Instead I rang the personnel office to figure out what happened, and an hour went by before I got a call back. I was told it would be a while longer. If I wanted to bail on the job, this was probably my last chance. An old mentor had reached out earlier in the week to ask me if I was sure I was making the right choice. Jim Kolbe had served as a congressman for more than twenty years in the House (until 2007) and was one of the rare Republican leaders to oppose Trump in the general election. To him, it looked as if only bootlickers were going into the administration, and I should keep my guard up. At a minimum, Jim told me I should carry a draft resignation letter at all times. “Don’t stay too long,” the ex-lawmaker advised. I assured him I was joining a team that understood the situation. Secretary Kelly was the right leader for DHS and would shield the department from Trump’s never-ending political controversies. No draft resignation letter was needed. I scrolled through Twitter while I waited in the Visitor Center, catching breaking news in my feed. A driver on the Westminster Bridge in London had just mowed down dozens of pedestrians before crashing into the gates outside the UK Parliament. Twitter users reported a nearby knife attack on police. Details were murky, but it looked like a terrorist attack in progress. I got a call. “Where are you?” Kirstjen Nielsen, the DHS chief of staff, was looking for me to brief the secretary on the attack. She was flustered when I told her I was stuck at security, and promptly hung up. Minutes later an assistant from the secretary’s office arrived on a golf cart and told the guards to let me through. They obliged. I was whisked into the complex, toward one of the many red-brick buildings, through several checkpoints, past a skeptical Secret Service agent, and beyond frosted-glass double doors. I was in. The secretary’s suite hummed with activity. A group of staffers huddled on phones and military aides moved purposefully between offices. Kirstjen emerged from their midst. Shoulder-length blond hair and not an inch taller than five-four, she wasn’t exactly intimidating, unless you knew how seriously she took her job. I did. We had worked together briefly during the Bush years, and she had no tolerance for wasted time. She waved me impatiently into John Kelly’s office, without a “How are you?” or “Welcome to DHS!” “Hey Miles.” Kelly greeted me from behind a large brown desk. “Whatta we got?” He and Kirstjen wanted the latest on the London attack. I explained that I’d just arrived and only knew what I’d seen on Twitter—not from any intelligence reports, calls with law enforcement, or any official sources whatsoever. Anything was better than nothing, Kelly said. He was expecting Trump’s call any moment since this was the first terrorist attack in the West during his presidency. Kelly was worried Trump might pin the blame on Syrian immigrants, post about his Muslim


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We raced to the local hospital. When the doctor walked into the room, I

didn’t hear one word she said, I just watched her face, her body language. I

422

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

already knew. We both did. There had been so much blood.

Still, hearing the words was a blow.

Meg grabbed me, I held her, we both wept.

In my life I’ve felt totally helpless only four times.

In the back of the car while Mummy and Willy and I were being chased

by paps.

In the Apache above Afghanistan, unable to get clearance to do my

duty.

At Nott Cott when my pregnant wife was planning to take her life.

And now.

We left the hospital with our unborn child. A tiny package. We went to

a place, a secret place only we knew.

Under a spreading banyan tree, while Meg wept, I dug a hole with my

hands and set the tiny package softly in the ground.

83.

FE IVE MONTHS LATER. Christmas 2020.

We took Archie to find a Christmas tree. A pop-up lot in Santa

Barbara.

We bought one of the biggest spruces they had.

We brought it home, set it up in the living room. Magnificent. We stood

back, admiring, counting our blessings. New home. Healthy boy. Plus,

we'd signed several corporate partnerships, which would give us the

chance to resume our work, to spotlight the causes we cared about, to tell

the stories we felt were vital. And to pay for our security.

It was Christmas Eve. We FaceTimed with several friends, including a

few in Britain. We watched Archie running around the tree.

And we opened presents. Keeping to the Windsor family tradition.

One present was a little Christmas ornament of...the Queen!

I roared. What the—?

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find out all I can about Count Dracula,as it may help me to understand. Tonight he may talk of himself, if I turn the conversation that way. I must be very careful, however, not to awake his suspicion. Midnight.--I have had a long talk with the Count. I asked him a few questions on Transylvania history, and he warmed up to the subject wonderfully. In his speaking of things and people, and especially of battles, he spoke as if he had been present at them all. This he afterwards explained by saying that to a Boyar the pride of his house and name is his own pride, that their glory is his glory, that their fate is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his house he always said "we", and spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking. I wish I could put down all he said exactly as he said it, for to me it was most fascinating. It seemed to have in it a whole history of the country. He grew excited as he spoke, and walked about the room pulling his great white moustache and grasping anything on which he laid his hands as though he would crush it by main strength. One thing he said which I shall put down as nearly as I can, for it tells in its way the story of his race. "We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows the blood of many brave races who fought as the lion fights, for lordship. Here, in the whirlpool of European races, the Ugric tribe bore down from Iceland the fighting spirit which Thor and Wodin game them, which their Berserkers displayed to such fell intent on the seaboards of Europe, aye, and of Asia and Africa too, till the peoples thought that the werewolves themselves had come. Here, too, when they came, they found the Huns, whose warlike fury had swept the earth like a living flame, till the dying peoples held that in their veins ran the blood of those old witches, who, expelled from Scythia had mated with the devils in the desert. Fools, fools! What devil or what witch was ever so great as Attila, whose blood is in these veins?" He held up his arms. "Is it a wonder that we were a conquering race, that we were proud, that when the Magyar, the Lombard, the Avar, the Bulgar, or the Turk poured his thousands on our frontiers, we drove them back? Is it strange that when Arpad and his legions swept through the Hungarian fatherland he found us here when he reached the frontier, that the Honfoglalas was completed there? And when the Hungarian flood swept eastward, the Szekelys were claimed as kindred by the victorious Magyars, and to us for centuries was trusted the guarding of the frontier of Turkeyland. Aye, and more than that, endless duty of the frontier guard, for as the Turks say, `water sleeps, and the enemy is sleepless.' Who more gladly than we throughout the Four Nations


taking the manila folder he pushed across the table—felt heightened, unconsciously orchestrated. And she gathered his gestures too, like clues: the way he threw back his head as he laughed at her description of forgetting her shoes earlier, the way he caught his lower lip in his teeth as the two of them looked over the laboratory results. “High carbon,” she said. “The conservatory fire?” “Probably.” They were talking about work, but another conversation ran under the surface. She’d had workplace crushes before, most recently on a literary historian in Sussex whom she’d met at a pub for passionate discussions about the flowers in William Wordsworth’s poems until he put his hand on her knee under the table and she realized that she’d gone too far. It was a delicate game, she thought, as she and Gabriel ate, feeding your sensuality, remembering that you had a sense of humor and a clitoris while continuing to follow the rules of marriage. Those rules were out the window now that she and Peter had separated. But she felt more at ease with Gabriel pretending they were still there, so she’d given him no indication that her marriage was in trouble. “Twenty more minutes and we go,” she said, as the moon appeared like an open parenthesis. “If I still prayed, I’d be praying right now.” “When did you stop?” Gabriel was eating chow mein out of a carton. They’d decided to skip the plates and were handing the cartons back and forth. “April 1986.” “You seriously remember? That was a rhetorical question.” “Yes, because I had a bike accident later that month and I thought God was punishing me.” She’d been fourteen, and her liturgy class was reading Thomas Aquinas. Her doubts about the contradictions of Catholicism had been multiplying for some time, but when she realized Aquinas condoned early abortion, her faith crumbled. Now she turned in her shoulder to show Gabriel the fish-shaped scar. “I literally slammed into a brick wall.” “Did you go back to praying after your punishment?” Gabriel said. “No. I figured it was too late. I just moved my lips during Mass. But I have arthritis now in that shoulder, so I’m still being punished.” Once stars had joined the moon in a cobalt sky, they left for the mansion. Gabriel drove behind Maud along the grand drive that led from the farmhouse into a swamp of obscurity, the lines between trunk, branch, sky, and roof indistinct. They parked parallel on the lawn by the conservatory and turned on the high beams. Gabriel stood off to the side while Maud walked past the flagged beds, crouched down, stood up, squinted in the dark. And there, faint as an Etch A Sketch drawing, she made out a vague circle. A figure eight. The suggestion of a square. “I see them,” she called to Gabriel. “No way,” he said, coming closer to look. “You were right.” “It was even bigger than I thought,” Maud said. She almost dropped into one of Louise’s lopsided cartwheels. “There are plenty of flags in


fabricated shape, which contrasts with the rambled wildness of grass and brush, one other object declares its significance—what appears to be a spade that has been spiked in the earth by its blade and stands erect. After a frozen moment, the green figure, like a specter that might have risen out of dark waters deep in the hollows of the Earth and might now wither back into that sea of damnation, instead drops the body in its arms and pivots toward the SUV. The dead woman doesn’t strike the ground and lie in a pale greenness of tangled limbs, but disappears entirely into the grave that has been dug for her. The license plate of the SUV is fuzzy, the numbers and letters like smeared ink on the green background, but readable. Gog and Magog record it, and Michael burns it in his memory. Although no trial seems necessary to determine guilt, he doesn’t command the robots to shoot down the killer, and they return to the journey on which they were embarked as the engine of the SUV fires up and it wheels away from the open grave. Before his death—or something like death—Michael lamented the evil that humanity condoned. Since his return to life, he’s come to see that the evil he previously recognized was like an ultrasound image of a suspicious mass; with his new gift, he has surgically opened the patient and has found that the cancer is more widespread than he ever imagined. If it is true, as some say, that a beast of supernatural nature is the prince of this world, then no task of greater importance exists than to bring hard justice to him and his legion of princelings in the name of the innocent and generations yet unborn. Since coming to life in a makeshift morgue, Michael has not been able quite to see the shape of his future, to understand how he can best use his power. The encounter at the lonely grave has clarified his intentions for him. If he survives this night, he has a good idea how to be the agent of truth that events have made him. Already he has slid into the DMV records and learned the name of the owner of that SUV. He has obtained the GPS code from the manufacturer of the vehicle and will know where it stops when the fleeing murderer garages it. He has also found a smartphone GPS locater issuing from the identical position of the SUV and moving with it now. It surely belongs to the killer. Rifle in hand, he hurries into the kitchen. Nina and John have packed one cooler and closed it. The boy is almost done layering the last of the money in the second cooler, and Nina is shaping a length of aluminum foil to lay over it. Michael puts the AR-15 down and helps with the ice, then with the cans of soda and beer. They’re finished with the task in two minutes. Nina expects to load the containers in the back of the


