worked up, formed. Nathaniel Hawthorne 71 be to the world as one already dead, and of whom no tidings shall ever come. Recognise me not, by word, by sign, by look! Breathe not the secret, above all, to the man thou wottest of. Shouldst thou fail me in this, beware! His fame, his position, his life will be in my hands. Beware!" "I will keep thy secret, as I have his," said Hester.% "Swear it!" rejoined he. And she took the oath. "And now, Mistress Prynne," said old Roger Chillingworth, as he was hereafter to be named, "I leave thee alone: alone with thy infant and the scarlet letter! How is it, Hester? Doth thy sentence bind thee to wear the token in thy sleep? Art thou not afraid of nightmares and hideous dreams?" "Why dost thou smile so at me?" inquired Hester, troubled at the expression of his eyes. "Art thou like the Black Man that haunts the forest round about us? Hast thou enticed me into a bond that will prove the ruin of my soul?" "Not thy soul," he answered, with another smile. "No, not thine!" Thesaurus beware: (v) look out, caution, be hideous: (adj) dreadful, frightful, ravage, destruction, damage. careful, guard, pay attention, take fearful, ghastly, horrid, ugly, ANTONYMS: (v) conserve, enhance, care, watch out, mind, keep, care, repulsive, lurid, horrible, grisly, save, restore, improve; (n, v) respect; careful. ANTONYMS: (v) risk, grim. ANTONYMS: (adj) lovely, (n) making, success, triumph, rise, disregard, invite. pleasant, beautiful, wonderful. preservation. bind: (adj, v) attach, fix, fasten, affix; oath: (n) expletive, malediction, thou: (n) chiliad, grand, m, g, one (n) band; (v) bandage, lace, fetter, imprecation, promise, affidavit, cuss, thousand, gramme, gram, gm, bundle, truss, combine. swearing, pledge, assurance, gigabyte, Gb, curtilage. ANTONYMS: (v) untie, unbind, free, asseveration; (v) swear. token: (n) memento, souvenir, note, unfasten, unravel, permit, loosen, ruin: (n) devastation, desolation; (adj, keepsake, sign, relic, stamp, signal, loose, let; (n, v) release; (n) pleasure. n) downfall; (v) break, consume, indication; (adj) nominal; (n, v) trace. enticed: (adj) interested. demolish, destroy; (n, v) doom, ANTONYM: (adj) great. Nathaniel Hawthorne 73 CHAPTER %V. HESTER AT HER NEEDLE Hester Prynne's term of confinement was now at an end. Her prison-door was thrown open, and she came forth into the sunshine, which, falling on all alike, seemed, to her sick and morbid heart, as if meant for no other purpose than to reveal the scarlet letter on her breast. Perhaps there was a more real torture in her first unattended footsteps from the threshold of the prison than even in the procession and spectacle that have been described, where she was made the common infamy, at which all mankind was summoned to point its finger. Then, she was supported by an unnatural tension of the nerves, and by all the combative energy of her character, which enabled her to convert the scene into a kind of lurid triumph. It was, moreover, a separate and insulated event, to occur but once in her lifetime, and to meet which, therefore, reckless of economy, she might call


I explained what I meant by normal. I didn’t lead a normal life, because I

couldn’t lead one. Even my father reminds me that unfortunately Willy and I

cant be normal. I told the reporter that no one but Willy understood what it

was like to live in this surreal fishbowl, in which normal events were treated

as abnormal, and the abnormal was routinely normalized.

That was what I was trying to say, starting to say, but then I took another

look down the hillside. Poverty, disease, orphans—death. It rendered

everything else rubbish. In Lesotho, no matter what you were going through,

you were well-off compared to others. I suddenly felt ashamed, and

wondered if the journalist had sense enough to be ashamed too. Sitting here

above all this misery and talking about page-three girls? Come on.

After the interview I went and found George and we drank beer. A lot of

beer. Gallons of beer.

I believe that was also the night I smoked an entire shopping bag of weed.

I don’t recommend it.

Then again, it might have been another night. Hard to be precise when it

comes to a shopping bag full of weed.

45.

( : EORGE AND I FLEW from Lesotho to Cape Town, to meet up with some

mates, and Marko.

101

https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.:me/Afghansalarlibrary

March 2004.

We were staying at the home of the consulate general, and one night we

talked about having some people over. For dinner. Just one small problem.

We didn’t know anyone in Cape Town.

But wait—that wasn’t completely true. ’'d met someone years earlier, a

girl from South Africa. At the Berkshire Polo Club.

Chelsy.

I remembered her being...

Different.

I went through my phone, found her number.

Give her a call, Marko said.

Really?

Why not?<span


at each other; while Piggy, reassured by the cessation of violence, stood up carefully. Jack glanced back at Ralph and then at the twins. "Grab them!" No one moved. Jack shouted angrily. "I said 'grab them'!" The painted group moved round Samneric nervously and unhandily. Once more the silvery laughter scattered. Samneric protested out of the heart of civilization. "Oh, I say!" "--honestly!" Their spears were taken from them. "Tie them up!" Ralph cried out hopelessly against the black and green mask. "Jack!" "Go on. Tie them." Now the painted group felt the otherness of Samneric, felt the power in their own hands. They felled the twins clumsily and excitedly. Jack was inspired. He knew that Ralph would attempt a rescue. He struck in a humming circle behind him and Ralph only just parried the blow. Beyond them the tribe and the twins were a loud and writhing heap. Piggy crouched again. Then the twins lay, astonished, and the tribe stood round them. Jack turned to Ralph and spoke between his teeth. "See? They do what I want." There was silence again. The twins lay, inexpertly tied up, and the tribe watched Ralph to see what he would do. He numbered them through his fringe, glimpsed the ineffectual smoke. His temper broke. He screamed at Jack. "You're a beast and a swine and a bloody, bloody thief!" He charged. Jack, knowing this was the crisis, charged too. They met with a jolt and bounced apart. Jack swung with his fist at Ralph and caught him on the ear. Ralph hit Jack in the stomach and made him grunt. Then they were facing each other again, panting and furious, but unnerved by each other's ferocity. They became aware of the noise that was the background to this fight, the steady shrill cheering of the tribe behind them. Piggy's voice penetrated to Ralph. "Let me speak." He was standing in the dust of the fight, and as the tribe saw his intention the shrill cheer changed to a steady booing. Piggy held up the conch and the booing sagged a little, then came up again to strength. "I got the conch!" He shouted. "I tell you, I got the conch!" Surprisingly, there was silence now; the tribe were curious to hear what amusing thing he might have to say. Silence and pause; but in the silence a curious air-noise, close by Ralph's head. He gave it half his attention--and there it was again; a faint "Zup!" Someone was throwing stones: Roger was dropping them, his one hand still on the lever. Below him, Ralph was a shock of hair and Piggy a bag of fat. "I got this to say. You're acting like a crowd of kids." The booing rose and died again as Piggy lifted the white, magic shell. "Which is better--to be a pack of painted Indians like you are, or to be sensible like Ralph is?" A great clamor rose among the savages. Piggy shouted again. "Which is better--to have rules and agree, or to hunt and kill?" Again the clamor


cramp by the time backup arrived. Edei had sent word to Bianca about a potential other-born threat stalking the gang, via that strange knuckle-rap system the Fortuna gang had; in fifteen minutes, Nico and Chimdi were there. Io studied the young woman, her gaze falling first on her fingers, long, calloused, ornamented not by clay but by the Fortuna knuckles. She was petite and lean, hair shorn so short Io could make out the curves of her scalp, a series of brass hoops on both ears. Her accent was Anoch, drawing out the vowels and tumbling over the ps. “Bianca says do it properly this time,” the girl told Edei instead of a greeting. “No screw-ups.” Edei gave a solemn nod, no hint that the threat rattled him. The thread in Io’s hand felt suddenly like a lifeline. Their visit at the House of Nine had confirmed the wraiths were once the target of the Nine, forewarned as dangerous by their artists. Whoever was guiding the wraiths’ hands was clever enough to know how to hide from the all-knowing muse-born. There were other clues they could follow—such as tracking the wraith or looking into a possible link between the wraiths and their other victims, like there had been with Horatio—but the thread that now lay between Io’s fingers called for more immediate attention. The man had followed them from the House of Nine, assaulted them with his phobos-born powers, and appeared particularly interested in the possibility that the Nine might know who was behind the wraiths. Something connected him to these undying women, and Io intended to find out precisely what. She hadn’t dropped the Quilt for a moment, in fear that the phobos-born’s thread would slip out of her fingers. A gray sky greeted them as they stepped out of the domed market. Io could already taste rain in the air. It was nearly summer, when neo-monsoons migrated from the south up to Alante, pelting the city with acid rain. They would need to find the man quickly and take cover somewhere inside, in case the weather turned ugly. Edei must have had the same thought, looking from the darkening sky to her. Even with the Quilt casting the silver light of dozens of threads across her vision, Io recognized the tension in his face. “Where to?” he asked. Io glanced at the thread. “East, to Newtown.” Newtown District was reconstructed a few years ago, its streets smoothed to accommodate automobiles. The frail constructions rack-rack-racketed on the uneven asphalt, honking at each other and pedestrians. They were mostly trucks carrying products, but there was also the odd private vehicle, its windows tinted, its drivers in shiny caps and elegant button-downs. Io’s father had been in a private automobile once, an occasion he had narrated as though it had been the most marvelous fairy tale, complete with a beautiful princess and a fairy godmother. He had been crossing the street on Cardamom Avenue, not far from here, and the driver hadn’t seen him. Nearly took his kneecap off. The owner of the


of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room and continued a long time traversing my bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain; I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her, but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch --the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped and rushed downstairs. I took refuge in the courtyard belonging to the house which I inhabited, where I remained during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life. Oh! No mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then, but when those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived. I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and hardly that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment; dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space were now become a hell to me; and the change was


