doing to this boy of mine, hey?" was the next question, sharply put. "Only trying to be neighborly, sir." And Jo to how her visit came about. "You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?" "Yes, sir, he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good perhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could, for we don't forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us," said Jo eagerly. "Tut, tut, tut! That was the boy's affair. How is the poor woman?" "Doing nicely, sir." And off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends than they were. "Just her father's way of doing good. I shall come and see your mother some fine day. Tell her so. There's the tea bell, we have it early on the boy's account. Come down and go on being neighborly." "If you'd like to have me, sir." "Shouldn't ask you, if I didn't." And Mr. Laurence offered her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy. "What would Meg say to this?" thought Jo, as she was marched away, while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the story at home. "Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?" said the old gentleman, as Laurie came running downstairs and brought up with a start of surprise at the astounding sight of Jo arm in arm with his redoubtable grandfather. "I didn't know you'd come, sir," he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant little glance. "That's evident, by the way you racket downstairs. Come to your tea, sir, and behave like a gentleman." And having pulled the boy's hair by way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an explosion of laughter from Jo. The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea, but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was color, light, and life in the boy's face now, vivacity in his manner, and genuine merriment in his laugh. "She's right, the lad is lonely. I'll see what these little girls can do for him," thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him, and she seemed to understand the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself. If the Laurences had been what Jo called `prim and poky', she would not have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward. But finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good impression. When they rose she proposed to go, but Laurie said he had something more to show her, and took her away to the conservatory, which had been lighted for her benefit. It seemed quite fairylike to Jo, as


partners for half a semester. He was really quiet and kind of a nerd. Not whom I would’ve expected to go on to create a billion-dollar dating app." Evelyn raised her eyebrows. "Well, he doesn't seem nerdy now.” Outside, rain drums against the window behind where Sloane now sits in her favorite overstuffed chair. She pauses before answering the last question on the app’s compatibility test. How do you feel when you realize the person you are with is not the one for you? I feel shattered, she thinks as she stares at the multiple-choice options. But it’s not one of the answers. For lack of a better option, she selects I feel disappointed and clicks SUBMIT. Hearts dance across the screen as the app searches for potentials. “Hey.” Sloane jumps. Ethan stands in the doorway. She hates the feeling that she still gets when she sees him. That she still loves him, even after what he did. “Sorry,” he says, “I thought you heard me come in.” She presses her phone screen against her thigh, chiding herself for feeling guilty after what Ethan did. “I guess I didn’t.” They hold each other’s gaze in silence for a moment before Ethan speaks. “What time is our appointment tomorrow?" “Ten.” “Okay. I’ll be in the guest room if you need me.” He pauses, as if waiting for her to respond. “Good night,” he finally says. She waits until the door closes behind him before lifting her phone. You have 5 potentials in your vicinity. Below the message, a button flashes: VIEW POTENTIALS. She taps her fingers against the armrest. What am I doing? Before she has time to change her mind, she closes out of the app and deletes it off her phone. A dating app isn’t going to solve her marital problems. Hopefully, their couples counseling would. After setting down her phone, she stares at the closed office doors. She bites her lip and grabs her phone from the armrest. She casts another glance at the closed doors before typing Brody Carr into the Internet search bar on her home screen. “It was a stupid mistake. I wish—” Ethan’s voice breaks, and Sloane turns her head to avoid his gaze, facing their marriage counselor, instead. “I wish more than anything,” he chokes, “that I could take it back.” Sloane tugs at the hem of her leather pencil skirt and shifts in the uncomfortable velvet chair. Am I supposed to pity him? Feel empathy for the guilt he feels after sleeping with his homicide partner? A burst of anger wells in her chest. They were supposed to be at the mountain lodge in the Cascades that she had booked for them, trying to get pregnant. Not here, listening to him recount how he slept with his partner during a weak moment following his father’s death. How could he have done this to me? To us? Their therapist lifts her hand to her chin, watching Sloane. Sloane looks out the window on the opposite side of the oversized office at the view of Elliot


yelled, what?" "Cecil Jacobs is a big fat hen, I think. We didn't hear nothin'- then Jem yelled hello or somethin' loud enough to wake the dead-" "Just a minute, Scout," said Mr. Tate. "Mr. Finch, did you hear them?" Atticus said he didn't. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra had hers going in her bedroom. He remembered because she told him to turn his down a bit so she could hear hers. Atticus smiled. "I always play a radio too loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything...." said Mr. Tate. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them listen to their radios or go to bed with the chickens. Maudie Atkinson may have been up, but I doubt it." "Go ahead, Scout," Mr. Tate said. "Well, after Jem yelled we walked on. Mr. Tate, I was shut up in my costume but I could hear it myself, then. Footsteps, I mean. They walked when we walked and stopped when we stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some kind of shiny paint on my costume. I was a ham." "How's that?" asked Mr. Tate, startled. Atticus described my role to Mr. Tate, plus the construction of my garment. "You should have seen her when she came in," he said, "it was crushed to a pulp." Mr. Tate rubbed his chin. "I wondered why he had those marks on him, His sleeves were perforated with little holes. There were one or two little puncture marks on his arms to match the holes. Let me see that thing if you will, sir." Atticus fetched the remains of my costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and bent it around to get an idea of its former shape. "This thing probably saved her life," he said. "Look." He pointed with a long forefinger. A shiny clean line stood out on the dull wire. "Bob Ewell meant business," Mr. Tate muttered. "He was out of his mind," said Atticus. "Don't like to contradict you, Mr. Finch- wasn't crazy, mean as hell. Low-down skunk with enough liquor in him to make him brave enough to kill children. He'd never have met you face to face." Atticus shook his head. "I can't conceive of a man who'd-" "Mr. Finch, there's just some kind of men you have to shoot before you can say hidy to 'em. Even then, they ain't worth the bullet it takes to shoot 'em. Ewell 'as one of 'em." Atticus said, "I thought he got it all out of him the day he threatened me. Even if he hadn't, I thought he'd come after me." "He had guts enough to pester a poor colored woman, he had guts enough to pester Judge Taylor when he thought the house was empty, so do you think he'da met you to your face in daylight?" Mr. Tate sighed. "We'd better get on. Scout, you heard him behind you-" "Yes sir. When we got under the tree-" "How'd you know you were under the tree, you couldn't see thunder out there." "I was