not the point. Abel’s talking magic and counting the days until the spell begins to work,” she said, pointing up at the ceiling, presumably at Abel’s apartment. “You enjoy chatting with him!” “Seven days since we dubbed the film and seven days of calls. He’s even calling me at my job. He phones more than once. Yesterday he called three times. This is serious.” Tristán sighed and tried to maneuver her out of the bedroom, but Montserrat stood her ground. She practically hissed at him. So she was going to be in that kind of mood today. “What are you going to do about this?” “We didn’t promise him results.” “No, but that’s what he wants. He’s asked twice if I did the dubbing correctly. He even wants me to screen the nitrate print again, and he keeps calling me. You told me you’d phone him.” “I’ve been busy.” “He’s drinking too much. Double whiskey hour is turning into double whiskey evening.” “Oh, Abel downs a drink or two, but it’s no big deal.” “I guess you’re not one to judge.” Tristán frowned, prickled by the implication. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Montserrat met his eyes. “Talk with Abel.” “I’ll have a chat with him.” “When?” “I don’t know, tonight or tomorrow. Sometime next week,” he said, his irritation mounting. He hated it when people pressured him, most of all Montserrat, because she was aware that he hated it. He also hated reminders, he hated veiled threats, and he hated the way she was pursing her lips at him. “He called at eleven p.m. last night.” “I need to finish getting ready. Can I have my suits?” “The bill wasn’t paid, and I had to cover it myself. Let me find the receipt,” she muttered, as she tried to fish inside her purse with one hand while holding the hangers with the other. “Oh, give me that!” he said angrily, tugging at the hangers. “I should tell the cleaning lady to pick it up next time. Then I wouldn’t have neurotic fights over my clothes.” Montserrat opened her mouth in surprise. Two seconds later she tossed the garment bags in his face. “Yeah, you should pay the cleaning lady to pick up your clothes,” she said. “You should pay a cab driver to take you places, too. In fact, why don’t you start doing that right now?” “For fuck’s sake, Momo, I have an appointment with Dora! I thought you were giving me a lift!” “I’m not your chauffeur.” She left, slamming the door shut so hard he thought it would fall off its hinges. Tristán hurried to his bedroom and changed. As he buttoned his shirt and stood in front of the mirror, he noticed that the tap was dripping again. It was unbelievable that his brand-new apartment could have plumbing issues, but it was the second time that week that he’d closed the tap only to find a trickle of water flowing when he walked into the bathroom later in the day. He did not want to call a plumber.


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

kind. Without loudly bidding Bartleby depart—as an inferior genius might have done—I assumed the ground that depart he must; and upon that assumption built all I had to say. The more I thought over my procedure, the more I was charmed with it. Nevertheless, next morning, upon awakening, I had my doubts,—I had somehow slept off the fumes of vanity. One of the coolest and wisest hours a man has, is just after he awakes in the morning. My procedure seemed as sagacious as ever.—but only in theory. How it would prove in practice—there was the rub. It was truly a beautiful thought to have assumed Bartleby’s departure; but, after all, that assumption was simply my own, and none of Bartleby’s. The great point was, not whether I had assumed that he would quit me, but whether he would prefer so to do. He was more a man of preferences than assumptions. After breakfast, I walked down town, arguing the probabilities pro and con. One moment I thought it would prove a miserable failure, and Bartleby would be found all alive at my office as usual; the next moment it seemed certain that I should see his chair empty. And so I kept veering about. At the corner of Broadway and Canal-street, I saw quite an excited group of people standing in earnest conversation. “I’ll take odds he doesn’t,” said a voice as I passed. “Doesn’t go?—done!” said I, “put up your money.” I was instinctively putting my hand in my pocket to produce my own, when I remembered that this was an election day. The words I had overheard bore no reference to Bartleby, but to the success or non-success of some candidate for the mayoralty. In my intent frame of mind, I had, as it were, imagined that all Broadway shared in my excitement, and were debating the same question with me. I passed on, very thankful that the uproar of the street screened my momentary absent-mindedness. As I had intended, I was earlier than usual at my office door. I stood listening for a moment. All was still. He must be gone. I tried the knob. The door was locked. Yes, my procedure had worked to a charm; he indeed must be vanished. Yet a certain melancholy mixed with this: I was almost sorry for my brilliant success. I was fumbling under the door mat for the key, which Bartleby was to have left there for me, when accidentally my knee knocked against a panel, producing a summoning sound, and in response a voice came to me from within—”Not yet; I am occupied.” It was Bartleby. I was thunderstruck. For an instant I stood like the man who, pipe in mouth, was killed one cloudless afternoon long ago in Virginia, by a summer lightning; at his own warm open window he was killed, and remained leaning out there upon the dreamy afternoon, till some one touched him, when he fell. “Not gone!” I murmured at last. But again obeying that wondrous ascendancy which the inscrutable scrivener had over me,


list lived in Carlotta’s dresser. No one else was supposed to know (not even Marco; he told Sakina about everyone’s dick just for fun), but senior year, on our morning walk to the mattresses, I filled Geoff in. Geoff seemed only amused, especially once I assured him he wasn’t on it. He said, “You need to add me. Please. Can you make me nine inches long with the balls of a god?” For weeks, he’d mouth it to me in the hall or the dinner line: balls of a god. Is it wrong if that still cracks me up? Unlike the bingo sheet, our list didn’t put anyone in danger, didn’t turn anyone into a ring to be grabbed. Plus, dicks were in our faces, figuratively or literally, whether we wanted them there or not. I never sought out a dick, hoping to see it, until college. But here they were. Even nervous Brian Wynn, that summer, had been the one to undo his belt, push my head down with his sweaty hand. Dorian Culler exposed himself to me three times. Once was in the back hallway of the gym. He’d passed where I sat on the floor studying, then returned with a couple of friends, already laughing. He said, “Bodie, when you snuck into my room last night you left a bite mark on my cock.” He pulled it out the top of his gym shorts and managed a confused, wounded look. Instinctively, I held my hand up to block my view—he was only a few feet away—and he said, “God, Bodie, look at you reaching for me again. You’re insatiable. And when I’m wounded! I need medical attention.” I chastised myself for doing the wrong thing. What would the right thing have been? They left, but I had a feeling they’d be back so I scooped up my books and found another floor to sit on. Which is all to say: Documenting the dicks of Granby felt more like revenge than predation. I tried to imagine Jerome whipping it out in front of Jasmine Wilde. But no, Jerome was not Dorian. I tried to imagine Jerome pulling her onto his lap at an after-party. I tried to imagine him saying, “You should come by my studio tonight; I’ll give you some pointers.” Or “You know I can make or break people in this world.” Just because you can’t picture someone doing something doesn’t mean they aren’t capable of it. All of this went through my head in the time it took Lola to find a photo of Mike on their laptop—his official shot from the UConn website—and show the class. Britt was bouncing in her corner seat. “Can I interview him? Lola, can I interview him?” Lola shrugged. I said, “He knew Thalia pretty well. He’d know Omar, too. He was an athlete.” Mike would have more to say than I had: Another ski star, he was one of Robbie Serenho’s best friends. He’d been both in the show and at the mattresses. He’d likely spoken to the police at


happened in that garden! If you have never had a garden you cannot understand, and if you have had a garden you will know that it would take a whole book to describe all that came to pass there. At first it seemed that green things would never cease pushing their way through the earth, in the grass, in the beds, even in the crevices of the walls. Then the green things began to show buds and the buds began to unfurl and show color, every shade of blue, every shade of purple, every tint and hue of crimson. In its happy days flowers had been tucked away into every inch and hole and corner. Ben Weatherstaff had seen it done and had himself scraped out mortar from between the bricks of the wall and made pockets of earth for lovely clinging things to grow on. Iris and white lilies rose out of the grass in sheaves, and the green alcoves filled themselves with amazing armies of the blue and white flower lances of tall delphiniums or columbines or campanulas. "She was main fond o' them--she was," Ben Weatherstaff said. "She liked them things as was allus pointin' up to th' blue sky, she used to tell. Not as she was one o' them as looked down on th' earth--not her. She just loved it but she said as th' blue sky allus looked so joyful." The seeds Dickon and Mary had planted grew as if fairies had tended them. Satiny poppies of all tints danced in the breeze by the score, gaily defying flowers which had lived in the garden for years and which it might be confessed seemed rather to wonder how such new people had got there. And the roses--the roses! Rising out of the grass, tangled round the sun-dial, wreathing the tree trunks and hanging from their branches, climbing up the walls and spreading over them with long garlands falling in cascades --they came alive day by day, hour by hour. Fair fresh leaves, and buds--and buds--tiny at first but swelling and working Magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden air. Colin saw it all, watching each change as it took place. Every morning he was brought out and every hour of each day when it didn't rain he spent in the garden. Even gray days pleased him. He would lie on the grass "watching things growing," he said. If you watched long enough, he declared, you could see buds unsheath themselves. Also you could make the acquaintance of strange busy insect things running about on various unknown but evidently serious errands, sometimes carrying tiny scraps of straw or feather or food, or climbing blades of grass as if they were trees from whose tops one could look out to explore the country. A mole throwing up its mound at the end of its burrow and making its way out at last with the long-nailed paws which looked so like elfish hands, had absorbed him


