable to say what was wrong with it. He was unable to say what was wrong with