like disloyalty to Matthew, somehow, to find pleasure in these things now that he has gone," she said wistfully to Mrs. Allan one evening when they were together in the manse garden. "I miss him so much-all the timeand yet, Mrs. Allan, the world and life seem very beautiful and interesting to me for all. Today Diana said something funny and I found myself laughing. I thought when it happened I could never laugh again. And it somehow seems as if I oughtn't to." "When Matthew was here he liked to hear you laugh and he liked to know that you found pleasure in the pleasant things around you," said Mrs. Allan gently. "He is just away now; and he likes to know it just the same. I am sure we should not shut our hearts against the healing influences that nature offers us. But I can understand your feeling. I think we all experience the same thing. We resent the thought that anything can please us when someone we love is no longer here to share the pleasure with us, and we almost feel as if we were unfaithful to our sorrow when we find our interest in life returning to us." "I was down to the graveyard to plant a rosebush on Matthew's grave this afternoon," said Anne dreamily. "I took a slip of the little white Scotch rosebush his mother brought out from Scotland long ago; Matthew always liked those roses the best-they were so small and sweet on their thorny stems. It made me feel glad that I could plant it by his grave-as if I were doing something that must please him in taking it there to be near him. I hope he has roses like them in heaven. Perhaps the souls of all those little white roses that he has loved so many summers were all there to meet him. I must go home now. Marilla is all alone and she gets lonely at twilight." "She will be lonelier still, I fear, when you go away again to college," said Mrs. Allan. Anne did not reply; she said good night and went slowly back to green Gables. Marilla was sitting on the front door-steps and Anne sat down beside her. The door was open behind them, held back by a big pink conch shell with hints of sea sunsets in its smooth inner convolutions. Anne gathered some sprays of pale yellow honeysuckle and put them in her hair. She like the delicious hint of fragrance, as some aerial benediction, above her every time she moved. "Doctor Spencer was here while you were away," Marilla said. "He says that the specialist will be in town tomorrow and he insists that I must go in and have my eyes examined. I suppose I'd better go and have it over. I'll be more than thankful if the man can give me the right kind of glasses to suit my eyes. You won't mind staying here alone while I'm away, will you? Martin will have to drive me in and


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

into the room, I must admit that I’ve never shared that kind of reverberating joy with anyone. It’s made it increasingly difficult to write about love authentically. I’m not sure I even know what real love feels like. Jess’s phone vibrates on the table. “It’s Juno,” she says, meaning her ten-year-old daughter, my second-in-line bestie and one of the most charming small humans I’ve ever met. Kids are mostly a mystery to me, but Juno somehow translates in my brain like an adult would—probably because she’s smarter than I am. I motion for Jess to take the call just as my gaze locks with that of a man across the bar. He’s gorgeous in such an easy and immediate way: messy dark hair falling into a pair of light, penetrating eyes, jaw so sharp he could slice my clothes off as he kisses down my body. Suit coat tossed over a chair, dress shirt stretched across broad shoulders and unbuttoned at the neck—he’s got the disheveled appearance of a man who’s had a shitty day, and the famished look in his gaze that says he’d use me to forget all about it. Men who deliver that kind of eye contact used to be my catnip. Past Fizzy would already be halfway across the room. But Present Fizzy is decidedly meh. Is my internal horny barometer really broken? I tap it with a mental reflex hammer, imagining pulling that Hot CEO from his barstool and dragging him by that open collar into the hallway. Nothing. Look at his mouth! So full! So cocky! Still nothing. I tear my attention away and turn back to Jess as she ends her call. “Everything okay?” “Coordinating dance and soccer,” she says with a shrug. “I’d elaborate, but we’d both be asleep by sentence two. But back to Hector, the cousin of—” “I didn’t sleep with any of them,” I blurt. “I haven’t slept with anyone in a year.” I did the math a couple of days ago. It feels weird to say it out loud. It must be weird to hear it, too, because Jess gapes at me. “Wow.” “Lots of people don’t have sex for a year!” I protest. “Is it really that shocking?” “For you, yes, Fizzy. Are you kidding?” “I watched porn the other night and there was barely a clench.” I look down at my lap. “I think my pants feelings are broken.” Her concern intensifies. “Fizz, honey, I—” “Last week I considered going jogging in flip-flops just to remind myself how sex sounds.” Jess’s forehead creases in worry and I deflect immediately. “The answer here is obvious. It’s time for bangs.” There’s a tiny beat where I can see her considering battling this redirect, but thankfully she hops on this new train. “We have a strict agreement that no crisis bangs will be approved. I’m sorry, it’s a no from the best friend committee.” “But imagine how youthful I’ll look. Quirky and up for anything.” “No.” I growl and turn my attention to the side, to the bar television, where the


gin. Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what he was setting down. His small but childish handwriting straggled up and down the page, shedding first its capital letters and finally even its full stops: April 4th, 1984. Last night to the flicks. All war films. One very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the Mediterranean. Audience much amused by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away with a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along in the water like a porpoise, then you saw him through the helicopters gunsights, then he was full of holes and the sea round him turned pink and he sank as suddenly as though the holes had let in the water, audience shouting with laughter when he sank. then you saw a lifeboat full of children with a helicopter hovering over it. there was a middle-aged woman might have been a jewess sitting up in the bow with a little boy about three years old in her arms. little boy screaming with fright and hiding his head between her breasts as if he was trying to burrow right into her and the woman putting her arms round him and comforting him although she was blue with fright herself, all the time covering him up as much as possible as if she thought her arms could keep the bullets off him. then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb in among them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood. then there was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose must have followed it up and there was a lot of applause from the party seats but a woman down in the prole part of the house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they never---- Winston stopped writing, partly because he was suffering from cramp. He did not know what had made him pour out this stream of rubbish. But the curious thing was that while he was doing so a totally different memory had clarified itself in his mind, to the point where he almost felt equal to writing it down. It was, he now realized, because of this other incident that he had suddenly decided to come home and begin the diary today. file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (8 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt It had happened that morning at the Ministry, if anything so nebulous could be said to happen. It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records Department, where Winston worked, they were dragging the chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them in the centre of the hall opposite the big