can see, it would be wiser and more judicious if you were to take to yourself the original at once."     By this time he had sat down; he had laid the picture on the table before him, and with his brow supported on both hands, hung fondly over it. I discerned he was now neither angry nor shocked at my audacity. I saw even that to be thus frankly addressed on a subject he had deemed unapproachable to hear it thus freely handled was beginning to be felt by him as a new pleasure an unhoped-for relief. Reserved people often really need the frank discussion of their sentiments and griefs more than the expansive. The sternest-seeming stoic is human, after all; and to "burst" with boldness and good will into "the silent sea" of their souls is often to confer on them the first of obligations.     "She likes you, I am sure," said I, as I stood behind his chair, "and her father respects you. Moreover, she is a sweet girl rather thoughtless; but you would have sufficient thought for both yourself and her. You ought to marry her."     "Doesshe like me?" he asked.     "Certainly; better than she likes any one else. She talks of you continually; there is no subject she enjoys so much or touches upon so often."     "It is very pleasant to hear this," he said," very go on for another quarter of an hour." And he actually took out his watch and laid it upon the table to measure the time.     "But where is the use of going on," I asked, "when you are probably preparing some iron blow of contradiction, or forging a fresh chain to fetter your heart?"     "Don't imagine such hard things. Fancy me yielding and melting, as I am doing; human love rising like a freshly-opened fountain in my mind and overflowing with sweet inundation all the field I have so carefully, and with such labor, prepared so assiduously sown with the seeds of good intentions, of self-denying plans. And now it is deluged with a nectarous flood the young germs swamped delicious poison cankering them; now I see myself stretched on an ottoman in the drawing-room at Vale Hall, at my bride Rosamond Oliver's feet; she is talking to me with her sweet voice gazing down on me with those eyes your skillful hand has copied so well smiling at me with these coral lips. She is mine I am hers this present life and passing world suffice to me. Hush! say nothing my heart is full of delight my senses are entranced let the time I marked pass in peace."     I humored him. The watch ticked on: he breathed fast and low. I stood silent. Amid this hush the quarter sped; he replaced the watch, laid the picture down, rose, and stood on the hearth.     "Now,"


don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so! I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were ever hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxicated husband. And I'll NEVER forgive you for it, never, never!" Stamp! Stamp! "Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Rachel. "Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up," said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech with difficulty. Anne, bursting into tears, rushed to the hall door, slammed it until the tins on the porch wall outside rattled in sympathy, and fled through the hall and up the stairs like a whirlwind. A subdued slam above told that the door of the east gable had been shut with equal vehemence. "Well, I don't envy you your job bringing THAT up, Marilla," said Mrs. Rachel with unspeakable solemnity. Marilla opened her lips to say she knew not what of apology or deprecation. What she did say was a surprise to herself then and ever afterwards. "You shouldn't have twitted her about her looks, Rachel." "Marilla Cuthbert, you don't mean to say that you are upholding her in such a terrible display of temper as we've just seen?" demanded Mrs. Rachel indignantly. "No," said Marilla slowly, "I'm not trying to excuse her. She's been very naughty and I'll have to give her a talking to about it. But we must make allowances for her. She's never been taught what is right. And you WERE too hard on her, Rachel." Marilla could not help tacking on that last sentence, although she was again surprised at herself for doing it. Mrs. Rachel got up with an air of offended dignity. "Well, I see that I'll have to be very careful what I say after this, Marilla, since the fine feelings of orphans, brought from goodness knows where, have to be considered before anything else. Oh, no, I'm not vexed-don't worry yourself. I'm too sorry for you to leave any room for anger in my mind. You'll have your own troubles with that child. But if you'll take my advice-which I suppose you won't do, although I've brought up ten children and buried two-you'll do that `talking to' you mention with a fairsized birch switch. I should think THAT would be the most effective language for that kind of a child. Her temper matches her hair I guess. Well, good evening, Marilla. I hope you'll come down to see me often as usual. But you can't expect me to visit here again in a hurry, if I'm liable to be flown at and insulted in such a fashion. It's something new in MY experience." Whereat Mrs. Rachel swept out and away-if a fat woman who always waddled COULD be said to sweep away-and Marilla with a very solemn face betook herself to the east gable. On the way upstairs she pondered uneasily as to what she ought to do. She felt no little dismay over the scene that had just been enacted. How unfortunate that Anne should have


not to be a simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man of ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading in her neighbours' looks their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again silent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time with: ``It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. -- _I_ talked about the dance, and _you_ ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.'' He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be said. ``Very well. -- That reply will do for the present. -- Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. -- But _now_ we may be silent.'' ``Do you talk by rule then, while you are dancing?'' ``Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together, and yet for the advantage of _some_, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as as possible.'' ``Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?'' ``Both,'' replied Elizabeth archly; ``for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. -- We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb.'' ``This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,'' said he. ``How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend to say. -- _You_ think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.'' ``I must not decide on my own performance.'' He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist the temptation, added, ``When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.'' The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of hauteur overspread his features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a constrained manner said, ``Mr. Wickham is blessed with


of utter contempt. "That you encourage him, and ride out with him, and that he dines with you this very day?" She seemed a little surprised that I should know it, but again replied, "Quite true." "You cannot love him, Estella!" Her fingers stopped for the first time, as she retorted rather angrily, "What have I told you? Do you still think, in spite of it, that I do not mean what I say?" "You would never marry him, Estella?" She looked towards Miss Havisham, and considered for a moment with her work in her hands. Then she said, "Why not tell you the truth? I am going to be married to him." I dropped my face into my hands, but was able to control myself better than I could have expected, considering what agony it gave me to hear her say those words. When I raised my face again, there was such a ghastly look upon Miss Havisham's, that it impressed me, even in my passionate hurry and grief. "Estella, dearest dearest Estella, do not let Miss Havisham lead you into this fatal step. Put me aside for ever - you have done so, I well know - but bestow yourself on some worthier person than Drummle. Miss Havisham gives you to him, as the greatest slight and injury that could be done to the many far better men who admire you, and to the few who truly love you. Among those few, there may be one who loves you even as dearly, though he has not loved you as long, as I. Take him, and I can bear it better, for your sake!" My earnestness awoke a wonder in her that seemed as if it would have been touched with compassion, if she could have rendered me at all intelligible to her own mind. "I am going," she said again, in a gentler voice, "to be married to him. The preparations for my marriage are making, and I shall be married soon. Why do you injuriously introduce the name of my mother by adoption? It is my own act." "Your own act, Estella, to fling yourself away upon a brute?" "On whom should I fling myself away?" she retorted, with a smile. "Should I fling myself away upon the man who would the soonest feel (if people do feel such things) that I took nothing to him? There! It is done. I shall do well enough, and so will my husband. As to leading me into what you call this fatal step, Miss Havisham would have had me wait, and not marry yet; but I am tired of the life I have led, which has very few charms for me, and I am willing enough to change it. Say no more. We shall never understand each other." "Such a mean brute, such a stupid brute!" I urged in despair. "Don't be afraid of my being a blessing to him," said Estella; "I shall not be that. Come! Here is my hand. Do we part on this, you visionary boy -


don't like." "All right, all right," said Julian, beginning to laugh. "My goodness, how you do go up in smoke! Honestly, I believe anyone could light a cigarette from the sparks that fly from your eyes!" That made George laugh, though she didn't want to. It was really impossible to sulk with good-tempered Julian. They went off to bathe in the sea for the fifth time that day. Soon they were all splashing about happily, and George found time to help Anne to swim. The little girl hadn't got the right stroke, and George felt really proud when she had taught her. "Oh, thanks," said Anne, struggling along. "I'll never be as good as you- but I'd like to be as good as the boys." As they were going home, George spoke to Julian. "Could you say that you want to go and buy a stamp or something?" she said. "Then I could go with you, and just have a peep at old Tim. He'll be wondering why I haven't taken him out today." "Right!" said Julian. "I don't want stamps, but I could do with an ice. Dick and Anne can go home with your mother and carry the things. I'll just go and tell Aunt Fanny." He ran up to his aunt. "Do you mind if I go and buy some ice-creams?" he asked. "We haven't had one today. I won't be long. Can George go with me?" "I don't expect she will want to," said his aunt. "But you can ask her." "George, come with me!" yelled Julian, setting off to the little village at a great pace. George gave a sudden grin and ran after him. She soon caught him up and smiled gratefully at him. "Thanks," she said. "You go and get the ice-creams, and I'll have a look at Tim." They parted, Julian bought four ice-creams, and turned to go home. He waited about for George, who came running up after a few minutes. Her face was glowing. "He's all right," she said. "And you can't imagine how pleased he was to see me! He nearly jumped over my head! I say- another ice-cream for me. You really are a sport, Julian. I'll have to share something with you quickly. What about going to my island tomorrow?" "Golly!" said Julian, his eye's shining. "That would be marvellous. Will you really take us tomorrow? Come on, let's tell the others!" The four children sat in the garden eating their ices. Julian told them what George had said. They all felt excited. George was pleased. She had always felt quite important before when she had haughtily refused to take any of the other children to see Kirrin Island- but it felt much nicer somehow to have consented to row her cousins there. "I used to think it was much, much nicer always to do things on my own," she thought, as she sucked the last bits of her ice. "But it's going to be fun doing things with Julian and the others." The children were sent to wash