of them, ladies of an equal height and temperament, taking a brisk walk together around the park. Mrs. King realized that she had come here to find a sister, but there wasn’t one to be found. She reached into her pocket. Drew out an envelope. “This isn’t from me,” she said. “And it’s not a gift.” Alice had given her the instructions. Indeed, she’d purchased all the tickets. The train to the coast, the cabin for the crossing from Plymouth, the trains from France to Italy. “Don’t say anything,” she’d said to Mrs. King. “Just give them to her.” Miss de Vries took the envelope, puzzled. She didn’t open it. This didn’t surprise Mrs. King. She wouldn’t have done so, either—not in public, not under observation. She said, simply, “Good day.” And then she left the shop, not looking back, not even for a moment. 43 June 1906 Mrs. King waved her hands to clear the dust from the air. She looked across the street. She could see secretaries, lawyers, men from the auction house, all huddled on the pavement. A lot of top hats gleaming. “We’ve got all the ghouls out today,” said a voice. Mrs. King turned, heart lifting. There was Mrs. Bone, leaning against the railings. Beside her stood a bicycle with a basket so large it made Mrs. King start laughing. “What d’you want that for?” she asked. “Have you stolen a ham?” “Wouldn’t you like to know!” “Tell me you didn’t ride that here.” “I’ve got to keep my joints going!” Mrs. King hugged her. She did it before Mrs. Bone could protest or pull away. “You’ve gone soft,” Mrs. Bone said, voice muffled. “And you’ve turned into a lady.” Mrs. King straightened, stepped back. “What’s that smell? French perfume?” Mrs. Bone scowled. “Fix your veil, girl.” Mrs. King adjusted the Russian netting tied under her chin. She knew her face was perfectly concealed. “Thanks.” Mrs. Bone reached for her, a sudden move. Her fingers were gentle. “Listen. I don’t like interfering in people’s business. And I won’t be used as a go-between.” “All right. Where is he?” Mrs. Bone tilted her head, a quick sideways jerk, and Mrs. King looked over her shoulder. She felt her heart expanding. “Good. Clear off for a bit, would you?” She raised a hand, a solemn gesture, and William—at a distance, hat pulled low over his eyes, raised his slowly in return. “Let me know, won’t you?” Mrs. Bone said, squinting up at the de Vries residence. A worried look entered her eyes. “What you decide.” William came across the grass toward her: straight, purposeful strides. Mrs. Bone scuttled away, her bicycle jolting as she went, and disappeared into the trees. Mrs. King spoke first. “I didn’t put a call out for any hired hands.” William tipped his hat. “How about sweethearts?” “Not advertising for those, either.” “Well, fair enough.” “Look at it,” she said, pointing to the house. He followed her gaze. White plasterwork, pillars. The great bow windows, the awnings. The huge heft and height of it. “Smartest


me, that high dropped to the ground. Looked like it was time to be a disappointment again. Oh well. * * * THE MOMENT OF truth came later, after most of the doctors, including my dad, had left. Dr. Nicole stayed to run me through some face recognition tests. Before we got started, I needed to pee. Which meant going to the bathroom. Which, of course, had a mirror above the sink. I avoided looking as I walked in, but as I headed out, I paused. What would happen if I looked into that mirror? What would I see? Don’t look, I told myself. I didn’t want to know, but I also couldn’t stand not knowing … and so I wound up standing with my eyes averted, caught between curiosity and dread, for so long Dr. Nicole finally asked if I was all right. The knock startled me, and then I coasted off that energy and glanced up into the mirror to check my reflection … And what I saw made me gasp. My face, my very own face, the one I’d had and known and lived with all my life … it was nothing but puzzle pieces, too. * * * WHEN I OPENED the bathroom door, moving in slo-mo with the shock, I kept my eyes pointed toward the floor, which felt like the safest place. I got as far as the threshold before slowing to a stop. “Sadie?” Dr. Nicole asked. “I can’t see my own face,” I said then, a little breathless. “I just checked in the mirror, and it’s not there. I’m faceless.” But Dr. Nicole wasn’t giving in to my drama. “You’re not faceless,” she said, steering me gently by the shoulders back to bed, “you just have edema.” I wanted to be practical about it. Matter-of-fact. I wanted to fully understand that this was just a little brain glitch. But there was nothing matter-of-fact about it. I walked away from that mirror feeling … lonely. No matter how alone you ever are in life, you always have yourself, right? You always have that goofy, imperfect face that forgets to take off its mascara before bed and wakes up with raccoon eyes. That one crooked lower tooth that the orthodontist never could manhandle into place. Those ears that stick out a little too far. Those lines on either side of your smile that always look like parentheses. That slight dimple at your chin that’s just like your mom’s. Of course those aren’t the only things that make you you. You are also your whole life story. And your sense of humor. And your homemade doughnut recipe. And your love for ghost stories. And the way you savor ocean breezes. And the appreciation you have for how the colors pink and orange go together. You’re not just your face, is what I mean. But man, it sure is a big part of you. Like your shadow. So faithfully and constantly with you, you don’t even notice it. It’s just always there. But then one day it’s gone.


and began to dry the breakfast plates. She wondered what Minnie would be doing now; she’d probably be stretched out like a happy cat on the sofa, reading a book. Josie would be doing the same thing, basking in the garden. Lin hadn’t started her own book yet; it was still in the torn wrapping paper. She compared herself to her teacher, Miss Hamilton. Cecily was much older, but she was inspirational – she hadn’t lost any of her elegance and zest for life. She’d be in her neat bungalow now in perfect lipstick, enjoying a leisurely breakfast. She might even be playing her guitar. All three women were alone, Minnie, Josie, Cecily – but Lin felt lucky, she had a gorgeous doting husband. Her blessing suddenly became an anxiety: Lin worried about losing him. What if he became bored with her? He was so outgoing; she wasn’t sure that she was very interesting nowadays. She rarely had anything new to say; she and Neil had been married for forty-nine years and they knew all there was to know about each other. Perhaps they should spend time together today, to go out for a drive, or a walk in Old Scratch’s woods. The bluebells would be out and the birds would be twittering above dappled branches. They could talk; she could tell him that she sometimes felt tearful, a little depressed. Neil came downstairs, damp from the shower. ‘Oh, you’ve had a shower?’ Lin remarked and was immediately annoyed that she had stated the obvious. She felt even more dull. Neil shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Is that a problem?’ ‘No, of course not.’ Lin searched for something interesting to say. The wrong words came out, boring words. ‘It’s a nice day, sunny…’ ‘It is…’ They stared at each other and then Neil said, ‘I thought I’d go out to see Jimmy Baker. He’s asked me for some help with something.’ ‘Oh, what’s that?’ Lin said sadly. She’d wanted company. ‘His bicycle. It needs a bit of a… service.’ ‘Oh…’ ‘You don’t mind, do you, love?’ ‘Of course not.’ Lin tried to conceal her disappointment with a wide smile. ‘You’ll be back for lunch?’ ‘Well, I was thinking I might have lunch round at Jimmy’s, just a sandwich… it might be a long job…’ ‘Oh, all right.’ Neil shuffled his feet. ‘Are you sure, love?’ He pecked her cheek quickly. ‘I’ll be back in time to cook dinner.’ ‘Yes, fine, fine.’ Lin heard an edge to her voice, irritation. Neil seemed not to notice. He reached for his jacket, the smart dark one he’d bought a month ago. Lin frowned. ‘Isn’t that jacket a bit nice for wearing to fix a bicycle?’ Neil offered a cheeky grin. ‘I thought I’d break it in…’ He moved towards the door. ‘I’ll see you later.’ ‘Yes, fine.’ Lin watched him go then she stared around the empty kitchen. She felt inadequate and annoyed with herself. Josie spent every day alone and yet Lin was tired with her own company after just a few


kill-e; oh! perry easy! He was going on with some wild reminiscences about his tomahawk-pipe, which, it seemed, had in its two uses both brained his foes and soothed his soul, when we were directly attracted to the sleeping rigger. The strong vapor now completely filling the contracted hole, it began to tell upon him. He breathed with a sort of muffledness; then seemed troubled in the nose; then revolved over once or twice; then sat up and rubbed his eyes. Holloa! he breathed at last, who be ye smokers? Shipped men, answered I, when does she sail? Aye, aye, ye are going in her, be ye? She sails to-day. The Captain came aboard last night. What Captain? --Ahab? Who but him indeed? .. <p 100 > I was going to ask him some further questions concerning Ahab, when we heard a noise on deck. Halloa! Starbuck's astir, said the rigger. He's a lively chief mate, that; good man, and a pious; but all alive now, I must turn to. And so saying he went on deck, and we followed. It was now clear sunrise. Soon the crew came on board in twos and threes; the riggers bestirred themselves; the mates were actively engaged; and several of the shore people were busy in bringing various last things on board. Meanwhile Captain Ahab remained invisibly enshrined within his cabin. .. <p 100 > .. < chapter xxii 12 MERRY CHRISTMAS > At length, towards noon, upon the final dismissal of the ship's riggers, and after the Pequod had been hauled out from the wharf, and after the ever-thoughtful Charity had come off in a whaleboat, with her last gift --a night-cap for Stubb, the second mate, her brother-in-law, and a spare bible for the steward -- after all this, the two captains, Peleg and Bildad, issued from the cabin, and turning to the chief mate, Peleg said: Now, Mr. Starbuck, are you sure everything is right? Captain Ahab is all ready --just spoke to him --nothing more to be got from shore, eh? Well, call all hands, then. Muster 'em aft here --blast 'em! No need of profane words, however great the hurry, Peleg, said Bildad, but away with thee, friend Starbuck, and do our bidding. How now! Here upon the very point of starting for the voyage, Captain Peleg and Captain Bildad were going it with a high hand on the quarter-deck, just as if they were to be joint-commanders at sea, as well as to all appearances in port. And, as for Captain Ahab, no sign of him was yet to be seen; Only, they said he was in the cabin. But then, the idea was, .. <p 101 > that his presence was by no means necessary in getting the ship under weigh, and steering her well out to sea. Indeed, as that was not at all his proper business, but the pilot's; and as he was not yet completely recovered --so they said --therefore, Captain Ahab stayed below. And all this seemed natural enough; especially as in the merchant