he thinks exactly as I do on the subject. We were speaking of it only yesterday, and agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there should be such a girl in Highbury for her to associate with. Mr. Knightley, I shall not allow you to be a fair judge in this case. You are so much used to live alone, that you do not know the value of a companion; and, perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to it all her life. I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. She is not the superior young woman which Emma's friend ought to be. But on the other hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her to read more herself. They will read together. She means it, I know." "Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years old. I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of books that she meant to read regularly through--and very good lists they were--very well chosen, and very neatly arranged--sometimes alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew up when only fourteen--I remember thinking it did her judgment so much credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made out a very good list now. But I have done with expecting any course of steady reading from Emma. She will never submit to any thing requiring industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the understanding. Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely affirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing.-- You never could persuade her to read half so much as you wished.--You know you could not." "I dare say," replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "that I thought so then;--but since we have parted, I can never remember Emma's omitting to do any thing I wished." "There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as that,"--said Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done. "But I," he soon added, "who have had no such charm thrown over my senses, must still see, hear, and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of her family. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits her mother's talents, and must have been under subjection to her." "I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on your recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse's family and wanted another situation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to any body. I am sure


plastic wrap and tie it with a bow of green yarn with a name tag attached. For two weeks, the whole house smelled like baking bread and hot icing. That’s what she wanted to smell right now. Something comforting and alive. She wanted to smell her dad. She didn’t want to smell Yankee Candle and carpet cleaner and dust anymore. Louise closed the fridge and went to the sink for a glass of water. She grabbed a clean glass, and before she could turn on the faucet she looked in the drain. An eye stared back up at her. Round and white, it peered up out of the dark hole. Louise stopped breathing. Then she saw the blue fleece around it and realized it was one of her mom’s puppets. How had it gotten in the sink? She needed to get it out before it broke the garbage disposal. Louise reached into the cold drain. The slimy rubber mouth of the O-ring swallowed her forearm to the elbow, and her fingertips brushed wet puppet fleece, heavy with greasy water. She pulled at it but it wouldn’t budge. She felt around and her soft fingertips danced along the sharp, heavy blades of the disposal. The puppet had gotten wrapped around them and stuck fast. Using her fingertips, Louise slowly unthreaded it from around the blades, and suddenly the disposal roared into life. Noise filled the kitchen as she threw herself backward, her wrist bruising on the edge of the drain as her arm whipped out of the vibrating hole. Her feet went out from under her and she sat down hard on the linoleum. The garbage disposal roared at her from the sink. Mark stuck his head in from the garage door. “I flipped the breaker back on,” he said, then walked across the kitchen and shut off the disposal. “Hey, where’d you find one of Mom’s puppets?” Louise didn’t move. She stayed on the floor clutching the wet puppet in one hand. “Let’s wait for Mercy outside,” she said. Chapter 14 M ercy pulled in behind Mark’s truck, booping her horn, waving at them from her seat. “Look at y’all,” she said, picking her way across the front yard in her heels to where they stood in the open door of the garage. “Busy bees! You haven’t been working all morning for me, have y’all?” “Yes,” Mark said. “We have to clean it out anyways,” Louise said. “I know,” Mercy said, stopping and letting her shoulders slump theatrically. “It’s so depressing. Going from the house you grew up in to just a musty old headache. It’s hard, y’all. I’ve seen it. Oh, my word.” She’d caught sight of the family oil paintings stacked against the garbage cans. “Is that you?” she asked Louise. “What happened to your skin?” “Mom was learning how to paint,” Louise said, feeling inexplicably defensive. “Isn’t that the big lesson?” Mercy said. “We’re all holding on to too much junk.” “You want to go in the front?” Louise asked. “Let’s go!” Mercy said. “You coming with us, Mark?”


“Has there been any change?” Mrs. Calloway asked the physician. Lucy retreated to the corner, resting a hand on a bureau and wondering when she would get a chance to tell the family who she really was. At least now she did not have Rebecca interrupting her, but she could not drop such a surprise in a sickroom, of all places. The room was dreary enough already. The physician sighed after feeling the pulse of Mr. Calloway’s heart. “I’m afraid not, Lady Calloway.” Lucy’s hand slipped from the bureau, and she nearly tumbled to the ground. Lady? “Are you all right, dear?” Lady Calloway asked. Her voice had lost its strength, leaving her words airy and thin. As much as she wanted to tell the truth, Lucy could not do so now. Not here. “Will he survive?” she asked instead, staring at Mr. Calloway’s ashen complexion. What if the man was so ill that he died? Lucy’s presence would only make things worse, and the family would likely hate her for bringing their son and brother home in such a state. It wouldn’t matter if she was at fault for his fever or not. She wanted to run, but she wasn’t sure that was the best course of action. Oh, why had Rebecca told that lie in the first place? They could have avoided all of this and been well on their way to Lowbury. To Mr. Granger. Lucy tucked her arms around her middle, trying to dispel the discomfort churning in her stomach. With tears in her eyes, Lady Calloway approached and pulled Lucy into an embrace that caught her off guard, enough that she stood frozen. “William has been in worse states than this, my dear. I am sure he will pull through.” Lucy hoped he did. Then maybe he could correct Rebecca’s misguided deception since Lucy was having a hard time of it on her own. Horrified by such a selfish thought about a man who might be dying of fever, Lucy wrapped her arms around Lady Calloway’s waist in search of comfort and was surprised by how familiar the embrace felt. For the smallest of flickering moments, she entertained the idea of this woman becoming her mother-in-law and couldn’t help but smile a little. To live in such a grand home alongside ladies like Olivia and her mother would be a dream. Simply having a family would be a dream. Lucy had never known her own mother, and she wondered what her life might have been like if her mother hadn’t died when Lucy was so young. “Is Lord Calloway at home?” the doctor asked, interrupting the moment. Lucy gulped. Of course there was a Lord Calloway, and she had little hope that he would be as gracious as his female family members. Whatever his rank, he was so far above Lucy that he would hardly give her notice. Unless . . . She bit her lip. Unless he thought she was to be his daughter-in-law, in which case he would want to know everything about her. He