spoon clatters. “Are you not letting him smack the salmon because of the article he wrote? Is his seventeen-year-old self cockblocking him from the past?” I frown—at her usage of salmon and at the reminder that why, yes, the guy I’m going out with did do that. And it’s not that I ever forget. It’s just that I truly cannot reconcile it—the way Jack is when we’re together, kind and funny and even admiring of my work, and the fact that fifteen years ago — “Elsie? Is that it?” “No. No, he’s just . . . not planning on having sex with me.” Her eyes widen. “Are you planning on having sex with him?” Maybe. Probably. No. Should I? I want to. I’m scared. Maybe. “I have to go.” I chew on the inside of my cheek and pick up my purse. Then stop at the door when Cece says, “Hey, Elsie?” I turn around. “You look pretty tonight.” Her big eyes are warm. “Even more than usual.” I smile. I think I look medium as usual, but my heart feels open all of a sudden, open for Cece, this beautiful, odd person who cannot read analog clocks or tell the difference between left and right, who’s been sticking with me through thin and thin and thin for the past seven years. For a moment, all I want is to open my mouth and say, I hate art house movies. Could we watch a rom-com sometimes? Riverdale? Literally any Kardashian show? What comes out is “You look like a weirdo, pouring milk before the cereal, but I love you anyway.” I step out to her middle finger. Then my phone rings, and that’s when my night collapses like an accordion. In my defense, I pick up assuming it’s Jack, calling to say that he’s late, or that I’m late, or that someone hammered him in the frontal lobe and the resulting brain injury helped him realize that he doesn’t want to see me ever again. A tragic miscalculation on my part, because: “Elsie, finally. You need to come home right now.” “Mom?” “Lance is now with Dana. And Lucas punched him after the soccer game. Everyone saw.” God. “But I talked to them last week. Lance said he wasn’t interested—” “He lied, Elsie. I’m disappointed in you for not picking up on it.” “I—” I exhale, stepping out of the building. “He seemed sincere.” “That’s why you need to come home and help me sort this out. I have been so tense and jittery. My poor nerves.” “Mom, I can’t. I don’t have a car, for one. And I have classes.” “Just find a substitute teacher.” “That’s not—I’m not—Mom.” I spot Jack’s car. It’s freezing cold. Every instinct yells at me to first finish my conversation, but I cannot resist getting in. The seat is already heated, Jack’s hair still shower damp, curling in soft wisps on his neck. He looks freshly shaved and smells divine—like soap they sell in fancy boutiques and the hollow of his throat when I slept nestled


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

Stephen's arms, he went on again and said: --Do you not fear that those words may be spoken to you on the day of Judgement? --What is offered me on the other hand? Stephen asked. An eternity of bliss in the company of the dean of studies? --Remember, Cranly said, that he would be glorified. --Ay, Stephen said somewhat bitterly, bright, agile, impassible and, above all, subtle. --It is a curious thing, do you know, Cranly said dispassionately, how your mind is supersaturated with the religion in which you say you disbelieve. Did you believe in it when you were at school? I bet you did. --I did, Stephen answered. --And were you happier then? Cranly asked softly, happier than you are now, for instance? --Often happy, Stephen said, and often unhappy. I was someone else then. --How someone else? What do you mean by that statement? --I mean, said Stephen, that I was not myself as I am now, as I had to become. --Not as you are now, not as you had to become, Cranly repeated. Let me ask you a question. Do you love your mother? Stephen shook his head slowly. --I don't know what your words mean, he said simply. --Have you never loved anyone? Cranly asked. --Do you mean women? --I am not speaking of that, Cranly said in a colder tone. I ask you if you ever felt love towards anyone or anything? Stephen walked on beside his friend, staring gloomily at the footpath. --I tried to love God, he said at length. It seems now I failed. It is very difficult. I tried to unite my will with the will of God instant by instant. In that I did not always fail. I could perhaps do that still-- Cranly cut him short by asking: --Has your mother had a happy life? --How do I know? Stephen said. --How many children had she? --Nine or ten, Stephen answered. Some died. --Was your father... Cranly interrupted himself for an instant, and then said: I don't want to pry into your family affairs. But was your father what is called well-to-do? I mean, when you were growing up? --Yes, Stephen said. --What was he? Cranly asked after a pause. Stephen began to enumerate glibly his father's attributes. --A medical student, an oarsman, a tenor, an amateur actor, a shouting politician, a small landlord, a small investor, a drinker, a good fellow, a story-teller, somebody's secretary, something in a distillery, a tax-gatherer, a bankrupt and at present a praiser of his own past. Cranly laughed, tightening his grip on Stephen's arm, and said: --The distillery is damn good. --Is there anything else you want to know? Stephen asked. --Are you in good circumstances at present? --Do I look it? Stephen asked bluntly. --So then, Cranly went on musingly, you were born in the lap of luxury. He used the phrase broadly and loudly as he often used technical expressions, as if he wished his hearer to understand that they were used by him without conviction. --Your mother must have


mom. Are you mad at me? Why haven’t you returned any of my texts? Should I message you on Facebook? Sam clicks on the next voice mail. FERNANDO (O.S.) Listen, you never told me whether or not you’d be into joining this intramural badminton league with me, and I gotta let the dude know by tomorrow. Hit me back. Sam rolls her eyes like, “Yeah right,” and clicks Next as we PULL OUT. AMY (O.S.) Samantha, it’s Amy, your boss. Dennis left, frankly, a rather incoherent message on the bakery machine? Something about the van being stolen? Should I— JENNY (O.S.) Jenny again. Are we in a fight? Did that guy from the bar murder you? Also, would you mind blocking my mom on Facebook? HOT BABE (O.S.) Hey, sorry about leaving so fast. But I think I forgot my wallet at your place? Oh, by the way, this is— Sam deletes this last message, and we PULL UP IN A SLOW CRANE SHOT and watch her continue shuffling along the sidewalk. DENNIS (O.S.) Sam! You shit at these white people’s wedding and then left me here without a ride? This is why I told you I don’t trust your sneaky ass. And did you steal the fucking van? Sam! Sammm! Boss lady is gonna kill me, Sam!! * * * — END OF EPISODE what if i died like elvis A reason I don’t do too much superficial maintenance is that it is hard to sustain. Maybe it’s depression, although it also could be apathy or possibly even extreme boredom, but the idea of regularly dragging my lumpy, smelly body into a harshly lit salon to pay for someone, who is wondering what I’m even doing this for, to spread hot sugar wax on my face, and use a little piece of cloth to rip the hairs out of it, feels the same to me as imagining myself waking up bright and early one morning and strapping a pair of hiking boots on to go climb a mountain. I have just taken my first sip of water today at 2:57 p.m., I cannot be a person who reliably gets treatments done to herself. I don’t like the nail salon because in my daily life, I am trying to apologize less for simply existing, and that’s impossible to do in a place where a stranger you’ve known for thirty seconds acts personally insulted by the ragged state of your cuticles. I hate being attended to, even when I’m paying and tipping 25 percent for it, because not only do I not deserve it, but I will also never maintain it. As soon as I’m ushered into the chair (after circling the parking lot for five minutes, and after getting water all up my sleeves during the pre-manicure compulsory handwashing), I automatically begin my well-rehearsed atonement for my weak nails and lack of exfoliation as the nail technician tsks loudly at all the work ahead of her. I don’t even get anything fancy, I just pick whatever deep purplish shade I land on


only with miserable dimness, the figures with which I did my best to people it. The characters of the narrative would not be warmed and rendered malleable by any heat that I could kindle at my intellectual forge. They would take neither the glow of passion nor the tenderness of sentiment, but retained all the rigidity of dead corpses, and stared me in the face with a fixed and ghastly grin of contemptuous defiance. "What have you to do with us?" that expression seemed to say. "The little power you might have once possessed over the tribe of unrealities is gone You have bartered it for a pittance of the public gold. Go then, and earn your wages" In short, the almost torpid creatures of my own fancy twitted me with imbecility, and not without fair occasion.% It was not merely during the three hours and a half which Uncle Sam claimed as his share of my daily life that this wretched numbness held possession of me. It went with me on my sea-shore walks and rambles into the country, whenever-- which was seldom and reluctantly--I bestirred myself to seek that invigorating charm of Nature which used to give me such freshness and activity of thought, the moment that I stepped across the threshold of the Old Manse. The same torpor, as regarded the capacity for intellectual effort, accompanied me home, and weighed upon me in the chamber which I most absurdly termed my study. Nor did it quit me when, late at night, I sat in the deserted parlour, lighted only by the glimmering coal-fire and the moon, striving to picture forth imaginary scenes, which, the next day, might flow out on the brightening page in many- hued description. If the imaginative faculty refused to act at such an hour, it might well be deemed a hopeless case. Moonlight, in a familiar room, falling so white upon the carpet, and showing all its figures so distinctly--making every object so minutely visible, yet so unlike a morning or noontide visibility--is a medium the most suitable for a romance-writer to get acquainted with his illusive guests. There is the little domestic scenery of the well-known apartment; the chairs, with each its separate individuality; the centre-table, sustaining a work-basket, a volume or two, and an extinguished lamp; the sofa; the book-case; the picture on the wall-- Thesaurus brightening: (n) blooming, polishing, tonic, brisk, healthy, wholesome, infinitesimally, diminutively, nicely, limb, illumination, first blush, break cordial, benign, curative, crisp, exactly, microscopically. of day. fascinating. ANTONYMS: (adj) noontide: (n) noon, midday, high glimmering: (n) inkling, ghost, soporific, soothing, relaxing, tiring, noon, summit, top, apex, zenith, luminosity, light, hint, apparition, dull, debilitating, deadly. acme, pinnacle, climax, culmination. radiance; (adj) glittering, glimmery, kindle: (adj, v) inflame; (v) fire, excite, torpor: (n) lethargy, lassitude, stupor, crepusculous, sciolism. arouse, burn, flame, awaken, incite, languor, indolence, sluggishness, illusive: (adj) deceptive, false, enkindle, stir; (n, v) light. listlessness, torpidity, torpidness; delusive, imaginary, fallacious, ANTONYMS: (v) enkindle, dampen, (adj, n) inactivity, inertia. unreal, seeming, ostensible, apparent, calm, extinguish, quench, stifle. ANTONYMS: (n) energy, vigor,