avoided saying their names at all. The Robesons had grown children, a house full of artificial flowers and little bowls of potpourri, soft pastel carpets in every room. My mother needed to be hospitalized. It was obvious, and it was obvious I was the reason she wasn’t going. Not that her being home was healthy for me, either; by the beginning of eighth grade, my schoolwork had slipped along with my friendships and hygiene. I don’t know if I was clinically depressed, but the best way to survive my mother’s depression was to go numb, to match her silence and her disregard for cleanliness, for answering the phone, for making meals. Severn Robeson had grown up outside Boston and attended Granby in the ’50s, sent his son and daughter there, too, and sponsored the occasional scholarship. The Robesons had a proposal: I would come live with them for the rest of eighth grade, pulling my grades up, while my mom got treatment. Then, as long as I could get into Granby—and they were certain I could, wink wink—they’d pay for tuition and room and board and books. I’d stay with them on breaks, until my mom was stable and home. Severn sang me “You Can’t Beat the Granby Dragons” to the tune of “You Can’t Ride in My Little Red Wagon.” He told me about the teacher who made him memorize ten Shakespeare soliloquies. My idea of boarding school was mostly bits of The Facts of Life plus a dim impression of something gothic and fancy. The brochure, though, showed kids laughing over plates of fries. It showed tan, muscled teenagers playing tug-of-war, as if that were a regular pastime rather than (as I would learn) a forced orientation activity. Granby looked a lot better than Indiana. It looked like a school where people wouldn’t stick gum on your locker, where they wouldn’t find it hilarious to ask if your brother killed himself because you were fat. When I left for school in the fall of ’91, my mother was in a residential program. She and two roommates had their own little house with a tiny kitchen. By Thanksgiving, she’d left for the Arizona desert with a man she’d met in group therapy. They made wind chimes and hand-bound books together. She flew back to Indiana and we had Thanksgiving with the Robesons and their kids and grandkids, and she talked the whole time about the Arizona sun, how the gloom up here was half her problem. I stayed with her near Sedona that June, but I hated her faux-hippie boyfriend and the Airstream we were crammed in. She and I fought viciously, and I returned to Indiana a month early. By the time you got to know me, sophomore year, I fully lived at the Robesons’, spent vacations hiding in my room or perched with a book on their velveteen sofa hoping no one would make small talk. I’d go to church with them because I felt obliged. They pressured me only gently to get baptized, and didn’t disown me when


below her lay the undergrowth and the hard earth. About her was the waving foliage of the forest. From tree to tree swung the giant figure which bore her, and it seemed to Jane that she was living over in a dream the experience that had been hers in that far African jungle. Oh, if it were but the same man who had borne her so swiftly through the tangled verdure on that other day! but that was impossible! Yet who else in all the world was there with the strength and agility to do what this man was now doing? She stole a sudden glance at the face close to hers, and then she gave a little frightened gasp. It was he! "My forest man!" she murmured, "No, I must be delerious!" "Yes, your man, Jane Porter. Your savage, primeval man come out of the jungle to claim his mate--the woman who ran away from him," he added almost fiercely. "I did not run away," she whispered. "I would only consent to leave when they had waited a week for you to return." They had come to a point beyond the fire now, and he had turned back to the clearing. Side by side they were walking toward the cottage. The wind had changed once more and the fire was burning back upon itself--another hour like that and it would be burned out. "Why did you not return?" she asked. "I was nursing D'Arnot. He was badly wounded." "Ah, I knew it!" she exclaimed. "They said you had gone to join the blacks--that they were your people." He laughed. "But you did not believe them, Jane?" "No;--what shall I call you?" she asked. "What is your name?" "I was Tarzan of the Apes when you first knew me," he said. Chapter 27 159 "Tarzan of the Apes!" she cried--"and that was your note I answered when I left?" "Yes, whose did you think it was?" "I did not know; only that it could not be yours, for Tarzan of the Apes had written in English, and you could not understand a word of any language." Again he laughed. "It is a long story, but it was I who wrote what I could not speak--and now D'Arnot has made matters worse by teaching me to speak French instead of English. "Come," he added, "jump into my car, we must overtake your father, they are only a little way ahead." As they drove along, he said: "Then when you said in your note to Tarzan of the Apes that you loved another--you might have meant me?" "I might have," she answered, simply. "But in Baltimore--Oh, how I have searched for you--they told me you would possibly be married by now. That a man named Canler had come up here to wed you. Is that true?" "Yes." "Do you love him?" "No." "Do you love me?" She buried her face in her hands. "I am promised to another. I cannot answer you, Tarzan of the Apes," she cried. "You have answered. Now, tell me


what to do because it knows, it follows the hill, it follows gravity, and that’s what he’s doing now, following gravity, until Thalia starts seizing, her eyes rolling back. She slides to the bottom of the stall, the water washing the blood on the wall from red to pink to nothing. He sobers up, or at least the things in front of him come clear: He needs to fix this. Not fix her, because it’s too late, she’s twitching like she’s electrocuted—but fix all of this, this bad movie, this problem, this thing that’s befallen him. He drags her small, wet body out of the locker room and back to the pool, gets her clothes off, gets her into a swimsuit he finds. He has all the time in the world, because meanwhile the other Robbie, the one in the woods, is singing along with the boom box, a falsetto rendition of “Come to My Window.” That Robbie is hamming it up, spinning with his arms out, as this Robbie slides Thalia into the pool, knowing, to the extent he knows anything right now, that she’s still alive, that what he did in the shower might have been an accident but this is intentional, this is murder, is murder, is murder. He has time to find the bleach, to use it on the pool deck and in the hall—Omar is gone by now, his office light off—and in the locker room. He has time to vomit in the sink, to wash it down the drain, to wash his hands and face. There are extra clothes in Thalia’s backpack—a green sweater, jeans, some underwear—and he folds these neatly on the bench as if this were what she’d worn. He’ll take the wet, bloodstained clothes and find a way to burn them. He slips back out through the emergency exit. In the morning, it occurs to him that he should have left the key with Thalia, given her a plausible way to have entered the pool alone. But then, this version of Robbie is not the one who’ll wake up in the morning, because this Robbie vanishes. He becomes molecular, floats away in the damp March air. The real Robbie is hurrying back to his dorm now with his friends, crossing North Bridge, happy and only a little drunk and only a little late for check-in. He’ll get married and have kids and live in Connecticut, and he’ll never know what he’s done. 28 The Granby Supper Club was exactly as I remembered it, except that in adulthood the excellent wine list was an option, which immensely helped the mediocre food. There’s a particular charm to the glass of breadsticks on the table, the man who comes around with the basket of rolls and little tongs. We don’t get many bread basket men in LA. When the carb man left—I managed to pass, to Fran’s eye-rolling—I said, “So you called Mr. Bloch a creeper.” “Why, what.” “You remember how we used to think Thalia was involved with him?” Fran laughed, said, “Wait, do not


one of the boxes. German chocolate cupcakes. My favorite. Well played, Bryce. Well played. Even still, as Harriet walked out the door, I texted him: Seriously? No bubbles. I restacked some bookmarks, grabbed a cupcake, and went back to my desk. Halfway into my review writing, the bell tinkled again and in he walked. “Ah, the busy career man himself.” I could tell by his face that he was not in the mood. Well, guess what? Neither was I. I was already embarrassed that I had aired so much dirty laundry to my friends at my bachelorette. I was just venting, after all. So now I was trying to smooth things over so Daphne and Mary Stuart could see for themselves that all was well. Bryce not showing up for family camp was in direct opposition to that plan. “I said I was sorry.” Yeah… he was irritated. “I sent cupcakes. I wrote a note. I can’t control my work schedule, and a little understanding from my fiancée would be nice. You’re supposed to be on my team.” “I am on your team,” I blurted out. “But you’ve barely even met Ted and Mary Stuart and they only live an hour away. I just wanted you to be there this weekend so everyone could get to know you and see for themselves how great you are.” Bryce leaned over the counter and massaged his temples. “Lanier, I have a lot going on right now. Impressing your friends isn’t at the tip-top of my to-do list at the moment, believe it or not.” It was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He had spent two weeks being a saint and now this. “It isn’t about impressing my friends, Bryce.” (Okay, it kind of was.) “But you know how important this weekend is to me. Holly Springs is one of the most important places in my life.” “And I could argue that no one has done more to try to help you save it than I have.” I exhaled deeply. I couldn’t respond to that. Because he was right. His phone beeped, and he looked down. “Look, Lanier, I have to go. I just wanted to tell you good luck this weekend. I’m sorry I won’t be there, but if we’re going to get married, you’re going to have to cut me some slack. I can’t be perfect all the time.” That was it. No kiss. No goodbye hug. No “I love you.” I can’t be perfect all the time. I almost laughed as he walked out the door. What did that even mean? These past two weeks had been an act? He’d been pretending to be perfect and now the truth was out? A trio of teenagers walked in, and I pinned on a smile. “Let me know if I can help you girls.” “Where’s your romance?” the shortest one with a tight T-shirt and long cornflower-braided pigtails asked. “I think it’s gone,” I said, under my breath. “What?” one of her friends asked. “It’s in the back.” I gestured toward the boxes.


though hale and sinewy. "The Lord help us!" he soliloquized in an undertone of peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse, looking, meantime, in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no reference to my unexpected advent. Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff's dwelling, "wuthering" being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed. One may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house, and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun. Happily the architect had fore- sight to build it strong. The narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large jut- ting stones. Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque carving lavished over the front, and especially about the principal door; above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shame- less little boys, I detected the date "1500," and the name "Hareton Earnshaw." I would have made a few com- ments, and requested a short history of the place from the surly owner; but his attitude at the door appeared to demand my speedy entrance or complete departure, and I had no desire to aggravate his impatience previous to inspecting the penetralium. One step brought us into the family sitting-room, without any introductory lobby or passage. They call it here "the house" pre-eminently. It includes kitchen and parlour generally. But, I believe, at Wuthering Heights the kitchen is forced to retreat altogether into another quarter---at least I distinguished a chatter of tongues and a clatter of culinary utensils deep within; and I ob- served no signs of roasting, boiling, or baking about the huge fireplace, nor any glitter of copper saucepans and tin cullenders on the walls. One end, indeed, reflected splendidly both light and heat from ranks of immense pewter dishes, interspersed with silver jugs and tank- ards, towering row after row, on a vast oak dresser, to the very roof. The latter had never been underdrawn; its entire anatomy lay bare to an inquiring eye, ex- cept where a frame of wood laden with oatcakes and clusters of legs of beef, mutton, and ham concealed it. Above the chimney were sundry villainous old guns and a couple of horse-pistols, and, by way of orna- ment, three gaudily painted canisters disposed along its ledge. The floor was of smooth, white stone; the chairs, high-backed, primitive structures painted green, one or two heavy black ones lurking in the shade. In an arch under the dresser reposed a huge liver-coloured bitch pointer surrounded by a swarm of squealing puppies, and other dogs haunted other recesses. The apartment and furniture would have been noth- ing extraordinary as belonging to