the bark like grotesque sap. The wound bled freely, slicking the back of my heel. All I wanted to do was press my forehead to the tree and catch my breath again, but I didn’t have time. I anchored one arm around a thick fork of branches. With the other, I threw the bloody knife straight at the Heir. My aim met true… in a sense. The knife sailed past Arin and sliced into his horse’s flank. It shrieked, rearing onto its haunches. Had Arin been seated, he would been thrown directly over the riverbank, his body smashed into the stones at the bottom. I made an unintelligible noise of frustration as the rope in his hand went taut. He swung off the horse with disconcerting grace and landed at the base of my tree. His horse galloped off into the woods. “You can’t use your magic. Someone or something has blocked it off.” Arin’s laugh, devoid of any warmth or humor, sent shivers along my spine. He retreated from my tree, and to my horror, began to climb the one right next to it. “How utterly miserable you must be.” Why was he climbing the tree next to mine? I froze, unsure whether to climb higher or drop to the ground and outrun him on foot. He balanced himself on a branch parallel to mine, and I realized his intentions a split second too late. A new dagger slammed into my arm, pinning me to the tree. I screamed, the sudden agony whiting out my vision. You will not do this, Essiya, Hanim commanded. You will not allow the Supreme’s Heir to finish what his father started. My cuffs tightened. I swallowed a sob. Everything hurt. I forced myself to look at the dagger. One good turn: it hadn’t hit bone. But the next one might. He would cut and cut and cut at me until I crawled down in defeat. My blocked magic was an experiment to him, another string to tug and twist. He thought it would heal me. I did not know how to explain that my magic cared less about my suffering than he did. “I will not be trapped again,” I whispered. A path to the finish appeared before me. A way to end this, one way or the other. I stuffed the torn sleeve in my mouth and grasped the hilt of the dagger. One breath. Two. I yanked the dagger from my arm, my muffled shriek reverberating in my ribs. My hand convulsed. Oh, it hurt, it hurt. Through blurry eyes, I watched the dagger tumble to the ground. “You can climb down and end this whenever you want,” Arin said. I spat the sleeve from my mouth. Fury cleared the haze of agony from my mind. He was so assured, so confident he would win. Why wouldn’t he be? Shedding Jasadi blood was his birthright. For once, spite motivated me faster than fear. I peeled myself from the tree trunk. With my uninjured arm, I pushed myself away from the branch’s root. I


over burgers a couple of weeks ago that I’d been approached to star in a reality dating show based on his very serious scientific research. There was some intense staring down at his plate followed by some agitated pacing. I’d assured him that there was no way North Star Media would ever agree to my terms once they saw them, and River had been slightly mollified. But he’d also requested to hear no more about it. Which means I can’t tell Jess anything, either, or she’ll internally combust over having to keep anything from her husband. And which is why she’s pretending to be uninterested. The thing is, if you ask Jessica Marie Davis Peña what her favorite TV show of all time is, she’ll say Breaking Bad or Downton Abbey, because those are socially appropriate answers. No one says their favorite show is Married at First Sight, just like nobody says their favorite restaurant is McDonald’s. But somebody’s buying those 550 million Big Macs a year. Jess eats those shows up, feeling smugly entertained with a globe of red wine in her hand on her giant sectional in the living room. No matter what River wants to happen, Jess is intrigued by this. Dare I say she is secretly thrilled. Which means I can count down to the moment when she breaks. In three… two… “I’m almost afraid to ask what your terms are,” she says, tapping a casual finger on the side of her laptop. “Knowing you, they’re insane.” I lift my drink to my lips and realize it’s gone lukewarm. “Is this you asking?” She adjusts her computer glasses. “No.” “Okay.” I glance down at my phone to find a new string of texts. You want at least 2 of the heroes to have experience knitting? I don’t understand the exclusion term re: poets. Felicity, my understanding was that you would enter this negotiation in good faith. Are you free to talk? I giggle, typing as gleefully as if I’m sexting. Sorry. I’m slammed at the moment. When is a good time? That depends. Are you in or are you giving up? A plastic clatter echoes across the table as Jess tosses down her glasses in defeat. “Just tell me everything.” “But it’s about the dating show. River might not like it.” “He can cry into his giant bags of money.” “You’re right,” I say in a burst. “Well, in case you didn’t realize this already: I am a genius.” “And so admirably grounded.” “Listen,” I tell her. “The more I get into this idea, the more I like it. The Hot Brit executive wanted me to do a dating show, right? Put me and twelve dudes in a house, roll me out in a push-up bra, and let the audience decide each week who should be eliminated.” “Right,” Jess says, nodding. “The gimmicky piece is, of course, that they’d use the DNADuo to find a range of matches for me,” I say. She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Three weeks ago, you didn’t even want


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

have him. Wrong again: for indubitably he does support himself, and that is the only unanswerable proof that any man can show of his possessing the means so to do. No more then. Since he will not quit me, I must quit him. I will change my offices; I will move elsewhere; and give him fair notice, that if I find him on my new premises I will then proceed against him as a common trespasser. Acting accordingly, next day I thus addressed him: “I find these chambers too far from the City Hall; the air is unwholesome. In a word, I propose to remove my offices next week, and shall no longer require your services. I tell you this now, in order that you may seek another place.” He made no reply, and nothing more was said. On the appointed day I engaged carts and men, proceeded to my chambers, and having but little furniture, every thing was removed in a few hours. Throughout, the scrivener remained standing behind the screen, which I directed to be removed the last thing. It was withdrawn; and being folded up like a huge folio, left him the motionless occupant of a naked room. I stood in the entry watching him a moment, while something from within me upbraided me. I re-entered, with my hand in my pocket—and—and my heart in my mouth. “Good-bye, Bartleby; I am going—good-bye, and God some way bless you; and take that,” slipping something in his hand. But it dropped upon the floor, and then,—strange to say—I tore myself from him whom I had so longed to be rid of. Established in my new quarters, for a day or two I kept the door locked, and started at every footfall in the passages. When I returned to my rooms after any little absence, I would pause at the threshold for an instant, and attentively listen, ere applying my key. But these fears were needless. Bartleby never came nigh me. I thought all was going well, when a perturbed looking stranger visited me, inquiring whether I was the person who had recently occupied rooms at No.—Wall-street. Full of forebodings, I replied that I was. “Then sir,” said the stranger, who proved a lawyer, “you are responsible for the man you left there. He refuses to do any copying; he refuses to do any thing; he says he prefers not to; and he refuses to quit the premises.” “I am very sorry, sir,” said I, with assumed tranquility, but an inward tremor, “but, really, the man you allude to is nothing to me—he is no relation or apprentice of mine, that you should hold me responsible for him.” “In mercy’s name, who is he?” “I certainly cannot inform you. I know nothing about him. Formerly I employed him as a copyist; but he has done nothing for me now for some time past.” “I shall settle him then,—good morning, sir.” Several days passed, and I heard nothing more; and though I often felt a charitable prompting to call at the place and