duplicate. Locating his room was laughably easy. It was the only one besides my own with its own set of guards. Wes and Jeru did not look pleased to see me. “Ren came by to tell us he couldn’t find you,” Wes said. “I took a bath.” “Your hair is dry.” “I didn’t wash it. Let me pass. I have a matter of urgency to discuss with the Heir.” Jeru glanced at Wes with a shrug. “He told us she could enter as she pleased.” My brows lifted. He did? Wes knocked on the door twice. “Sire?” “Enter,” came Arin’s distracted voice. Wes sighed and swung the door open for me. Arin didn’t glance up when I slid inside. Wes closed the door with a resentful thud. The Nizahl Heir had his back to me. He wore a pair of loose sleep pants, tied low at his waist, and nothing else. A dinner tray sat abandoned on the bed. Arin bent over a table, hip cocked to the side as he scribbled on some parchment. I studied the strong slope of his shoulders, the notches of his spine. I vaguely wondered if his back would be harder to break than the soldier’s. “Your room is bigger than mine,” I remarked. The muscles in Arin’s back locked. I dropped to the bed, flicking around the items on his tray. I dipped a piece of his bread into the dark green molokhia. It had long since gone cold, and the skin on top stuck to my bread. Arin turned. He sat back, bracing his hands on the table. “Do you want to trade?” I swallowed the bite in my mouth with difficulty. My gaze lingered on his chest. The evidence of our encounter with the Ruby Hound hadn’t fully healed. The bandage looked much cleaner than the sleeves I had haphazardly wrapped around it. “No. Mine is closer to the stairs.” Dania’s sacred skirt, but he was so pale. As though someone stretched a thin sheet of parchment over him and named it skin. On another, I’d call it sickly, but Arin’s torso was long and lean. His body carried the kind of power gained from years of relentless combat. The elegance of his beauty shone in the sharp cut of his hips, the hollows of his collarbones. Arin arched a brow, altogether too entertained for my taste. “Is anything the matter, Sylvia? You’ve grown pale.” I rolled my eyes. Of course he wasn’t ignorant of his effect on others. His appeal was another weapon in his arsenal, honed to deadly perfection. “My natural complexion, I assure you.” The echo of an exchange uttered a lifetime ago. I carried the tray over to the table, giving him his privacy. Arin swiped a tunic from the wardrobe and tugged it over his head. I exhaled when he was clothed again, pressing my knuckles to overwarm cheeks. May Vaida be damned to the tombs. It was strange. I had spent my formative years without more than a passing interest in the men of Mahair. Even if


stump near the garden footprint. Now she ripped open the envelope. Punica granatum. Native to the Himalayas. Praised in the Babylonian Talmud. Grown in the gardens of Alcinous. Brought to California by the Spanish. If she planted a new tree soon, it would blossom this spring and lure hummingbirds and swallowtails from the meadows to its crimson flowers. She knocked on the frame of the director’s open door and held up the paper. “Maria,” she said, “it was a pomegranate. Can I go ahead and plant it?” “Maybe.” Maria looked up from her laptop. “I’ve got news for you too. Could you shut the door?” Under an asymmetrical bob, Maria’s round face was punctuated by chunky black glasses. Her office—the epicenter of a proposed restoration at El Polín—abounded with maps and diagrams, sticky notes and charts. She moved a stack of files off a chair so Maud could sit down. “I think I’ve found us a donor,” she said. “Have you heard of Alice Lincoln?” “The artist? The one with the basket at the de Young?” Woven from wrought iron, the basket towered on the lawn outside the museum café. “Yup,” Maria said, “that one. Turns out she’s from old Boston money.” Alice Lincoln’s father, she added, had died six months ago and left his daughter a fortune. “She’s giving it all away as fast as she can to Bay Area nonprofits run by women. I managed to schedule a meeting with her. How quickly can you put together a garden design?” “I can improvise something now,” Maud said, “but it’ll be sketchy. I’m still waiting on lab results.” “Sketchy’s fine. I want to give her an idea of what it would look like. I’m asking for the entire budget, the house and garden restoration, the school programs, the garden maintenance, summer camps. Everything.” “From what I know of Alice Lincoln,” Maud said, “you’d think she’d be interested.” The placard at the de Young described Alice Lincoln as a “feminist icon and lesbian pioneer” and the basket as a “monument to matriarchy.” This would seem to make her the perfect donor for Tennessee Hollow, which had belonged to the family of Juana Briones, an entrepreneur and healer known as the “Mother of San Francisco.” “It’s not so easy to predict with her,” Maria said. “So far, she’s a pain. Totally controlling and totally indifferent. She’s some kind of Luddite hermit. She and I exchanged three letters to set a date for this meeting—and I mean letters on paper with stamps. Apparently she doesn’t have a cell or even internet. She called me from a pay phone in town this morning. And she made it very, very clear that she wants to remain anonymous, so I’m only telling you and the archaeology team.” “Is there anyone else we can ask if she says no?” “No one who could get us the money fast enough,” Maria said. She frowned. “If we don’t secure funding by next month, I’ll have to close the digs.” Maud hadn’t known that was a possibility. Maria was so savvy


came into her mind that this was the minute to tell him. Colin knew something new was coming. "Because what?" he cried eagerly. Mary was so anxious that she got up from her stool and came to him and caught hold of both his hands. "Can I trust you? I trusted Dickon because birds trusted him. Can I trust you--for sure--for sure?" she implored. Her face was so solemn that he almost whispered his answer. "Yes--yes!" "Well, Dickon will come to see you tomorrow morning, and he'll bring his creatures with him." "Oh! Oh!" Colin cried out in delight. "But that's not all," Mary went on, almost pale with solemn excitement. "The rest is better. There is a door into the garden. I found it. It is under the ivy on the wall." If he had been a strong healthy boy Colin would probably have shouted "Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!" but he was weak and rather hysterical; his eyes grew bigger and bigger and he gasped for breath. "Oh! Mary!" he cried out with a half sob. "Shall I see it? Shall I get into it? Shall I live to get into it?" and he clutched her hands and dragged her toward him. "Of course you'll see it!" snapped Mary indignantly. "Of course you'll live to get into it! Don't be silly!" And she was so un-hysterical and natural and childish that she brought him to his senses and he began to laugh at himself and a few minutes afterward she was sitting on her stool again telling him not what she imagined the secret garden to be like but what it really was, and Colin's aches and tiredness were forgotten and he was listening enraptured. "It is just what you thought it would be," he said at last. "It sounds just as if you had really seen it. You know I said that when you told me first." Mary hesitated about two minutes and then boldly spoke the truth. "I had seen it--and I had been in," she said. "I found the key and got in weeks ago. But I daren't tell you--I daren't because I was so afraid I couldn't trust you--for sure!" CHAPTER XIX "IT HAS COME!" Of course Dr. Craven had been sent for the morning after Colin had had his tantrum. He was always sent for at once when such a thing occurred and he always found, when he arrived, a white shaken boy lying on his bed, sulky and still so hysterical that he was ready to break into fresh sobbing at the least word. In fact, Dr. Craven dreaded and detested the difficulties of these visits. On this occasion he was away from Misselthwaite Manor until afternoon. "How is he?" he asked Mrs. Medlock rather irritably when he arrived. "He will break a blood-vessel in one of those fits some day. The boy is half insane with hysteria and self-indulgence." "Well, sir," answered Mrs. Medlock, "you'll scarcely believe your eyes when you see him. That plain sour-faced child that's almost as bad as himself has just


deposited the corpse. Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken into the room where the body lay for interment, that it might be observed what effect the sight of it would produce upon me. This idea was probably suggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited when the mode of the murder had been described. I was accordingly conducted, by the magistrate and several other persons, to the inn. I could not help being struck by the strange coincidences that had taken place during this eventful night; but, knowing that I had been conversing with several persons in the island I had inhabited about the time that the body had been found, I was perfectly tranquil as to the consequences of the affair. I entered the room where the corpse lay and was led up to the coffin. How can I describe my sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched with horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment without shuddering and agony. The examination, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses, passed like a dream from my memory when I saw the lifeless form of Henry Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath, and throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed, "Have my murderous machinations deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already destroyed; other victims await their destiny; but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor--" The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured, and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions. A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death; my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented; and at others I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other witnesses. Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents; how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture? But I was doomed to live and in two months found myself as awaking from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by jailers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding; I had forgotten the particulars of what had happened and only felt


leave behind. Carlotta wasn’t going to make it. I’d known it for weeks now, I’d felt it as a dull ache, but then Sakina confirmed it as we walked back to the inn that night. And Sakina knew what she was talking about. I’d been right: I’d found out eventually from Carlotta herself, it was her left breast. Well, now it was everywhere, in her bones and liver and lungs. But it had started in her left breast. 9 Early the next morning, before they were due in court, I met for practice testimony with two of the assistant defense counsel in the “Blue Ballroom” of the Calvin Inn—a room that resembled a ballroom only in size. Its blueness came from an elaborate paisley carpet that must have camouflaged a few decades of stains. They’d pushed banquet tables together, and we sat on padded white-and-gold chairs with high backs, ones clearly meant for weddings. We’d originally thought I might testify that afternoon, but the state was taking far more time than anticipated to cross-examine each witness, and now it was likely I’d go late tomorrow. More time to second-guess every word I planned to say. Britt would take the stand today, I knew from Alder’s texts, and speak to the discovery of the blood evidence. I’d told Alder he could let me know who was testifying, as long as he didn’t report what they said. He was also allowed to tell how the judge seemed (Looks like a serious dude who’s secretly a fun grandpa, Alder wrote, unhelpfully. Wish I could read his mindddd) and how Omar was doing (Hard to tell. He’s not supposed to react . . .), but I’d get to see both those things for myself soon. “Amy wanted me to remind you about sequestration,” the younger attorney, Hector, said. I cringed, assuming I was in trouble, but he handed me a sheet from a pile, one with the judge’s orders typed out in bullet points. It wasn’t personal. “It’s a small town,” he said, “so it’ll be hard, but just don’t do anything that would look bad, okay?” Hector was right out of law school, with a trace of what I’d learned was a Colombian accent, and pained, intelligent eyes. He came across as nervous in person as he had on Zoom, every sentence quavering out like he was onstage and hated public speaking. The older one, Liz, looked like Lisa Kudrow. Liz, who would be playing Amy for the session, launched right in. Hector recorded everything on his phone for Amy to review later. Easy questions first: my name, my job, the dates I attended Granby, the dates I roomed with Thalia. Then some tougher ones about my time on campus in 2018, my role in the podcast, my role in the discovery of the blood. Then: “Defense Exhibit 58 is this Granby planner for the 1993 to 1994 school year. Do you recognize this planner?” In this instance it was only a thin stack of colored Xeroxes, but I nodded, then remembered to say “yes.”