St. Aubert's distress, he restrained the expression of his own, and endeavoured to bear it, as he meant, with philosophy, he had, in truth, no philosophy that could render him calm to such losses. One daughter was now his only surviving child; and, while he watched the unfolding of her infant character, with anxious fondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting effort, to counteract those traits in her disposition, which might hereafter lead her from happiness. She had discovered in her early years uncommon delicacy of mind, warm affections, and ready benevolence; but with these was observable a degree of susceptibility too exquisite to admit of lasting peace. As she advanced in youth, this sensibility gave a pensive tone to her spirits, and a softness to her manner, which added grace to beauty, and rendered her a very interesting object to persons of a congenial disposition. But St. Aubert had too much good sense to prefer a charm to a virtue; and had penetration enough to see, that this charm was too dangerous to its possessor to be allowed the character of a blessing. He endeavoured, therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure her to habits of self- command; to teach her to reject the first impulse of her feelings, and to look, with cool examination, upon the disappointments he sometimes threw in her way. While he instructed her to resist first impressions, and to acquire that steady dignity of mind, that can alone counterbalance the passions, and bear us, as far as is compatible with our nature, above the reach of circumstances, he taught himself a lesson of fortitude; for he was often obliged to witness, with seeming indifference, the tears and struggles which his caution occasioned her. In person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same elegant symmetry of form, the same delicacy of features, and the same blue eyes, full of tender sweetness. But, lovely as was her person, it was the varied expression of her countenance, as conversation awakened the nicer emotions of her mind, that threw such a captivating grace around her: Those tend'rer tints, that shun the careless eye, And, in the world's contagious circle, die. St. Aubert cultivated her understanding with the most scrupulous care. He gave her a general view of the sciences, and an exact acquaintance with every part of elegant literature. He taught her Latin and English, chiefly that she might understand the sublimity of their best poets. She discovered in her early years a taste for works of genius; and it was St. Aubert's principle, as well as his inclination, to promote every innocent means of happiness. 'A well- informed mind,' he would say, 'is the best security against the contagion of folly and of vice. The vacant mind is ever on the watch for relief, and ready to plunge into error, to escape from the languor of idleness. Store it with ideas, teach it the pleasure of thinking; and the temptations of the world without, will be counteracted by the gratifications derived from the world within. Thought, and cultivation, are necessary equally


no,” Mark moaned. The wind crested and sighed, and from the dark hole where the shattered door led into the kitchen, a giggle floated out. “Warmer,” said Pupkin’s voice. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Mark asked, turning to Louise. But Louise was already stepping over the threshold and into the garage. Mark stood there, shifting from foot to foot, then he looked over his shoulder, looked back at Louise starting up the brick steps into the kitchen, and he threw himself after her before he could change his mind. Chapter 36 L ouise stood in the dark dining room, lit by the unforgiving white light of her phone, listening to the wind rattle the windows, and she knew they’d made a mistake. It was even colder in here than outside. It smelled like stale grease and flies. And from deeper down the dark hall, she felt something waiting for them. Mark came up beside her, poked the front of his forehead, and a headlamp switched on. More shadows leapt out of the dark around them, shifting and sliding over the walls as he turned his head. “He’s buried inside the house?” Mark whispered, and even his whisper sounded too loud. This house had been built right around the time Freddie drowned, Louise remembered. Could you even dig under it? Hadn’t it been built on a slab? If they’d buried Freddie and poured concrete on top, the two of them were screwed. “Warmer,” Pupkin’s voice singsonged from down the dark hall. He sounded raspy now, like an old man pretending to be a little girl. Louise needed to get this over with while there still might be some of Poppy left. She made herself walk deeper into the house. “Hold on,” Mark said, and she heard him opening cabinets behind her. “Okay,” he said, next to her again. He held a frying pan. She gave it a look. “It’s better than a badminton racquet.” They walked into the front hall together. Arctic air streamed from the bedrooms, like someone had left the windows open. Louise’s skin prickled, the cold putting ice in her blood. “The fuck,” Mark whispered beside her, and she turned and saw the living room. The dolls had come back. All of them. They’d crawled back into the doll cabinet, Henry VIII and his wives, the yodeling Hummel figurine, all of them back in their places. The Squirrel Nativity stood on top, the German DollyFaced Dolls lined themselves up on their display shelf, the clowns sat on the back of the sofa, the Harlequin huddled against one of its arms. They stood where they’d been all their lives, clinging to their old positions, staying where their mom had left them. They weren’t ready to be thrown in the trash. “I’d like to say this is the weirdest shit that’s ever happened to me,” Mark whispered. “But I have a bad feeling it’s going to get a lot worse.” Louise turned back to the hall and forced herself to start walking toward the bedrooms. “Warmer,” Pupkin’s voice echoed through the house,


He injects a note of tragedy into this comic evening. The men don't react to the news of his robbery at first. When Silas accuses Jem Rodney, Jem seems more annoyed than afraid. Jem's one of the poorer customers, sitting far from the fire, yet he is more accepted here than Silas is. Once they've absorbed what's going on, the men at the pub treat Silas kindly. Eliot moves inside his mind to describe the effect of this. A vague sensation of blurry faces, voices, and the fire's warmth unlocks Silas' heart, and a new kind of feeling starts to grow inside him (note the plant imagery). The news transforms Silas' reputation: The superstitious villagers imagine that the Devil robbed Silas, so he must not be one of the Devil's helpers. Everyone chimes in with his own opinion. Mr. Snell, the peacemaker, tries to convince Silas of Jem's innocence. And Mr. Macey, who believes in authority, starts talking about the proper legal proceedings. NOTE: MEMORY Mr. Macey's remark about accusing the innocent arouses Silas' memory of his own false accusation years ago. The force of memory is important for George Eliot. Remembering his mother's death helped Silas rediscover his herbal medicines to cure Sally Oates in Chapter 2. He tried to forget his past in Lantern-Yard, but remembering it is good for him now, giving him compassion for Jem. Silas is jolted by Mr. Macey's words into withdrawing his accusation of Jem. This takes a great effort, however--it's excruciating to give up his hope of recovering his money. The men around him don't seem to understand his inarticulate pain. Mr. Macey makes a dry joke about Silas' money being in Hell. Dowlas the farrier suggests that Silas missed the thief's footprints because of his poor eyesight ("eyes... like an insect's," he says). Officiously, Dowlas lays out the procedure for inspecting the premises and offers to serve as a deputy. But at least he's willing to get involved. Everyone in the room, in fact, agrees that it's their duty as respectable men to take action. How would the men of your neighborhood act if a local eccentric came running to them wildly for help? Of course, the men get bogged down in another silly quarrel, over whether the farrier can serve as a deputy. (As a veterinarian, he usually puts on airs of being a doctor, and doctors are traditionally excused from constables' duties.) Imagine Silas sitting there, shivering and waiting for them to resolve this dispute. How would you feel in his place? ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 8 The other side of Raveloe--the gentry's world--seems unconnected to the goings-on at the Rainbow. Eliot briefly mentions Godfrey, returning from his party to find that Dunstan hasn't come home. This doesn't seem very important. In the morning, however, Godfrey is swept up in the news about Silas, just as everyone else in town is. Think about hometown crime cases that are covered on your local television news. They unfold with new evidence daily. This is what happens in Raveloe. A tinder-box is discovered near


every feedin’.” “Lige knows all about dat cup uh cawn. He hid round yo’ barn and watched yuh. ’Tain’t no feed cup you measures dat cawn outa. It’s uh tea cup.” “Ah does feed ’im. He’s jus’ too mean tuh git fat. He stay poor and rawbony jus’ fuh spite. Skeered he’ll hafta work some.” “Yeah, you feeds ’im. Feeds ’im offa ‘come up’ and sea- sons it wid raw-hide.” “Does feed de ornery varmint! Don’t keer whut Ah do Ah can’t git long wid ’im. He fights every inch in front uh de plow, and even lay back his ears tuh kick and bite when Ah go in de stall tuh feed ’im.” “Git reconciled, Matt,” Lige soothed. “Us all knows he’s mean. Ah seen ’im when he took after one uh dem Roberts chillun in de street and woulda caught ’im and maybe trompled ’im tuh death if de wind hadn’t of changed all of a sudden. Yuh see de youngun wuz tryin’ tuh make it tuh de fence uh Starks’ onion patch and de mule wuz dead in behind ’im and gainin’ on ’im every jump, when all of a sudden de wind changed and blowed de mule way off his course, him bein’ so poor and everything, and before de ornery varmint could tack, de youngun had done got over de fence.” The porch laughed and Matt got mad again. “Maybe de mule takes out after everybody,” Sam said, Their Eyes Were Watching God 63 “’cause he thinks everybody he hear comin’ is Matt Bonner comin’ tuh work ’im on uh empty stomach.” “Aw, naw, aw, naw. You stop dat right now,” Walter objected. “Dat mule don’t think Ah look lak no Matt Bon- ner. He ain’t dat dumb. If Ah thought he didn’t know no better Ah’d have mah picture took and give it tuh dat mule so’s he could learn better. Ah ain’t gointuh ’low ’im tuh hold nothin’ lak dat against me.” Matt struggled to say something but his tongue failed him so he jumped down off the porch and walked away as mad as he could be. But that never halted the mule talk. There would be more stories about how poor the brute was; his age; his evil disposition and his latest caper. Everybody indulged in mule talk. He was next to the Mayor in prominence, and made better talking. Janie loved the conversation and sometimes she thought up good stories on the mule, but Joe had forbidden her to indulge. He didn’t want her talking after such trashy people. “You’se Mrs. Mayor Starks, Janie. I god, Ah can’t see what uh woman uh yo’ stability would want tuh be treasurin’ all dat gum-grease from folks dat don’t even own de house dey sleep in. ’Tain’t no earthly use. They’s jus’ some puny humans playin’ round de toes uh Time.” Janie noted that while he didn’t talk the mule himself, he sat and laughed at it. Laughed his big heh, heh laugh too. But then when Lige or Sam or Walter or some