comprehensive it is. They’re talking Facebook ads, Goodreads ads, maybe even metro station ads, although it’s not clear if anyone pays attention to those anymore. They’re also investing big in bookstore placement, which means that from the day that it’s out, my book will be the first thing people see when they walk into any Barnes & Noble across the country. “This will, for sure, be the book of the season,” Jessica assures me. “At least, we’re doing everything we can to make it so.” I’m speechless. Is this what it was like to be Athena? To be told, from the beginning, that your book will be a success? Jessica wraps up the marketing plan with some dates and deadlines for when they’ll need promotional materials from me. There’s a short pause. Emily clicks and double-clicks her pen. “So then the other thing we wanted to ask you is, uh, positioning.” I realize I’m supposed to answer. “Right—sorry, what do you mean?” She and Jessica exchange a glance. “Well, the thing is, this novel is set in large part in China,” says Jessica. “And given the recent conversations about, you know—” “Cultural authenticity,” Emily jumps in. “I don’t know if you follow some of the conversations online. Book bloggers and book Twitter accounts can be pretty . . . picky about things these days . . .” “We just want to get ahead of any potential blowups,” says Jessica. “Or pile-ons, as it were.” “I did hours and hours of research,” I say. “It’s not like I, you know, wrote from stereotypes; this isn’t that kind of book—” “Of course,” Emily says smoothly. “But you’re . . . that is, you are not . . .” I see what she’s getting at. “I am not Chinese,” I say curtly. “If that’s what you’re asking. It’s not ‘own voices,’ or whatever you want to call it. Is that a problem?” “No, no, not at all, we’re just covering our bases. And you’re not . . . anything else?” Emily winces the moment those words leave her mouth, like she knows she shouldn’t have said that. “I am white,” I clarify. “Are you saying we’ll get in trouble because I wrote this story and I’m white?” I immediately regret phrasing it like that. I’m being too blunt, too defensive; wearing my insecurities on my sleeve. Both Emily and Jessica begin blinking very quickly, glancing at each other as if hoping the other will speak first. “Of course not,” Emily says finally. “Of course, anyone should be able to tell any kind of story. We’re just thinking about how to position you so that readers trust the work.” “Well, they can trust the work,” I say. “They can trust the words on the page. The blood and sweat that went into telling the story.” “No, of course,” says Emily. “And we don’t mean to invalidate that.” “Of course not,” says Jessica. “Again, we think anyone should be able to tell any kind of story.” “We’re not censors. That’s not our culture here at Eden.” “Right.”


person. There were the theater spaces, the ones that were mine by senior year: the lighting booth, the gel room, the prop storage, the catwalk. I never invited friends; I’d have been no fun, yelling every time someone set a soda can down. There was the darkroom, so thoroughly Geoff’s that it became mine and Fran’s and Carlotta’s by default. There was the athletic shed, but I rarely went there—I couldn’t get over my mouse issue. There was a nonfunctional fireplace in Jacoby Hall with an upright piano in front of it, and a few couples were in the habit of claiming the space, pulling the piano tight against the opening, making out in there. There were the woods (the mattresses, yes, but a dozen other meeting spots: notable stumps, part of what used to be a brick wall), although so much of the school year was dark and cold, the ground either unforgivingly hard or boot-suckingly soft and wet. There were the places accessible by contraband keys, for the brave. A classroom belonging to a teacher who lived off campus was often a safe bet—but then, this was how Jorge Cardenas and Laren Willebrand got caught by Ms. Arena junior year, mostly clothed but still humiliated. There were ways to get around curfews and door alarms and on-duty teachers. Fran was in a strange category as, technically, a day student—but unlike the twenty or so students who commuted, she was not exiled from campus after the start of evening study hall. Mr. Peloni once caught her crossing the quad at ten p.m. on a school night and tried to make a deal of it, but Fran successfully argued that other day students were not confined to home once they left campus. What if she needed to walk the dog? What if her family grilled on their patio? After that, she was only bolder in her wandering. She’d pull up a chair outside my ground floor window senior year and we’d talk. I can’t imagine that you saw campus this way—overlaid maps of public and private spaces, the private ones so rare and precious we’d risk everything for them. You had your apartment, you had your classroom. You had a car, and the places a car could take you. All we had were our feet. For all our freedom—teenagers with few real responsibilities, dozens or thousands of miles from home—we felt trapped. Lab rats whose only option was to retrace the same paths. The stone steps leading into Quincy bore soft grooves in the middle: two centuries of shoes and boots hitting the same spots. In Anne’s car, NPR was still going. It was the one where they found green synthetic fibers between her teeth. It was the one where her shoes were gone. The one where her bike was gone. The one where her fingernails were gone, broken in the fight. Anne was saying, “Even just when someone googles the school, I have to think about that from an admissions perspective. The deep past is one thing, but ongoing drama is