much. A country that first abandons and then condemns people without money who have the temerity to get sick, accusing them of causing their own deaths. It is still hard for me not to think of my father’s death as a kind of negligent homicide, facilitated and sped by the state’s failure to fulfill its most basic responsibilities to him and others like him. With our broken safety net, our strained systems of care and support, the deep and corrosive inequalities we have yet to address, it’s no wonder that so many of us find ourselves alone, struggling to get the help we need when we or our loved ones are suffering. What killed my father, on paper, was diabetes and kidney failure: common indeed, the eighth- and tenth-leading causes of death in the United States in 2020, according to the Centers for Disease Control. But failing organs, life-threatening infections, death in his sixties—these were not inevitable outcomes, nor matters of pure chance and inheritance, an avalanche of genetic misfortune. He needed access to quality health care in order to manage and treat his illnesses. He needed it throughout his life, not only in his final years, when it was granted as a crisis response only after his kidneys had failed. His mother lived longer and had greater access to life-prolonging treatment in the 1960s and 1970s than her son had in the twenty-first century. * * * For her part, for reasons I will never comprehend, my mother assigns herself some blame. She knew that he was slowing down. Should she have realized that his death was close? Had she missed important signs? If she had known more, could she have done more for him? I beg her not to think that way. It’s not her fault. She worked so hard to take care of him. I want to ask if she or Dad blamed me for being so far away. For not being able to help more. I realize that I am afraid to hear the answer, and the question seems too great a burden to add to the ones she already carries. What I feel is not pure self-recrimination—I know his illness wasn’t my fault, either. But the regret and anger I bear is a constant ache, fierce and gnawing and deep, so entwined with my grief that I cannot begin to parse where one feeling ends and another begins. 9 After my father died, his sister asked my mother when she would be shipping his body “home.” Mom was so confused that she had to repeat the question. My parents had spent all but the first few years of their married life in Oregon, and still his family considered Ohio not only Dad’s true home but his final resting place. When Mom told me this upon my arrival in Oregon, it was the first time I’d laughed, really laughed, since learning of his death. There are so many things you do for a person after they die, things they don’t really need—the living do. Rituals, memorial services, acts


the deep mansions of Nogrod or Belegost There he learned much of metalwork, and came to great skill therein; and he devised a metal as hard as the steel of the Dwarves, but so malleable that he could make it thin and supple; and yet it remained resistant to all blades and darts. He named it galvorn, for it was black and shining like jet, and he was clad in it whenever he went abroad. But El, though stooped by his smithwork, was no Dwarf, but a tall Elf of a high kin of the Teleri, noble though grim of face; and his eyes could see deep into shadows and dark places. And it came to pass that he saw Aredhel Ar-Feiniel as she strayed among the tall trees near the borders of Nan Elmoth, a gleam of white in the dim land. Very fair she seemed to him, and he desired her; and he set his enchantments about her so that she could not find the ways out, but drew ever nearer to his dwelling in the depths of the wood. There were his smithy, and his dim halls, and such servants as he had, silent and secret as their master. And when Aredhel, weary with wandering, came at last to his doors, he revealed himself; and he welcomed her, and led her into his house. And there she remained; for El took her to wife, and it was long ere any of her kin heard of her again. It is not said that Aredhel was wholly unwilling, nor that her life in Nan Elmoth was hateful to her for many years. For though at El's command she must shun the sunlight, they wandered far together under the stars or by the light of the sickle moon; or she might fare alone as she would, save that El forbade her to seek the sons of Fanor, or any others of the Noldor. And Aredhel bore to El a son in the shadows of Nan Elmoth, and in her heart she gave him a name in the forbidden tongue of the Noldor, Lmion, that signifies Child of the Twilight; but his father gave him no name until he was twelve years old. Then he called him Maeglin, which is Sharp Glance, for he perceived that the eyes of his son were more piercing than his own, and his thought could read the secrets of hearts beyond the mist of words. As Maeglin grew to full stature he resembled in face and form rather his kindred of the Noldor, but in mood and mind he was the son of his father. His words were few save in matters that touched him near, and then his voice had a power to move those that heard him and to overthrow those that withstood him. He was tall and black-haired; his eyes were dark, yet bright and keen as the eyes of the Noldor, and his skin was white. Often he went with El to the cities of the Dwarves in the east of Ered Lindon,


much control over my film adaptations—I have no training as a screenwriter, and besides, social media is always abuzz with gossip about this or that novelist who had a falling-out with the director. I don’t want to be a creative diva. And maybe they have a point. Who wants to go to the theater and watch a bunch of people speaking in Chinese for two hours? I mean, wouldn’t you go see a Chinese film instead? We’re talking about a blockbuster made with an American audience in mind. Accessibility matters. “Thanks for understanding.” Justin beams. “We talk to authors sometimes, and they—you know . . .” “They’re very picky,” says Harvey. “They want every scene in the movie to match the book, word for word.” “And they don’t get that film is a totally different medium, and requires different storytelling skills,” says Justin. “It’s a translation, really. And translation across mediums is inherently unfaithful to some extent. Roland Barthes. An act of translation is an act of betrayal.” “Belles infidèles,” says Harvey. “Beautiful and unfaithful.” “You get it, though,” says Justin. “Which is awesome.” And that’s the end of it. This is awesome. I am awesome. We are all so, so excited to make things work. I keep waiting for them to offer more substantive details. How much money is on the table? What’s their timeline? Are they going to start reaching out to this Danny Baker kid, like, tomorrow? (Harvey made it sound like he would DM him right away.) But all they’re giving me are vagaries, and I get the sense that this is perhaps not the right context to press. So I sit back and let them buy me some overpriced strudel (named the “Inglourious Pastry”) and chat at me about how gorgeous the waterfront is. Justin handles the check, and both of them hug me tightly before we part ways. I stroll until they’ve turned around the opposite corner, and then I dash back into the café and pee for a full minute. THAT WENT OKAY. I EMAIL BRETT A SUMMARY OF THE MEETING AS I stroll back over the bridge to Rosslyn. I think they liked me, but it seems like they’re still feeling out some things before there’s cash on the table. I don’t think Jasmine Zhang is attached, which is weird? Pretty standard as far as Hollywood meetings go, Brett responds. They were just getting a sense of you as a person. Hard offers don’t come until later. Not sure what’s going on with Jasmine, though it does seem like the main interest is coming from Justin. I’ll keep you updated if there’s any news. I’m impatient to hear more, but this is how things are. Publishing crawls. Gatekeepers sit on manuscripts for months, and meetings happen behind closed doors while you’re dying from anticipation on the outside. Publishing means no news for weeks, until you’re standing in line at Starbucks or waiting for the bus, and your phone pings with the email that will change your life. So I head down into the metro,


the sperm whale, once struck, is allowed time to rally, he then acts, not so often with blind rage, as with wilful, deliberate designs of destruction to his pursuers; nor is it without conveying some eloquent indication of his character, that upon being attacked he will frequently open his mouth, and retain it in that dread expansion for several consecutive minutes. But I must be content with only one more and a concluding illustration; a remarkable and most significant one, by which you will not fail to see, that not only is the most marvellous event in this book corroborated by plain facts of the present day, but that these marvels (like all marvels) are mere repetitions of the ages; so that for the millionth time we say amen with Solomon --Verily there is nothing new under the sun. In the sixth Christian century lived Procopius, a Christian magistrate of Constantinople, in the days when Justinian was Emperor and Belisarius general. As many know, he wrote the history of his own times, a work every way of uncommon value. By the best authorities, he has always been considered a most trustworthy and unexaggerating historian, except in some one or two particulars, not at all affecting the matter presently to be mentioned. Now, in this history of his, Procopius mentions that, during the term of his prefecture at Constantinople, a great sea-monster was captured in the neighboring Propontis, or Sea of Marmora, after having destroyed vessels at intervals in those waters for a period of more than fifty years. A fact thus set down in substantial history cannot easily be gainsaid. Nor is there any reason it should be. Of what precise species this sea-monster was, is not mentioned. But as he destroyed ships, as well as for other reasons, he must have been a whale; and I am strongly inclined to think a sperm whale. And I will tell you why. For a long time I fancied that the sperm whale had been always unknown in the Mediterranean and the deep waters connecting with it. Even now I am certain that those seas are not, and perhaps never can be, in the present constitution of .. <p 209 > things, a place for his habitual gregarious resort. But further investigations have recently proved to me, that in modern times there have been isolated instances of the presence of the sperm whale in the Mediterranean. I am told, on good authority, that on the Barbary coast, a Commodore Davis of the British navy found the skeleton of a sperm whale. Now, as a vessel of war readily passes through the Dardanelles, hence a sperm whale could, by the same route, pass out of the Mediterranean into the Propontis. In the Propontis, as far as I can learn, none of that peculiar substance called brit is to be found, the aliment of the right whale. But I have every reason to believe that the food of the sperm whale --squid or cuttle-fish --lurks at the bottom of that sea, because large creatures, but by