'Do We Progress?' (Journal of Psychology, March, 1883). Medical Officer for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow." "No mention of that local hunt, Watson," said Holmes with a mischievous smile, "but a country doctor, as you very astutely observed. I think that I am fairly justified in my inferences. As to the adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable, unambi- tious, and absent-minded. It is my experience that it is only an amiable man in this world who receives testimonials, only an unambitious one who abandons a London career for the country, and only an absent-minded one who leaves his stick and not his visiting-card after waiting an hour in your room." "And the dog?" "Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master. Being a heavy stick the dog has held it tightly by the middle, and the marks of his teeth are very plainly visible. The dog's jaw, as shown in the space between these marks, is too broad in my opinion for a terrier and not broad enough for a mastiff. It may have been -- yes, by Jove, it is a curly-haired spaniel." He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted in the recess of the window. There was such a ring of conviction in his voice that I glanced up in surprise. "My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?" "For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our very door-step, and there is the ring of its owner. Don't move, I beg you, Watson. He is a professional brother of yours, and your presence may be of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill. What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of science, ask of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!" The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had expected a typical country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin man, with a long nose like a beak, which jutted out between two keen, gray eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a professional but rather slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and his trousers frayed. Though young, his long back was already bowed, and he walked with a forward thrust of his head and a general air of peering benevolence. As he entered his eyes fell upon the stick in Holmes's hand, and he ran towards it with an exclamation of joy. "I am so very glad," said he. "I was not sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office. I would not lose that stick for the world." "A presentation, I see," said Holmes. "Yes, sir." "From Charing Cross Hospital?" "From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage." "Dear, dear, that's


and the blur I saw at the window. Since Archie, Mrs. Baker, and even Lenora suggested the wind, that makes it the likeliest culprit. They know Hope’s End better than I do. Similarly, the blur at the window could have been a trick of the moonlight on the glass. As for the shadow at the door, it might have been caused by clouds scudding in front of the moon, momentarily blocking its light. A plane or large bird could have done the same thing. Considering the sad state of the house, it’s even more likely that a loose shutter or a broken drainpipe was the cause. I turn around and face the back of the mansion, its three formidable stories looming over me. Taking care not to lose my balance, I lean against the railing and scan the exterior. Nothing appears to be out of place around Lenora’s windows. There’s certainly no shutter swinging in the breeze or slanted drainpipe bobbing from the roofline. But there are plenty of birds. Seagulls whirl overhead before diving to the water, lured by sand crabs left exposed by low tide. I rotate and look down at the strip of sand between the water and base of the cliff. Smooth waves calmly collapse against the shore, pushing foamy water around the rocks jutting from the sand. I lean forward and look closer, realizing I’m mistaken. Those aren’t rocks rising out of the wet sand. They’re something else. A hand. A foot. A head. Humped beneath the sand is the corpse they’re attached to. And even before I begin to scream, I know with dreadful certainty that I’m looking at the body of Mary Milton. EIGHTEEN I’m in the sunroom, although there’s no sun to be found. Outside, the sky is streaked with dark clouds that rolled in not long after I found Mary’s body. It makes everything gray and oppressive, as if the gathering storm is pressing against the house, trying to force its way in. Joining me in this gloom is the last person I want to see. Detective Vick. He sits in the same dusty love seat Mrs. Baker occupied the day I arrived, looking rumpled and not pleased to be here. Or with me. The feeling is mutual. I tense up in his presence. An ingrained reaction. The result is a clash of emotions—disbelief, sorrow, and bone-deep unease that Detective Vick has come not to ask about Mary but to finally arrest me. “Well, Kit,” he says, “I sure am surprised to see you.” I yank the hem of my uniform, trying to tug it an inch or so closer to my knees. I’m cold, thanks to a chill that’s clung to me since the moment I realized I was looking at Mary Milton’s corpse. It’s shock, I know, exacerbated by the fact that I’m talking to the man who wanted to throw me in jail. “Surprised I’m at Hope’s End?” I say. “Or surprised I’m still allowed to work after you accused me of murder?” The detective sighs. “This doesn’t need to


Ella said. “Whose idea was it for you to go to Mr. Crews’s place when your mom was away?” the social worker said. “His. He said the connection from his router was better.” “And you never told your mother. Did he tell you not to tell her?” Ella tucked the blanket tighter around her waist. “He didn’t think I should. He knew she wanted me to be reading instead. He didn’t want me to get in trouble.” “When did this start?” Maud asked Ella. “I don’t know. Like, after we all went canoeing.” Three weeks. Fifteen weekdays. Fifteen times, and not one word from Gabriel. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She tried to keep the agitation out of her voice, but it pushed through and Ella raised a stubborn chin. “You wanted me to read. You’d get mad.” “Did you tell Mr. Crews about the self-harm?” the psychiatrist said. “No.” “What did you talk about?” “I don’t know. School. My friends. Sometimes my parents.” “Did you talk about boys?” “A little. Not really.” “About private things?” the police officer said. Ella’s face buckled. “Why are you making it gross?” That afternoon, she was discharged, and they drove to Montgomery Place. Ella had become upset again as they left the hospital, so the psychiatrist prescribed another sedative. In front of the cottage, Gabriel’s truck was gone. The light that Peter had turned on when they’d found Ella shone through the window. Maud moved around the farmhouse, throwing out leftover food in the refrigerator, packing her suitcase, helping Louise find her sandals under the couch. As Peter put the suitcases in the car, she went to the office. Harriet, who must have seen her coming, opened the door. “There’s been an emergency with Ella,” Maud said. “I’m going to have to leave early.” “I heard,” Harriet said. “Lydia texted me during the night. And a policeman was here first thing this morning. I told him that I hadn’t seen your daughter alone with Gabriel.” “It seems to have been a misunderstanding,” Maud said. She gave Harriet the key to the farmhouse. “Many misunderstandings.” Harriet’s eyes shone with anger. Lydia must have mentioned Maud’s question about Chris last night. Harriet put the key in her pocket. “I’ll send you an updated paycheck.” At JFK, Peter answered a call from the police officer who had first come to Montgomery Place. He told Peter that Gabriel had been questioned extensively, but between what he said and what Ella had said, they didn’t suspect foul play. “Thank God,” Maud said. “Thank God nothing happened.” “One more week, and it bloody well might have,” Peter said. Still absorbing the words, Maud picked up her suitcase and followed her family onto the plane. THE PRESIDIO 2014 10 Mist pearled the air of the shallow valley, shutting out the morning sun. The cold singed Maud’s ears, which were newly exposed by the haircut she’d gotten a few weeks ago. She regretted the decision now (“Just get rid of it, please,” she’d said to the stylist as soon as she faced the


said that about me for a very long time. That it comes from Kenny, of all people, makes me understand just how much my father’s silence has hurt me. He’s the one who should be telling me this. Not the guy I started sleeping with just because I was starved for human contact. “Thank you,” I say. “No problem,” Kenny replies with a shrug. “But on the flip side, sometimes your gut tells you something else. So while Lenora looks like she can’t do much, maybe, like you, there’s more than meets the eye.” There’s certainly more to Kenny than I expected. Back when we were having no-strings afternoon sex, I had no idea there was this kind of wisdom inside him. But before I can give him too much credit, he grabs my waist, pulls me close, and sloppily kisses me. I push him away, worried that Mrs. Baker is still watching from the front door. “It’s not going to happen, Kenny.” “Thought I’d give it a shot,” he says, flashing that horny grin I’ve seen dozens of times since May. “I should go anyway. Take care of yourself, Kit. If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.” Kenny gives me a playful wink before sprinting to the wall at the end of the lawn and scaling it with zero effort. Then, with a corny salute, he turns and hops off the wall, vanishing from view. Turning around, I take in the entirety of Hope’s End. From the vantage point of the lawn, it looks enormous, forbidding. It’s easy to forget that when you’re on the inside, navigating its bloodstained stairs and tilted halls. Lenora’s the same way. I remember the fear I felt when stepping into her room for the first time. Her reputation preceded her. Now that I’ve gotten to know her, that reputation has, if not faded, at least been made more benign by familiarity. Not anymore, thanks to Kenny. Now my gut tells me I was wrong about initially thinking there are only four people at Hope’s End who could have shoved Mary off the terrace. There’s someone else. A fifth, highly unlikely suspect. But now a suspect all the same. Lenora. TWENTY-SEVEN Back in the house, I find Mrs. Baker still in the foyer and Jessie on the Grand Stairs, obliviously standing on the bloodstains in the carpet. Her eyes widen at the sight of the shotgun in Mrs. Baker’s hands. “What’s going on?” she says. “Trespassers,” Mrs. Baker replies before moving down the hall toward the kitchen. “I took care of them,” I say. Jessie lets out a relieved huff. “What did they want?” “Nothing. Just some kids messing around.” Although, in Kenny’s case, no longer a kid. And his warning still reverberates through my thoughts. Yes, Lenora’s the one who typed her story, but maybe she regretted telling Mary so much. Or had second thoughts. Or didn’t think Mary would tell anyone else and felt the need to act when she realized that was the plan. I even consider the


note, at any rate, that I put on the table yesterday," I pursued, "will have given him so scant an advantage-- for it contained only the bare demand for an interview-- that he is already much ashamed of having gone so far for so little, and that what he had on his mind last evening was precisely the need of confession." I seemed to myself, for the instant, to have mastered it, to see it all. "Leave us, leave us"--I was already, at the door, hurrying her off. "I'll get it out of him. He'll meet me--he'll confess. If he confesses, he's saved. And if he's saved--" "Then YOU are?" The dear woman kissed me on this, and I took her farewell. "I'll save you without him!" she cried as she went. XXII Yet it was when she had got off--and I missed her on the spot-- that the great pinch really came. If I had counted on what it would give me to find myself alone with Miles, I speedily perceived, at least, that it would give me a measure. No hour of my stay in fact was so assailed with apprehensions as that of my coming down to learn that the carriage containing Mrs. Grose and my younger pupil had already rolled out of the gates. Now I WAS, I said to myself, face to face with the elements, and for much of the rest of the day, while I fought my weakness, I could consider that I had been supremely rash. It was a tighter place still than I had yet turned round in; all the more that, for the first time, I could see in the aspect of others a confused reflection of the crisis. What had happened naturally caused them all to stare; there was too little of the explained, throw out whatever we might, in the suddenness of my colleague's act. The maids and the men looked blank; the effect of which on my nerves was an aggravation until I saw the necessity of making it a positive aid. It was precisely, in short, by just clutching the helm that I avoided total wreck; and I dare say that, to bear up at all, I became, that morning, very grand and very dry. I welcomed the consciousness that I was charged with much to do, and I caused it to be known as well that, left thus to myself, I was quite remarkably firm. I wandered with that manner, for the next hour or two, all over the place and looked, I have no doubt, as if I were ready for any onset. So, for the benefit of whom it might concern, I paraded with a sick heart. The person it appeared least to concern proved to be, till dinner, little Miles himself. My perambulations had given me, meanwhile, no glimpse of him, but they had tended to make more public the change taking place in our relation as a consequence of his having at the piano, the day before, kept me, in Flora's interest, so