are that serious?” Professor Coker nodded. “I know my son is.” “Hmmm. Okay, I’ll factor that in.” Ọ̀túnba leaned forward. “Sit down and let’s talk numbers. How much are you looking at initially?” * * * Wúràọlá’s peace offering to her mother was a visit to Aunty Caro’s. They left the house late and arrived there after dark, so she had to light their way with her phone’s torchlight when they were about to cross the gutter. She held her mother’s hand as they walked across the rickety plank. “Why doesn’t she fix this thing?” “You know, I still told her the last time I came here? And I’ve been warning her since. It’s probably money.” “She just needs to find better wood and nail it down. I’m sure she has enough money for that.” “Thank you.” Yèyé let Wúràọlá’s hand go as they stepped into Aunty Caro’s front yard. “You shouldn’t think you know everything about how other people live their lives.” Wúràọlá laughed. “You’re always certain about how I should live mine.” “That’s different, you’re a part of me.” Aunty Caro opened the door before they knocked. She was holding a kerosene lantern. “Yèyé, good evening. Dr. Wúrà, I called and called about your style.” “That’s why we are here, Caro. She will choose something now.” “I’m sorry, Aunty Caro. I wanted to call you back, but I kept forgetting.” Aunty Caro led the way into her living room, then went across the corridor to get some magazines, taking the kerosene lantern with her. On the centre table, a candle flickered, pooling even more wax onto a wax-encrusted milk tin. Shadows slid across the room as its flame wavered. Unable to dispel darkness, the candle had settled for rearranging it. Aunty Caro soon returned with a stack of magazines that she thrust into Wúràọlá’s arms. “Thank you for accommodating us at every hour, Caro,” Yèyé said. Aunty Caro smiled and set the kerosene lantern down on a stool beside Wúràọlá. The magazines were mostly old copies of Ovation; the most recent was at least two years old. There was nothing Wúràọlá particularly liked, and when she finally pointed out a floor-length long-sleeved dress, her mother shook her head. “No way, this one would look like you’re coming from a convent.” “I think it will be nice.” “You’re a sisí, there is no reason to dress like an old woman. Look good o, there will be many eligible bachelors at that party, Láyí is inviting many of his friends from Lagos. Show your legs or your shoulders, this thing would cover your whole body.” “What about Kúnlé? Your good boy from a good family? You don’t like him again?” Wúràọlá asked. “I like him,” Yèyé said, “but this one, that after one year, you people are still doing boyfriend and girlfriend, maybe he is not your destined husband.” “Seriously? Destined?” Wúràọlá laughed. “Àfi destined husband, Yèyé o.” “Boyfriend and girlfriend when you people are not fifteen. I like him o, but he has not married you yet, he has not even


pages he had read had made no impression on him at all; and he went back and started from the beginning: he found himself reading one sentence over and over again; and now it weaved itself in with his thoughts, horribly, like some formula in a nightmare. One thing he could do was to go out and keep away till midnight; they could not go then; and he saw them calling at the house every hour to ask if he was in. He enjoyed the thought of their disappointment. He repeated that sentence to himself mechanically. But he could not do that. Let them come and take the money, and he would know then to what depths of infamy it was possible for men to descend. He could not read any more now. He simply could not see the words. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, and, numb with misery, waited for Mildred. The landlady came in. "Will you see Mrs. Miller, sir?" "Show her in." Philip pulled himself together to receive her without any sign of what he was feeling. He had an impulse to throw himself on his knees and seize her hands and beg her not to go; but he knew there was no way of moving her; she would tell Griffiths what he had said and how he acted. He was ashamed. "Well, how about the little jaunt?" he said gaily. "We're going. Harry's outside. I told him you didn't want to see him, so he's kept out of your way. But he wants to know if he can come in just for a minute to say good-bye to you." "No, I won't see him," said Philip. He could see she did not care if he saw Griffiths or not. Now that she was there he wanted her to go quickly. "Look here, here's the fiver. I'd like you to go now." She took it and thanked him. She turned to leave the room. "When are you coming back?" he asked. "Oh, on Monday. Harry must go home then." He knew what he was going to say was humiliating, but he was broken down with jealousy and desire. "Then I shall see you, shan't I?" He could not help the note of appeal in his voice. "Of course. I'll let you know the moment I'm back." He shook hands with her. Through the curtains he watched her jump into a four-wheeler that stood at the door. It rolled away. Then he threw himself on his bed and hid his face in his hands. He felt tears coming to his eyes, and he was angry with himself; he clenched his hands and screwed up his body to prevent them; but he could not; and great painful sobs were forced from him. He got up at last, exhausted and ashamed, and washed his face. He mixed himself a strong whiskey and soda. It made him feel a little better. Then he caught sight of the tickets to Paris, which were on the chimney-piece, and, seizing them, with


Texas.” I’m trying to be funny, but apparently this comes off the wrong way as well, because the audience visibly tenses. Ailin says nothing. There’s a long, awkward pause, and then Annie asks, “And, um, Noor? What inspires your work?” We go on like this for a while. Annie, at least, is good at keeping the conversation moving. She addresses questions to each one of us in turn, instead of letting the panelists lead the conversation, which means I can stay in my lane and avoid talking to Ailin directly for the entire hour. The other panelists cross-reference and riff off of one another’s answers often, but no one responds to what I’m saying. The audience doesn’t seem to care about me, either; I might as well be talking into thin air. But that’s fine. I just need to get through this hour. Annie must notice that I’ve been giving rather curt answers, because she turns to me and asks, “And Juniper? Did you want to elaborate further on what narrative fiction can do for underrepresented groups?” “Um, sure.” I clear my throat again. “Yeah. So, um, here’s an anecdote that always comes to mind when I think about why I wrote The Last Front. So in the early twentieth century, Canada was so hostile to Chinese immigrants that there was a five-hundred-dollar head tax imposed on every Chinese person to enter the country. When the CLC laborers were brought to Canada, the head tax for their immigration was waived since that was part of the war effort, but that meant that they weren’t allowed to get out of the trains during their trip, and that they were closely guarded the whole time they were in Canada.” Usually when I tell this story, I get riveted stares. But maybe this audience has simply decided to hate me, or maybe they’re overheated and tired and bored of my moralizing, because people keep fidgeting, glancing around, or checking their phones. No one looks at my face. There’s nothing I can do but soldier on. “They stayed in those railway cars for days in the heat. They couldn’t get medical treatment, even when some fainted from dehydration. They couldn’t speak to a single person on the outside, because the Canadian government had issued a total press blackout on the presence of the Chinese laborers. And I think that’s a good metaphor for the central argument of the book, which is that Chinese labor was used, then hidden and discredited like it was something shameful.” “Oh, really?” Diana Qiu cuts in suddenly. “So you have a problem with unacknowledged Asian labor?” I’m so startled by this interruption that for a moment I just stare at her. Diana Qiu is a lean, artsy type with sharp, dark eyes, finely plucked brows, and red lipstick so boldly scarlet it looks like an open scar in her face. Her edgy-chic aesthetic reminds me a bit of Athena, actually, and the resemblance makes me shiver. From the corner of my eye, I see a flash. Someone’s taken a photo. Several