date. This same shop-door had been a subject of No slight mortification to the present occupant of the august Pyncheon House, as well as to some of her predecessors. The matter is disagreeably delicate to handle; but, since the reader must needs be let into the secret, he will please to understand, that, about a century ago, the head of the Pyncheons found himself involved in serious financial difficulties. The fellow (gentleman, as he styled himself) can hardly have been other than a spurious interloper; for, instead of seeking office from the king or the royal governor, or urging his hereditary claim to Eastern lands, he bethought himself of no better avenue to wealth than by cutting a shop-door through the side of his ancestral residence. It was the custom of the time, indeed, for merchants to store their goods and transact business in their own dwellings. But there was something pitifully small in this old Pyncheon's mode of setting about his commercial operations; it was whispered, that, with his own hands, all beruffled as they were, he used to give change for a shilling, and would turn a half-penny twice over, to make sure that it was a good one. Beyond all question, he had the blood of a petty huckster in his veins, through whatever channel it may have found its way there. Immediately on his death, the shop-door had been locked, bolted, and barred, and, down to the period of our story, had probably never once been opened. The old counter, shelves, and other fixtures of the little shop remained just as he had left them. It used to be affirmed, that the dead shop-keeper, in a white wig, a faded velvet coat, an apron at his waist, and his ruffles carefully turned back from his wrists, might be seen through the chinks of the shutters, any night of the year, ransacking his till, or poring over the dingy pages of his day-book. From the look of unutterable woe upon his face, it appeared to be his doom to spend eternity in a vain effort to make his accounts balance. And now--in a very humble way, as will be seen--we proceed to open our narrative. II The Little Shop-Window IT still lacked half an hour of sunrise, when Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon--we will not say awoke, it being doubtful whether the poor lady had so much as closed her eyes during the brief night of midsummer--but, at all events, arose from her solitary pillow, and began what it would be mockery to term the adornment of her person. Far from us be the indecorum of assisting, even in imagination, at a maiden lady's toilet! Our story must therefore await Miss Hepzibah at the threshold of her chamber; only presuming, meanwhile, to note some of the heavy sighs that labored from her bosom, with little restraint as to their lugubrious depth and volume of sound, inasmuch as they could be audible to nobody save a disembodied listener like ourself. The Old Maid was alone in the old house. Alone, except for


secrets unspoken. Bishop’s car crunched away down the road. I made my way up the steps. Dad hadn’t locked the door. Never did. Even after what had happened to me, he’d never shaken the belief that bad things just didn’t happen in a town like Chester. The day he had to lock his door, he’d tell me, was the day he’d find a good rope and a strong beam and put himself out of his misery. I pushed open the door, not yet stepping over the threshold. I knew exactly where Dad would be: in his chair, magazines stacked four feet high beside him, an avalanche of boxes, busted shelves, books, and God-knew-what filling every bit of the living room apart from a narrow path to the chair and sightlines to the TV. Only there wasn’t a path to the armchair. In a couple places the mustard-brown carpet showed through, but newspapers, magazines, Tupperware, and random detritus I couldn’t identify covered most of it. The house smelled rank, like something had died in here. For a minute I was afraid it was Dad, until I remembered that Bishop had just talked to him. “Dad?” I called, hovering in the doorway. Indistinct shifting and settling marked his movement, but it was a long time before he actually appeared. I was still unprepared when he emerged from the warren and we stood face-to-face. He’d gotten old. Obviously he’d gotten older, but I hadn’t expected that he’d get old. He’d withered like a dead beetle drying out in the sun. His hair had receded, baring flaky, red skin, and he stood canted like he was trying to find an angle that didn’t ache. He wore a T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, both of them faded but relatively clean. He looked me up and down with his pale, watery eyes and grunted. “Didn’t know you were in town.” “Good to see you, too, Dad,” I replied. I swallowed. “You going to invite me in?” “No,” he said. I crossed my arms; he grunted again. “Suit yourself.” He backed up, because there wasn’t room to step aside. I followed him into the gloom. He took a right, weaving his way between stacks of plastic grocery bags. I didn’t know what was in them. I could only hope it wasn’t perishable food. “What are you here for?” he asked. “Checking in on you,” I said, balancing on one foot as I stepped over a spilled pile of magazines. “Still alive, aren’t I?” he asked. “I crossed paths with Chief Bishop just now.” “Nice lady,” he said, pausing to look at me. “Wants to evict me. Put me in a home.” I raised an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine why.” “Sarcasm. That’s all you’ve got,” he muttered. “Are you here to tell me I’ve got to clean this place up? Because I’ve already heard it.” He lurched his way toward the kitchen. I followed apprehensively. I braced myself, ready for mold and rat droppings, but it wasn’t as far gone as I’d feared. The stove had two burners clear, and


webbed shoes to make it easier for them. Francois, guiding the sled at the gee- pole, sometimes exchanged places with him, but not often. Perrault was in a hurry, and he prided himself on his knowledge of ice, which knowledge was indispensable, for the fall ice was very thin, and where there was swift water, there was no ice at all. Day after day, for days unending, Buck toiled in the traces. Always, they broke camp in the dark, and the first gray of dawn found them hitting the trail with fresh miles reeled off behind them. And always they pitched camp after dark, eating their bit of fish, and crawling to sleep into the snow. Buck was ravenous. The pound and a half of sun-dried salmon, which was his ration for each day, seemed to go nowhere. He never had enough, and suffered from perpetual hunger pangs. Yet the other dogs, because they weighed less and were born to the life, received a pound only of the fish and managed to keep in good condition. He swiftly lost the fastidiousness which had characterized his old life. A dainty eater, he found that his mates, finishing first, robbed him of his unfinished ration. There was no defending it. While he was fighting off two or three, it was disappearing down the throats of the others. To remedy this, he ate as fast as they; and, so greatly did hunger compel him, he was not above taking what did not belong to him. He watched and learned. When he saw Pike, one of the new dogs, a clever malingerer and thief, slyly steal a slice of bacon when Perrault's back was turned, he duplicated the performance the following day, getting away with the whole chunk. A great uproar was raised, but he was unsuspected; while Dub, an awkward blunderer who was always getting caught, was punished for Buck's misdeed. This first theft marked Buck as fit to survive in the hostile Northland environment. It marked his adaptability, his capacity to adjust himself to changing conditions, the lack of which would have meant swift and terrible death. It marked, further, the decay or going to pieces of his moral nature, a vain thing and a handicap in the ruthless struggle for existence. It was all well enough in the Southland, under the law of love and fellowship, to respect private property and personal feelings; but in the Northland, under the law of club and fang, whoso took such things into account was a fool, and in so far as he observed them he would fail to prosper. Not that Buck reasoned it out. He was fit, that was all, and unconsciously he accommodated himself to the new mode of life. All his days, no matter what the odds, he had never run from a fight. But the club of the man in the red sweater had beaten into him a more fundamental and primitive code. Civilized, he could have died for a moral consideration, say the defence of Judge Miller's riding-whip; but the completeness


chapter?) Although the Miss Gunns dwell on this difference, Eliot remarks that Nancy is more of a lady than they are, despite her lack of education. Next you see Nancy beside another Raveloe lady, her sister Priscilla. By comparison, Nancy's special qualities shine out. Priscilla definitely talks like a country girl. The same dress that makes Nancy look lovely makes Priscilla look sallow and dumpy. Nancy, however, insists that as sisters they should dress alike. (What does this tell you about Nancy?) Priscilla does have common sense. Compare her realistic attitude toward staying home and keeping house for their father (as George Eliot did) to Nancy's high-minded reluctance about Godfrey. Downstairs at tea, Nancy reflects that marrying Godfrey would make her mistress of this house. She admits to herself that she loves him but her morals won't let her unbend. Eliot speaks of this as Nancy's "inward drama." Do you think she approves or disapproves of Nancy's attitude? While Godfrey and Nancy sit silently, highly conscious of each other, the rest of the party comes alive. Squire Cass is in a loud, merry, patronizing mood. Mr. Lammeter sits in self-contained dignity. Dr. Kimble busily chats to everyone in the room. Eliot points out that these people aren't aristocrats. The Squire's comments about Godfrey and Nancy are boorish. Even Dr. Kimble is not a great doctor--he inherited his practice. Imagine how Godfrey and Nancy feel as they sit here. Music, which is so important to Raveloe, is introduced by white-haired Solomon Macey, the fiddler. He respects the gentry but he respects his music, too, and it gives him a special role. He plays the tunes people expect to hear, old songs rich in memories. Music gives him power over them, like a Pied Piper, as he leads the party into the parlor to dance. Not only are all the gentry here, selected villagers round out the scene. An elaborate social ritual is at work, which everyone seems to enjoy. The villagers comment as they watch the gentry dance, much as people today may comment upon a TV show they're watching. From this quarter, you get another view of Nancy and Godfrey. The villagers agree on Nancy's beauty, but opinion on Godfrey is divided. An accident (fate or bad luck?) calls Nancy and Godfrey off the dance floor. Nancy's dress has been torn, and she must sit in the next room until Priscilla can help her fix it. Eliot presents the lovers' conversation dramatically, letting you know just enough of what each is feeling to add an undertone of passion to the careful banter. Godfrey tries to tell Nancy he loves her. She rebuffs him coldly, firmly, but with a trace of hurt pride that gives him hope. Even after Priscilla arrives, Godfrey stays near, hanging on to these few moments with Nancy. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 12 Just then, while Godfrey is happily forgetting his marriage, his wife is headed toward the Red House. This isn't a coincidence--she chose this night deliberately so she could shame Godfrey in public. She wants revenge because


a trick, and laugh. Oh,

how he’d laugh! Then he’d realize it was me. And laugh louder!

I couldn’t wait.

The next night, as everyone tucked into their dinner, I tiptoed out of the

meal tent. I went down the footpath, fifty meters, into the kitchen tent, and

poured a whole teacup of Tabasco into Marko’s bowl of pudding. (It was

bread and butter, Mummy’s favorite.) The kitchen crew saw me, but I put a

finger to my lips. They chuckled.