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

the Forsters are the kings of Belgium? he asked. Cranly came out through the door of the entrance hall, his hat thrust back on the nape of his neck and picking his teeth with care. --And here's the wiseacre, said Temple. Do you know that about the Forsters? He paused for an answer. Cranly dislodged a figseed from his teeth on the point of his rude toothpick and gazed at it intently. --The Forster family, Temple said, is descended from Baldwin the First, king of Flanders. He was called the Forester. Forester and Forster are the same name. A descendant of Baldwin the First, captain Francis Forster, settled in Ireland and married the daughter of the last chieftain of Clanbrassil. Then there are the Blake Forsters. That's a different branch. --From Baldhead, king of Flanders, Cranly repeated, rooting again deliberately at his gleaming uncovered teeth. --Where did you pick up all that history? O'Keeffe asked. --I know all the history of your family, too, Temple said, turning to Stephen. Do you know what Giraldus Cambrensis says about your family? --Is he descended from Baldwin too? asked a tall consumptive student with dark eyes. --Baldhead, Cranly repeated, sucking at a crevice in his teeth. --PERNOBILIS ET PERVETUSTA FAMILIA, Temple said to Stephen. The stout student who stood below them on the steps farted briefly. Dixon turned towards him, saying in a soft voice: --Did an angel speak? Cranly turned also and said vehemently but without anger: --Goggins, you're the flamingest dirty devil I ever met, do you know. --I had it on my mind to say that, Goggins answered firmly. It did no one any harm, did it? --We hope, Dixon said suavely, that it was not of the kind known to science as a PAULO POST FUTURUM. --Didn't I tell you he was a smiler? said Temple, turning right and left. Didn't I give him that name? --You did. We're not deaf, said the tall consumptive. Cranly still frowned at the stout student below him. Then, with a snort of disgust, he shoved him violently down the steps. --Go away from here, he said rudely. Go away, you stinkpot. And you are a stinkpot. Goggins skipped down on to the gravel and at once returned to his place with good humour. Temple turned back to Stephen and asked: --Do you believe in the law of heredity? --Are you drunk or what are you or what are you trying to say? asked Cranly, facing round on him with an expression of wonder. --The most profound sentence ever written, Temple said with enthusiasm, is the sentence at the end of the zoology. Reproduction is the beginning of death. He touched Stephen timidly at the elbow and said eagerly: --Do you feel how profound that is because you are a poet? Cranly pointed his long forefinger. --Look at him! he said with scorn to the others. Look at Ireland's hope! They laughed at his words and gesture. Temple turned on him bravely, saying: --Cranly, you're always sneering at me. I can see that. But I


to his own resources here on Arrakis! He could not call for help or reinforcements! Again, Paul raised his voice: "You think it's time I called out Stilgar and changed the leadership of the troops!" Before they could respond, Paul hurled his voice at them in anger: "Do you think the Lisan al-Gaib that stupid?" There was stunned silence. He's accepting the religious mantle, Jessica thought. He must not do it! "It's the way!" someone shouted. Paul spoke dryly, probing the emotional undercurrents. "Ways change." An angry voice lifted from a corner of the cavern: "We'll say what's to change!" There were scattered shouts of agreement through the throng. "As you wish," Paul said. And Jessica heard the subtle intonations as he used the powers of Voice she had taught him. "You will say," he agreed. "But first you will hear my say." Stilgar moved along the ledge, his bearded face impassive. "That is the way, too," he said. "The voice of any Fremen may be heard in Council. Paul-Muad'Dib is a Fremen." "The good of the tribe, that is the most important thing, eh?" Paul asked. Still with that flat-voiced dignity, Stilgar said: "Thus our steps are guided." "All right," Paul said. "Then, who rules this troop of our tribe -- and who rules all the tribes and troops through the fighting instructors we've trained in the weirding way?" Paul waited, looking over the heads of the throng. No answer came. Presently, he said: "Does Stilgar rule all this? He says himself that he does not. Do I rule? Even Stilgar does my bidding on occasion, and the sages, the wisest of the wise, listen to me and honor me in Council." There was shuffling silence among the crowd. "So," Paul said. "Does my mother rule?" He pointed down to Jessica in her black robes of office among them. "Stilgar and all the other troop leaders ask her advice in almost every major decision. You know this. But does a Reverend Mother walk the sand or lead a razzia against the Harkonnens?" Frowns creased the foreheads of those Paul could see, but still there were angry murmurs. This is a dangerous way to do it, Jessica thought, but she remembered the message cylinder and what it implied. And she saw Paul's intent: Go right to the depth of their uncertainty, dispose of that, and all the rest must follow. "No man recognizes leadership without the challenge and the combat, eh?" Paul asked. "That's the way!" someone shouted. "What's our goal?" Paul asked. "To unseat Rabban, the Harkonnen beast, and remake our world into a place where we may raise our families in happiness amidst an abundance of water -- is this our goal?" "Hard tasks need hard ways," someone shouted. "Do you smash your knife before a battle?" Paul demanded. "I say this as fact, not meaning it as boast or challenge: there isn't a man here, Stilgar included, who could stand against me in single combat. This is Stilgar's own admission. He knows it, so do you all." Again, the


like?” Clytemnestra tries to think. There was no blood, but the head was bent sideways unnaturally, as if the boy had fallen asleep in an uncomfortable position. “It was bloodless.” “Like a fish when it is caught.” This is another thing about her daughter: rather than asking many questions, her sentences come out as statements. Other children find it unnerving. “Yes,” Clytemnestra says. “But fish gasp before dying. The boy didn’t suffer.” Electra thinks it through. “Death doesn’t scare you.” “It scares me, but less than it scares others, because I am used to it. Does it scare you?” “Yes. Only a fool wouldn’t fear death.” Clytemnestra smiles. “Your grandfather once said something similar.” Electra stands, smoothing her dress. “I don’t want to eat in the hall tonight. I am sad and the elders are like spiders, speaking into Father’s ear, weaving their webs.” Clytemnestra waits, looking at the light shifting in her daughter’s eyes as she thinks of the best way to ask. Finally, Electra says, “Can I stay in the gynaeceum and eat alone?” Clytemnestra stands too. “You can’t eat by yourself. You know that.” Electra opens her mouth to reply, but her mother says, “I will talk to your father so you and I can eat together in your room.” Electra stays very still, and for a moment, Clytemnestra thinks she will say no. Then suddenly, she smiles, and her serious face is lit, like the first glint of sun on water. * * * Later, when they have eaten their fish and lentils, they lie down in Electra’s room, the frescoed ceiling above them like the summer sky. Clytemnestra had the gynaeceum repainted when she found out she was pregnant with Iphigenia, every trace of her home scraped away. Now the walls are covered with frescoes of warrior women and goddesses, their spears sharp and precious, their skin pale and polished, like ivory. And on the ceilings of her daughters’ rooms, little suns and stars, like golden tears. Clytemnestra closes her eyes. The image of Cynisca’s body kneeling on the floor, blood pouring through her palms, comes back to her, like balm on her skin. Did she think I would forget? That I would let her live after what she did to me? Time had passed and Cynisca had thought herself safe. But vengeance works best when it’s aided by patience. And patience is like a child: it must be nursed so it can grow day after day, feeding on sorrow, until it’s as angry as a bull and as lethal as a poisoned fang. Believing her mother has fallen asleep, Electra nestles under her arm, keeping close though the room is hot. Clytemnestra feels her shoulder growing numb but she doesn’t move, afraid that her daughter might pull away. She pretends to sleep until she can hear Electra’s regular breathing against her neck. When she opens her eyes, her daughter is sleeping with her mouth slightly open, her limbs relaxed as they never are when she is awake. Soon, Electra will wake and her sharpness, her alertness