"Yes, I just left him. He and Esmeralda are exchanging religious experiences on the back porch now." "Tut, tut, I must see him at once!" cried the professor. "Excuse me just a moment, children," and the old man hastened from the room. As soon as he was out of earshot Canler turned to Jane. "See here, Jane," he said bluntly. "How long is this thing going on like this? You haven't refused to marry me, but you haven't promised either. I want to get the license tomorrow, so that we can be married quietly before you leave for Wisconsin. I don't care for any fuss or feathers, and I'm sure you don't either." The girl turned cold, but she held her head bravely. "Your father wishes it, you know," added Canler. "Yes, I know." She spoke scarcely above a whisper. "Do you realize that you are buying me, Mr. Canler?" she said finally, and in a cold, level voice. "Buying me Chapter 27 154 for a few paltry dollars? Of course you do, Robert Canler, and the hope of just such a contingency was in your mind when you loaned papa the money for that hair-brained escapade, which but for a most mysterious circumstance would have been surprisingly successful. "But you, Mr. Canler, would have been the most surprised. You had no idea that the venture would succeed. You are too good a businessman for that. And you are too good a businessman to loan money for buried treasure seeking, or to loan money without security--unless you had some special object in view. "You knew that without security you had a greater hold on the honor of the Porters than with it. You knew the one best way to force me to marry you, without seeming to force me. "You have never mentioned the loan. In any other man I should have thought that the prompting of a magnanimous and noble character. But you are deep, Mr. Robert Canler. I know you better than you think I know you. "I shall certainly marry you if there is no other way, but let us understand each other once and for all." While she spoke Robert Canler had alternately flushed and paled, and when she ceased speaking he arose, and with a cynical smile upon his strong face, said: "You surprise me, Jane. I thought you had more self-control --more pride. Of course you are right. I am buying you, and I knew that you knew it, but I thought you would prefer to pretend that it was otherwise. I should have thought your self respect and your Porter pride would have shrunk from admitting, even to yourself, that you were a bought woman. But have it your own way, dear girl," he added lightly. "I am going to have you, and that is all that interests me." Without a word the girl turned and left the room. Jane was not married before she left with her father and Esmeralda for her little Wisconsin farm, and as she coldly bid Robert Canler goodby as


a demon, see, and that’s the bad news. The good news is that the puppet on your daughter’s arm, it’s a curse. And Barb? She eats curses for breakfast. I break the curse, find out which demon laid it, then we troop over to Mount Pleasant and Sister Gail blasts that demon out of your home. Sound good?” “Amen,” Aunt Gail said. “Amen,” said Barb. “We’re going to take this curse and pop it like a pimple. It’ll be easy-peasy, slick and greasy.” Louise squeezed her eyes shut. She had been prepared for anything, but she was not prepared for Barb. “This is my daughter,” Louise said, opening her eyes, fixing them on Barb, trying to convey the seriousness of the situation. “I don’t think this is exciting. This thing cut her. It almost set my house on fire! It’s not a joke to me!” She hadn’t planned on getting so worked up. “Barb has high spirits,” Aunt Gail said. “But there is no one I trust more with the fate of my immortal soul.” Barb and Louise held each other’s eyes for a long moment. Finally, Louise nodded. “All right,” she said. Barb filled the living room with two big meaty slaps of her hands, making Louise jump. “Then let’s rock and roll!” she said. “But first, I’ve got a bladder full of passion fruit lemonade that needs a download, and I warn y’all, the walls in here are real thin. You might want to go outside.” Chapter 33 T hey pushed the coffee table up against one wall and turned off the TV, and Barb cut open the plastic wrap around a pack of water bottles and dropped them on the counter. Everything in her kitchen rattled with the impact. “One for everyone,” she said. “Once we get started you’re stuck in your chair and this is thirsty work.” Barb gave up her recliner for Aunt Gail, sat Constance on the couch, and brought in two dining room chairs for Mark and Louise. She took up the second-best recliner, just to Louise’s right. With all of them crowded into the living room with the dolls, the trailer felt airless. Louise tucked her water bottle behind the legs of her chair. “Tell your sister to bring Poppy in,” Aunt Gail told Constance. Constance got up and opened the front door. “Mercy, come on,” she called. “Want some gum, big boy?” Barb asked, holding out a pack of Nicorette to Mark. “I’m good,” he said. She extended the pack to Louise. “No, thank you,” Louise said. “Me neither,” Barb said, popping two pieces in her mouth. “But it beats cancer.” Pupkin poked his head into the trailer, examining each of them, then he entered, followed by Poppy. She looked thin and tired and from behind the hair hanging over her face her breathing sounded loud, wet, and raspy. Louise wanted to pick her up, carry her away from all this, take her temperature, give her a bath. Instead, she forced herself to stay in her chair. These women had to know what


I hate to fight you when you're like this. You've been under a strain tonight no man should ever have to go through. Why you ain't in the bed from it I don't know, but I do know that for once you haven't been able to put two and two together, and we've got to settle this tonight because tomorrow'll be too late. Bob Ewell's got a kitchen knife in his craw." Mr. Tate added that Atticus wasn't going to stand there and maintain that any boy Jem's size with a busted arm had fight enough left in him to tackle and kill a grown man in the pitch dark. "Heck," said Atticus abruptly, "that was a switchblade you were waving. Where'd you get it?" "Took it off a drunk man," Mr. Tate answered coolly. I was trying to remember. Mr. Ewell was on me... then he went down.... Jem must have gotten up. At least I thought... "Heck?" "I said I took it off a drunk man downtown tonight. Ewell probably found that kitchen knife in the dump somewhere. Honed it down and bided his time... just bided his time." Atticus made his way to the swing and sat down. His hands dangled limply between his knees. He was looking at the floor. He had moved with the same slowness that night in front of the jail, when I thought it took him forever to fold his newspaper and toss it in his chair. Mr. Tate clumped softly around the porch. "It ain't your decision, Mr. Finch, it's all mine. It's my decision and my responsibility. For once, if you don't see it my way, there's not much you can do about it. If you wanta try, I'll call you a liar to your face. Your boy never stabbed Bob Ewell," he said slowly, "didn't come near a mile of it and now you know it. All he wanted to do was get him and his sister safely home." Mr. Tate stopped pacing. He stopped in front of Atticus, and his back was to us. "I'm not a very good man, sir, but I am sheriff of Maycomb County. Lived in this town all my life an' I'm goin' on forty-three years old. Know everything that's happened here since before I was born. There's a black boy dead for no reason, and the man responsible for it's dead. Let the dead bury the dead this time, Mr. Finch. Let the dead bury the dead." Mr. Tate went to the swing and picked up his hat. It was lying beside Atticus. Mr. Tate pushed back his hair and put his hat on. "I never heard tell that it's against the law for a citizen to do his utmost to prevent a crime from being committed, which is exactly what he did, but maybe you'll say it's my duty to tell the town all about it and not hush it up. Know what'd happen then? All the ladies in Maycomb includin' my wife'd be knocking on his door bringing angel food cakes. To