Scurrying back into the meal tent, I gave Tiggy a wink. I’d already taken

her into my confidence and she thought the whole caper brilliant. I don’t

remember if I told Willy what I was up to. Probably not. I knew he wouldn’t

have approved.

I squirmed, counting the minutes until dessert was served, fighting back

giggles.

Suddenly someone cried out: Whoa!

Someone else cried: What the—!

In unison we all turned. Just outside the open tent was a tawny tail

swishing through the air.

Leopard!

Everyone froze. Except me. I took a step towards it.

Marko gripped my shoulder.

The leopard walked away, like a prima ballerina, across the footpath

where I’d just been.

I turned back in time to see the adults all look at one another, mouths

open. Holy fuck. Then their eyes turned towards me. Holy fuuuuck.

They were all thinking the same thing, picturing the same banner headline

back home.

Prince Harry Mauled by Leopard.

The world would reel. Heads would roll.

I wasn’t thinking about any of that. I was thinking about Mummy. That

leopard was clearly a sign from her, a messenger she’d sent to say:

Allis well. And all will be well.

59

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

At the same time I also thought: The horror!

What if Mummy were to come out of hiding


slightly too broadly and gave people the unnerving impression that he was about to go for their neck. He struck most of the friends he had made on Earth as an eccentric, but a harmless one -- an unruly boozer with some oddish habits. For instance he would often gatecrash university parties, get badly drunk and start making fun of any astrophysicist he could find till he got thrown out. Sometimes he would get seized with oddly distracted moods and stare into the sky as if hypnotized until someone asked him what he was doing. Then he would start guiltily for a moment, relax and grin. "Oh, just looking for flying saucers," he would joke and everyone would laugh and ask him what sort of flying saucers he was looking for. "Green ones!" he would reply with a wicked grin, laugh wildly for a moment and then suddenly lunge for the nearest bar and buy an enormous round of drinks. Evenings like this usually ended badly. Ford would get out of his skull on whisky, huddle into a corner with some girl and explain to her in slurred phrases that honestly the colour of the flying saucers didn't matter that much really. Thereafter, staggering semi-paralytic down the night streets he would often ask passing policemen if they knew the way to Betelgeuse. The policemen would usually say something like, "Don't you think it's about time you went off home sir?" "I'm trying to baby, I'm trying to," is what Ford invariably replied on these occasions. In fact what he was really looking out for when he stared distractedly into the night sky was any kind of flying saucer at all. The reason he said green was that green was the traditional space livery of the Betelgeuse trading scouts. Ford Prefect was desperate that any flying saucer at all would arrive soon because fifteen years was a long time to get stranded anywhere, particularly somewhere as mindboggingly dull as the Earth. Ford wished that a flying saucer would arrive soon because he knew how to flag flying saucers down and get lifts from them. He knew how to see the Marvels of the Universe for less than thirty Altairan dollars a day. In fact, Ford Prefect was a roving researcher for that wholly remarkable book The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Human beings are great adaptors, and by lunchtime life in the environs of Arthur's house had settled into a steady routine. It was Arthur's accepted role to lie squelching in the mud making occasional demands to see his lawyer, his mother or a good book; it was Mr Prosser's accepted role to tackle Arthur with the occasional new ploy such as the For the Public Good talk, the March of Progress talk, the They Knocked My House Down Once You Know, Never Looked Back talk and various other cajoleries and threats; and it was the bulldozer drivers' accepted role to sit around drinking coffee and experimenting with union regulations to see how they could turn the situation to their financial advantage.


that ideas that seem right in the moment can seem wrong later, and that a lot of things are reversible but killing yourself isn’t. She said this matter-of-factly, not unlike the way she used to say that you don’t brush your teeth because it’s interesting, you brush your teeth because you need to brush your teeth (as a kid, I complained that brushing my teeth was “boring”). I suspect that my dad’s demons are part of what drew my mother to Jerry’s stability and reliability. But from the time I was young, there was this category of things my mother would refer to as Mommy-Sally secrets, like eating leftover cake for breakfast, or both of us taking a sick day and having a picnic just because the weather was beautiful, or, even though she didn’t curse in front of Jerry, if just she and I were in the car and she thought another driver was being unsafe, she’d say in a quiet but crisp voice, “What a fucking asshole.” She conveyed to me without ever saying it outright that we all have public and private selves, which also was a very important lesson. Oddly, this ties into why I’ve been thinking I should leave TNO. With every passing year, I can feel how the writers coming up behind me are increasingly different from me. This, to be honest, is anxiety-inducing but also refreshing and appropriate and cycle-of-lifey—like, maybe it’s time for me to make way for other people. And one of the ways that the writers in their twenties are different is that they DON’T seem to think we all have public and private selves. They’re fine just having public selves and openly discussing their mental health issues and their medical issues and their sex habits and their family trauma. I find it really nice to be able to talk to you about all this stuff (or, so far, some of it), but I wouldn’t talk about it with most people. Would you? Regarding my relationship with alcohol, in normal life, I have a drink or two at the TNO after-party, and I don’t drink much otherwise—maybe a glass of wine if I’m meeting Viv for dinner, but after she got pregnant, when she didn’t order one, I didn’t either. The one time besides the TNO party when I always have a drink is on a first date, to calm my nerves. So I guess the truth is that I do use it as a crutch, just not very often (oops, did I just reveal I don’t go on first dates very often? By choice!). But it seems very understandable that you wonder about other people’s drinking habits. You actually are not my first pen pal. You’re probably my best one, though, or at least this little diversion we have going is very enjoyable. Do you think it’s beautiful when two people are each other’s firsts, or do you think that inevitably creates awkwardness and it’s better when one is more experienced and can guide the other? from: Noah Brewster <NoahRBrewster@gmail.com> to:


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 beguiled and befooled. The stamp of publicity had of course been fully given by her confinement and departure, and the change itself was now ushered in by our nonobservance of the regular custom of the schoolroom. He had already disappeared when, on my way down, I pushed open his door, and I learned below that he had breakfasted-- in the presence of a couple of the maids--with Mrs. Grose and his sister. He had then gone out, as he said, for a stroll; than which nothing, I reflected, could better have expressed his frank view of the abrupt transformation of my office. What he would not permit this office to consist of was yet to be settled: there was a queer relief, at all events--I mean for myself in especial--in the renouncement of one pretension. If so much had sprung to the surface, I scarce put it too strongly in saying that what had perhaps sprung highest was the absurdity of our prolonging the fiction that I had anything more to teach him. It sufficiently stuck out that, by tacit little tricks in which even more than myself he carried out the care for my dignity, I had had to appeal to him to let me off straining to meet him on the ground of his true capacity. He had at any rate his freedom now; I was never to touch it again; as I had amply shown, moreover, when, on his joining me in the schoolroom the previous night, I had uttered, on the subject of the interval just concluded, neither challenge nor hint. I had too much, from this moment, my other ideas. Yet when he at last arrived, the difficulty of applying them, the accumulations of my problem, were brought straight home to me by the beautiful little presence on which what had occurred had as yet, for the eye, dropped neither stain nor shadow. To mark, for the house, the high state I cultivated I decreed that my meals with the boy should be served, as we called it, downstairs; so that I had been awaiting him in the ponderous pomp of the room outside of the window of which I had had from Mrs. Grose, that first scared Sunday, my flash of something it would scarce have done to call light. Here at present I felt afresh--for I had felt it again and again-- how my equilibrium depended on the success of my rigid will, the will


I find a YMCA with a gym and pay to use the shower. Afterward, I go to the laundromat, where I doze in a chair as my clothes and sleeping bag wash and dry, and then I go to work. I force a cheerful demeanor, but it doesn’t increase my tips. By the end of the shift, I’ve stopped trying. With the night’s meager earnings in my pocket, I drive back up north, to that upscale community, to the secluded alcove. In the dark, I struggle to find the bags I stashed in the bushes, but they are still there, untouched. I put them in the car, recline my seat, and sleep. Hard and deep. Until I hear it. A sharp tapping on the glass beside my head wrenches me into consciousness. I lurch forward, hands groping for the knife in my lap. I grasp it, just as I make out the face framed in the window, backlit by the rising sun. It’s not a cop or a thief or a rapist. It’s her. The drowning woman. 7 TENTATIVELY, I OPEN THE CAR door and step out. The morning sky glows a promising shade of peach, and there’s already a whisper of warmth in the crisp air. The woman is in another expensive jogging outfit, dark hair pulled back from a flawless, makeup-free face. But she looks different now, softer. Smiling. “I realize that I never thanked you,” she says. “For saving me.” “It’s fine.” “I thought I wanted to die. But I don’t. I’m grateful that you found me when you did.” I shrug because there is really nothing to say. The woman removes a small pack from her back and unzips it. “I brought you something. To say thanks.” She presses a small object into my hand. It’s smooth and white, a hole through its center. “It’s a netsuke,” she explains. “Traditionally, Japanese men used them as toggles on their kimonos. It’s carved from bone.” I look at the figurine: an intricate figure of a coiled snake. “My husband collects them,” the woman says. “This one’s from the early nineteenth century.” I’d have preferred a package of bagels. Or a latte. “Thanks.” “It’s quite valuable. I’m not sure what it’s worth but it’s signed.” Turning it over, I see the artist’s name in Japanese characters. “Sell it if you want. Or keep it. Put it somewhere in your new place, once you’re back on your feet.” What is it worth? I wonder. It would be rude to ask. But if I can get even a hundred bucks for it, I’m selling it. I appreciate the sentiment, but money is more important than a trinket right now. “And…,” she says, digging deeper into the pack, removing a brown paper sack, “breakfast.” That’s more like it. My stomach churns with the promise of food. Free food. “Shall we eat on the beach? Watch the sunrise?” Before I can answer, she’s moving toward the path. She calls over her shoulder, “Your car is safe. I jog here every morning. No one ever comes