his, to Mark. One hundred percent.” Another long silence unfolded. Louise waited for the rest of it. Brody looked at her. “Sometimes a parent will appoint their adult children as co-personal representatives of their will, but in this case she’s not only willed her entire estate to Mark, she also decided to appoint him as her personal representative.” There was another long silence while Brody studied Louise. “Do you follow what I’m saying?” he asked. Mark did. He leapt out of Uncle Claude’s chair and pumped his fist in the air. “Yes!” he shouted. “This is a funeral, Mark,” Brody said. “You can’t pump your fist in here.” Louise swore to herself that she would not cry. Her mother had arranged this entire performance to humiliate her, and she would not cry. Her shoulders started to shake. A hot tear slipped down one cheek. She would not cry. She could see her dad, standing against the opposite wall, combing his mustache with his fingertips, looking miserable and apologetic the way he got when he knew he’d done something wrong. She wiped at her cheeks, hard. She would not cry. Mark did an end zone dance beside the desk. “How much?” he asked. “How much is it?” “We’ll have to inventory the estate,” Brody said, looking like his stomach hurt. “That’s something you’ll need to discuss with your new attorney, if you choose to retain one.” Louise waited for Mark to say he’d split the house with her. She waited for him to say that of course it belonged to both of them. She waited for him to do what she had done. She had never for a second assumed it didn’t belong to both of them. She had even decided not to do the trust. She had been doing the adult thing. She waited for Mark to do the same. “But if you had to guess,” Mark asked, sitting back down and grabbing one of Uncle Claude’s pens. Every kid has the same question for their parents: who do you love more? Your parents could dodge that question all their lives, they could avoid it for years, but eventually, one way or another, the answer came out. “Mark,” Louise said, and he couldn’t hear her because he was peppering Brody with questions about waiting periods and escrow and claims against the estate. “Mark!” she shouted, louder than she intended. He stopped and looked at her. So did Brody. “I paid for Mom and Dad’s urn,” she said. It was all she could think of. “Okay, thanks,” he said. Brody tried to help. “Normally that comes out of the estate,” he prompted Mark. “Does it have to?” Mark asked. “Well.” Brody clearly didn’t want to answer. “No.” “Great!” Mark said. “So I read about title claim insurance online. That’ll let me sell the house faster, right? How much does it cost?” “Mark,” Brody said, “she’s your sister.” “So?” Mark said. “Mom and Dad left everything to me. All I’m doing is respecting their wishes.” Louise stood up. The roaring voices on the other


finishing, where the same chaste simplicity was observable in the furniture, and in the few ornaments of the apartments, that characterized the manners of its inhabitants. The library occupied the west side of the chateau, and was enriched by a collection of the best books in the ancient and modern languages. This room opened upon a grove, which stood on the brow of a gentle declivity, that fell towards the river, and the tall trees gave it a melancholy and pleasing shade; while from the windows the eye caught, beneath the spreading branches, the gay and luxuriant landscape stretching to the west, and overlooked on the left by the bold precipices of the Pyrenees. Adjoining the library was a green- house, stored with scarce and beautiful plants; for one of the amusements of St. Aubert was the study of botany, and among the neighbouring mountains, which afforded a luxurious feast to the mind of the naturalist, he often passed the day in the pursuit of his favourite science. He was sometimes accompanied in these little excursions by Madame St. Aubert, and frequently by his daughter; when, with a small osier basket to receive plants, and another filled with cold refreshments, such as the cabin of the shepherd did not afford, they wandered away among the most romantic and magnificent scenes, nor suffered the charms of Nature's lowly children to abstract them from the observance of her stupendous works. When weary of sauntering among cliffs that seemed scarcely accessible but to the steps of the enthusiast, and where no track appeared on the vegetation, but what the foot of the izard had left; they would seek one of those green recesses, which so beautifully adorn the bosom of these mountains, where, under the shade of the lofty larch, or cedar, they enjoyed their simple repast, made sweeter by the waters of the cool stream, that crept along the turf, and by the breath of wild flowers and aromatic plants, that fringed the rocks, and inlaid the grass. Adjoining the eastern side of the green-house, looking towards the plains of Languedoc, was a room, which Emily called hers, and which contained her books, her drawings, her musical instruments, with some favourite birds and plants. Here she usually exercised herself in elegant arts, cultivated only because they were congenial to her taste, and in which native genius, assisted by the instructions of Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert, made her an early proficient. The windows of this room were particularly pleasant; they descended to the floor, and, opening upon the little lawn that surrounded the house, the eye was led between groves of almond, palm-trees, flowering-ash, and myrtle, to the distant landscape, where the Garonne wandered. The peasants of this gay climate were often seen on an evening, when the day's labour was done, dancing in groups on the margin of the river. Their sprightly melodies, debonnaire steps, the fanciful figure of their dances, with the tasteful and capricious manner in which the girls adjusted their simple dress, gave a character to the scene entirely French.


distracted when he was putting it on, or maybe had a long day and the button simply gave up. “I’m sorry, though,” he says. “About your work, and your relationship.” I wave this off. “Thanks, but it’ll be okay. I think.” I hope. I could easily turn away, tell him to have a nice evening. Down my drink in silence and stumble home to takeout, trashy TV, and wallowing. I’ve never chatted someone up at a bar before—I’m usually too busy avoiding eye contact with other humans—but something about him compels me to keep talking. Because full honesty: maybe my ego needs a little boost tonight. “What about you?” I say, picking up my bottle and gesturing toward his glass. “You’re drinking alone because . . .” When I trail off, I watch his face, catching a split-second flinch. It’s so brief, I’m not sure he’s aware he’s doing it—maybe I even imagined it. But then he collects himself. Seems to relax. “Same as you. Career-related existential dread.” He motions to the pair of bartenders, dropping the volume of his voice. “I was going to head out twenty minutes ago, but then I got too invested in their personal lives.” He taps a finger to his lips, and I strain to hear what the bartenders are saying. “Those guinea pigs are not my responsibility. If you’re going to insist on keeping them in our apartment, you need to clean up after them.” “You could at least call them by their names.” “I refuse to call those little beasts Ricardo and Judith.” “Just like you refused to do the dishes after that party you threw last week? The one with a build-your-own-chili-dog bar?” “I want to call you out for eavesdropping, but I can’t blame you,” I say. “This is quality entertainment.” “Right? Now I can’t leave until I know how it ends.” Then he raises an eyebrow, squinting at the water bottle I stupidly placed on the bar next to me. “Is there a reason your water bottle says . . . ‘Live Laugh Girlboss’?” He holds up his hands. “Not judging, just curious.” “Oh, this? I’m part of a hydration-based MLM. I’m in really deep. They’ll be running the docuseries any day now.” Without missing a beat, he calmly places his glass back down. Flicks his eyes around the bar. When he speaks again, it’s in a whisper. “Do I need to call someone for you?” “Afraid it’s too late.” I give the water bottle a shake. “But if I can sell you a thousand of these babies, I might be able to get off with minimal prison time.” “The thing is,” he says, drumming a couple fingertips on the bar, “I could probably find a use for three hundred. Maybe four. But I don’t know what I’d do with the rest of them.” “You’d just have to find other people to sell them to. I could hook you up, give you all the training you need to become your very own boss.” “I’m not falling for that one.” He’s grinning


Thanks for that,’ I said sarcastically, still with my arms around her. ‘I think I like you a lot too. And I don’t know what to do about it either.’ That turned out to be untrue, because she did, in fact, know what to do about it. She slowly tilted her head upwards and, looking into my eyes all the while, moved her head closer to mine until our lips touched. To say that I saw fireworks would have been an exaggeration, but to say that I felt fireworks in my entire network of blood vessels would have been one hundred per cent accurate. I bent my head and kissed her as though it was the first time I had ever kissed anyone. It felt brand-new. We fit perfectly together. Her fingertips skated from my chest up along my jawline and then through my hair. I pulled her hips closer to mine and heard her sigh. I stopped for a moment and spoke, my own voice hardly recognisable as it had dropped to the husky octave of Barry White. ‘Is this okay?’ She nodded and then her lips were back on mine. I don’t know how long we stood there, it could have been twenty minutes or twenty seconds, before a customer came in and cleared his throat loudly. While silently vowing to murder him in his sleep, I found Martha’s hand and curled mine around it. ‘Do you want to come back to mine?’ ‘There’s something I have to do first,’ she said and she dragged me out of the shop, making a run for it. ‘Where are we going?’ ‘Trinity. I have five minutes left to register for my course!’ Chapter Twenty-Two OPALINE England, 1922 My trip began as planned, with a visit to the Brontë Society. Merely to stand where the Brontë sisters had stood, to look out at the moors that inspired Emily’s writing, was such a touching experience. The house itself stood like a fortress, its grey brick tempered by the large sash windows. I tried to imagine what it would have been like to live there, daughters of a fervently religious man, pressed up against the wilds of such an unyielding landscape. Young women, spinsters like myself, ignored by the world of men and literature, pouring their heart and passion into their writing and taking on the male pseudonyms of Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell. I stood there in Mr Fitzpatrick’s trousers and a long overcoat, similarly at odds with the constraints of our gender. It was also a disguise, in case Lyndon had his spies out. After Patrick Brontë’s death, the entire contents of the house were either auctioned off or gifted to those who worked at Haworth. The Society was fortunate enough to have acquired much of these effects and their archives were quite impressive. I came across poems by Emily, annotated by elder sister Charlotte, immediately giving me the impression of a sibling power struggle, albeit a loving one. It was common knowledge that Charlotte was critical of her younger sister’s masterpiece. In


in mah hearin’.” “Now, Pheoby, don’t feel too mean wid de rest of ’em ’cause dey’s parched up from not knowin’ things. Dem meatskins is got tuh rattle tuh make out they’s alive. Let ’em consolate theyselves wid talk. ’Course, talkin’ don’t amount tuh uh hill uh beans when yuh can’t do nothin’ else. And lis- tenin’ tuh dat kind uh talk is jus’ lak openin’ yo’ mouth and lettin’ de moon shine down yo’ throat. It’s uh known fact, Pheoby, you got tuh go there tuh know there. Yo’ papa and yo’ mama and nobody else can’t tell yuh and show yuh. Two things everybody’s got tuh do fuh theyselves. They got tuh go tuh God, and they got tuh find out about livin’ fuh they- selves.” There was a finished silence after that so that for the first time they could hear the wind picking at the pine trees. It made Pheoby think of Sam waiting for her and getting fret- Their Eyes Were Watching God 227 ful. It made Janie think about that room upstairs—her bed- room. Pheoby hugged Janie real hard and cut the darkness in flight. Soon everything around downstairs was shut and fas- tened. Janie mounted the stairs with her lamp. The light in her hand was like a spark of sun-stuff washing her face in fire. Her shadow behind fell black and headlong down the stairs. Now, in her room, the place tasted fresh again. The wind through the open windows had broomed out all the fetid feeling of absence and nothingness. She closed in and sat down. Combing road-dust out of her hair. Thinking. The day of the gun, and the bloody body, and the court- house came and commenced to sing a sobbing sigh out of every corner in the room; out of each and every chair and thing. Commenced to sing, commenced to sob and sigh, singing and sobbing. Then Tea Cake came prancing around her where she was and the song of the sigh flew out of the window and lit in the top of the pine trees. Tea Cake, with the sun for a shawl. Of course he wasn’t dead. He could never be dead until she herself had finished feeling and think- ing. The kiss of his memory made pictures of love and light against the wall. Here was peace. She pulled in her horizon like a great fish-net. Pulled it from around the waist of the world and draped it over her shoulder. So much of life in its meshes! She called in her soul to come and see. Afterword Zora Neale Hurston: “A Negro Way of Saying” I. The Reverend Harry Middleton Hyatt, an Episcopal priest whose five-volume classic collection, Hoodoo, Conjuration, Witchcraft, and Rootwork, more than amply returned an investment of forty years’ research, once asked me during an interview in 1977 what had become of another eccentric collector whom he admired. “I met her in the field in the thirties. I think,” he reflected for a few seconds, “that her first name was Zora.” It


lightly on the lever and the rock groaned. A full effort would send the rock thundering down to the neck of land. Roger admired. "He's a proper chief, isn't he?" Robert nodded. "He's going to take us hunting." He jerked his head in the direction of the distant shelters where a thread of white smoke climbed up the sky. Roger, sitting on the very edge of the cliff, looked somberly back at the island as he worked with his fingers at a loose tooth. His gaze settled on the top of the distant mountain and Robert changed the unspoken subject. "He's going to beat Wilfred." "What for?" Robert shook his head doubtfully. "I don't know. He didn't say. He got angry and made us tie Wilfred up. He's been"--he giggled excitedly--"he's been tied for hours, waiting--" "But didn't the chief say why?" "I never heard him." Sitting on the tremendous rock in the torrid sun, Roger received this news as an illumination. He ceased to work at his tooth and sat still, assimilating the possibilities of irresponsible authority. Then, without another word, he climbed down the back of the rocks toward the cave and the rest of the tribe. The chief was sitting there, naked to the waist, his face blocked out in white and red. The tribe lay in a semicircle before him. The newly beaten and untied Wilfred was sniffing noisily in the background. Roger squatted with the rest. "Tomorrow," went on the chief, "we shall hunt again." He pointed at this savage and that with his spear. "Some of you will stay here to improve the cave and defend the gate. I shall take a few hunters with me and bring back meat. The defenders of the gate will see that the others don't sneak in." A savage raised his hand and the chief turned a bleak, painted face toward him. "Why should they try to sneak in, Chief?" The chief was vague but earnest. "They will. They'll try to spoil things we do. So the watchers at the gate must be careful. And then--" The chief paused. They saw a triangle of startling pink dart out, pass along his lips and vanish again. "--and then, the beast might try to come in. You remember how he crawled--" The semicircle shuddered and muttered in agreement. "He came--disguised. He may come again even though we gave him the head of our kill to eat. So watch; and be careful." Stanley lifted his forearm off the rock and held up an interrogative finger. "Well?" "But didn't we, didn't we--?" He squirmed and looked down. "No!" In the silence that followed, each savage flinched away from his individual memory. "No! How could we--kill--it?" Half-relieved, half-daunted by the implication of further terrors, the savages murmured again. "So leave the mountain alone," said the chief, solemnly, "and give it the head if you go hunting." Stanley flicked his finger again. "I expect the beast disguised itself." "Perhaps," said the chief. A theological speculation presented itself. "We'd better keep on the right side of him,


altogether; it held me by a mere pinch of skin, between me and the bulwarks. He rose once to the surface in and this the shudder tore away. The blood ran down the a lather of foam and blood and then sank again for good. As faster, to be sure, but I was my own master again and only the water settled, I could see him lying huddled together on tacked to the mast by my coat and shirt. the clean, bright sand in the shadow of the vessel’s sides. A These last I broke through with a sudden jerk, and then fish or two whipped past his body. Sometimes, by the quiv- regained the deck by the starboard shrouds. For nothing in ering of the water, he appeared to move a little, as if he were the world would I have again ventured, shaken as I was, upon the overhanging port shrouds from which Israel had so lately Contents trying to rise. But he was dead enough, for all that, being both shot and drowned, and was food for fish in the very fallen. place where he had designed my slaughter. I went below and did what I could for my wound; it Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 220 221 pained me a good deal and still bled freely, but it was neither cordage had begun to sing a little softly to itself and the idle deep nor dangerous, nor did it greatly gall me when I used sails to rattle to and fro. my arm. Then I looked around me, and as the ship was now, I began to see a danger to the ship. The jibs I speedily in a sense, my own, I began to think of clearing it from its last doused and brought tumbling to the deck, but the main-sail passenger—the dead man, O’Brien. was a harder matter. Of course, when the schooner canted He had pitched, as I have said, against the bulwarks, where over, the boom had swung out-board, and the cap of it and a he lay like some horrible, ungainly sort of puppet, life-size, foot or two of sail hung even under water. I thought this indeed, but how different from life’s colour or life’s comeli- made it still more dangerous; yet the strain was so heavy that ness! In that position I could easily have my way with him, I half feared to meddle. At last I got my knife and cut the and as the habit of tragical adventures had worn off almost all halyards. The peak dropped instantly, a great belly of loose my terror for the dead, I took him by the waist as if he had canvas floated broad upon the water, and since, pull as I liked, been a sack of bran and with one good heave, tumbled him I could not budge the downhall, that was the extent of what overboard. He went in with a sounding plunge; the red cap I could accomplish. For the rest, the HISPANIOLA must came off and remained floating


he peered continually, clutching in his hand, which hung midway between knee and foot, a stick with a heavy stone made fast to the end. He was all but naked, a ragged and fire-scorched skin hanging part way down his back, but on his body there was much hair. In some places, across the chest and shoulders and down the outside of the arms and thighs, it was matted into almost a thick fur. He did not stand erect, but with trunk inclined forward from the hips, on legs that bent at the knees. About his body there was a peculiar springiness, or resiliency, almost catlike, and a quick alertness as of one who lived in perpetual fear of things seen and unseen. At other times this hairy man squatted by the fire with head between his legs and slept. On such occasions his elbows were on his knees, his hands clasped above his head as though to shed rain by the hairy arms. And beyond that fire, in the circling darkness, Buck could see many gleaming coals, two by two, always two by two, which he knew to be the eyes of great beasts of prey. And he could hear the crashing of their bodies through the undergrowth, and the noises they made in the night. And dreaming there by the Yukon bank, with lazy eyes blinking at the fire, these sounds and sights of another world would make the hair to rise along his back and stand on end across his shoulders and up his neck, till he whimpered low and suppressedly, or growled softly, and the half-breed cook shouted at him, "Hey, you Buck, wake up!" Whereupon the other world would vanish and the real world come into his eyes, and he would get up and yawn and stretch as though he had been asleep. It was a hard trip, with the mail behind them, and the heavy work wore them down. They were short of weight and in poor condition when they made Dawson, and should have had a ten days' or a week's rest at least. But in two days' time they dropped down the Yukon bank from the Barracks, loaded with letters for the outside. The dogs were tired, the drivers grumbling, and to make matters worse, it snowed every day. This meant a soft trail, greater friction on the runners, and heavier pulling for the dogs; yet the drivers were fair through it all, and did their best for the animals. Each night the dogs were attended to first. They ate before the drivers ate, and no man sought his sleeping-robe till he had seen to the feet of the dogs he drove. Still, their strength went down. Since the beginning of the winter they had travelled eighteen hundred miles, dragging sleds the whole weary distance; and eighteen hundred miles will tell upon life of the toughest. Buck stood it, keeping his mates up to their work and maintaining discipline, though he, too, was very tired. Billee cried and whimpered regularly in his sleep each


the whole ordeal has left me furious and bitter. Especially toward Mr. Gurlain. It wasn’t my plan to return to the agency. But my search for new employment has been a total bust. I’ve filled out dozens of applications for jobs I didn’t want but was crushed anyway when I never got called in for an interview. Stocking shelves at a supermarket. Manning the cash register at a drugstore. Flipping burgers at that new McDonald’s with the playground out by the highway. Right now, Gurlain Home Health Aides is my only option. And even though I hate Mr. Gurlain, I hate being unemployed more. “You have a new assignment for me?” I say, trying to make this as quick as possible. “I do,” Mr. Gurlain says. “The patient suffered a series of strokes many years ago and requires constant care. She had a full-time nurse—a private one—who departed quite suddenly.” “Constant care. That means—” “That you would be required to live with her, yes.” I nod to hide my surprise. I thought Mr. Gurlain would keep me close for my first assignment back, giving me one of those nine-to-five, spend-a-day-with-an-old-person jobs the agency sometimes offers at a discount to locals. But this sounds like a real assignment. “Room and board will be provided, of course,” Mr. Gurlain continues. “But you’d be on call twenty-four hours a day. Any time off you need will have to be worked out between you and the patient. Are you interested?” Of course I’m interested. But a hundred different questions keep me from instantly saying yes. I begin with a simple but important one. “When would the job start?” “Immediately. As for how long you’d be there, well, if your performance is satisfactory, I see no reason why you wouldn’t be kept on until you’re no longer needed.” Until the patient dies, in other words. The cruel reality about being an at-home caregiver is that the job is always temporary. “Where is it located?” I ask, hoping it’s in a far-flung area of the state. The further, the better. “Outside of town,” Mr. Gurlain says, dashing those hopes. They’re revived a second later, when he adds, “On the Cliffs.” The Cliffs. Only ridiculously rich people live there, ensconced in massive houses atop rocky bluffs that overlook the ocean. I sit with my hands clenched in my lap, fingernails digging into my palms. This is unexpected. A chance to instantly trade the dingy ranch home where I grew up for a house on the Cliffs? It all seems too good to be true. Which must be the case. No one quits a job like that unless there’s a problem. “Why did the previous nurse leave?” “I have no idea,” Mr. Gurlain says. “All I was told is that finding a suitable replacement has been a problem.” “Is the patient . . .” I pause. I can’t say difficult, even though it’s the word I most want to use. “In need of specialized care?” “I don’t think the trouble is her condition, as delicate as it might be,” Mr.