love to land there and have a look at the castle. Wouldn't it be fun to spend a night or two here!" George stopped rowing. Her face lighted up. "I say!" she said, in delight. "Do you know, I never thought how lovely that would be! To spend a night on my island! To be there all alone, the four of us. To get our own meals, and pretend we really lived there. Wouldn't it be grand?" "Yes, rather," said Dick, looking longingly at the island. "Do you think- do you suppose your mother would let us?" "I don't know," said George. "She might. You could ask her." "Can't we land there this afternoon?" asked Julian. "No, not if you want to see the wreck," said George. "We've got to get back for tea today, and it will take all the time to row round to the other side of Kirrin Island and back." "Well- I'd like to see the wreck," said Julian, torn between the island and the wreck. "Here, let me take the oars for a bit, George. You can't do all the rowing." "I can," said George. "But I'd quite enjoy lying back in the boat for a change! Look- I'll just take you by this rocky bit- and then you can take the oars till we come to another awkward piece. Honestly, the rocks around this bay are simply dreadful!" George and Julian changed places in the boat. Julian rowed well, but not so strongly as George. The boat sped along rocking smoothly. They went right round the island, and saw the castle from the other side. It looked more ruined on the side that faced the sea. "The strong winds come from the open sea," explained George. "There's not really much left of it this side, except piles of stones. But there's a good little harbour in a little cove, for those who know how to find it." George took the oars after a while, and rowed steadily out a little beyond the island. Then she stopped and looked back towards the shore. "How do you know when you are over the wreck?" asked Julian, puzzled. "I should never know!" "Well, do you see that church tower on the mainland?" asked George. "And do you see the tip of that hill over there? Well, when you get them exactly in line with one another, between the two towers of the castle on the island, you are pretty well over the wreck! I found that out ages ago." The children saw that the tip of the far-off hill and the church tower were practically in line, when they looked at them between the two old towers of the island castle. They looked eagerly down into the sea to see if they could spy the wreck. The water was perfectly clear and smooth. There was hardly a wrinkle. Timothy looked down into it too, his head on one side, his ears cocked, just as if he knew what he was looking for! The children laughed at him. "We're not


was considering an end-of-year deal to fund the federal government, and the president decided he wanted to use the negotiations as leverage to get money for his border wall. He would shut down the government over the issue. In fact, Trump pledged to do something more extreme. “I want to close the border,” Trump told us, his eyes widening with excitement. “Let’s do it. If [Congress] doesn’t give me the money, we shut the whole fucking border.” We reminded him he didn’t have the legal authority to seal the entire border and warned that a shutdown could be calamitous. Trump brushed it off. His mood that afternoon said, I can do whatever the fuck I want. I went back to DHS headquarters and alerted our lawyers that they needed to be on high alert for any sudden executive orders or directives from the president. Our first heads-up might be his Twitter account. I was right about the means of attack, just not the target. The next morning, I was back at the White House. Frozen leaves crunched under my feet like potato chips as I trudged up to the Secret Service booth for another day of uncertainty. I flashed my badge and proceeded through three checkpoints until I was in the West Wing. As I warmed up in the chief’s office, the mood was subdued. John Kelly sat at his desk with National Security Advisor John Bolton across from him. They were politely quarreling with each other over a diplomatic issue related to Mexico, in which I was hoping to broker compromise. The president was still in the residence, late as usual to begin his workday. No one had heard from him. On the television, CNN announced breaking news. Trump had said that the United States was pulling its forces out of Syria. “We have defeated ISIS in Syria,” he’d tweeted, “my only reason for being there during the Trump Presidency.” Sitting feet from me, Bolton let out a gasp. “Holy shit,” he whispered, before dashing out of the office. Trump hadn’t consulted anyone on the final decision. Not his chief of staff. Not his national security advisor. Not his secretary of defense. He’d just tweeted the withdrawal into existence. Kelly’s face struggled to hold back fury at the unplanned announcement. “People are going to fucking die because of this,” he asserted through gritted teeth. Minutes later General Mattis called Kelly from the Pentagon, flabbergasted. U.S. allies were phoning him, he said, confused about why America was quitting the battle against ISIS without any planning or forewarning. The military brass was in the dark. Kelly and Mattis speculated that Afghanistan was next, and they were right. Trump soon announced he was also bringing thousands of troops back from that country, overruling his generals and civilian advisors, and surprising the Afghan government. The sudden moves created confusion on the ground in Syria and Afghanistan. American troops realized they might become sitting ducks, targeted by enemy forces keen to seize the advantage against a retreating United States. Mattis was done. The defense secretary announced


show him what we’re up against.” “Which is what exactly? Just admit you’re making it up as you go along.” She was. But something in her gut was pulling her back to Black Elm and she had dragged Turner right along with her. “If you have any other ideas, just say the word, Dawes. Do you know any murderers?” “Other than you?” “He can help us. And he needs our help too. Dean Beekman was murdered.” Dawes stopped dead. “What?” “Did you know him?” “Of course I knew him. Everyone knew him. I took one of his classes when I was an undergrad. He—” “Christ on a bike.” Turner had frozen in the doorway to the ballroom and he did not look like he had any intention of going in. He took a step backward, one hand extended as if to ward off what he was seeing, his other hand resting on his gun. “You can’t shoot him,” Alex said with all the calm she could muster. “At least I don’t think you can.” Dawes ran to the doorway, placing herself between Turner and the golden circle like some kind of human shield. “I told you this was a terrible idea!” “What is this?” demanded Turner. His jaw was set, his brow lowered, but there was fear in his eyes. “What am I even seeing?” All Alex could offer was, “I told you he was different.” “Different is you lost a few pounds. You got a haircut. Not … this.” At that moment Darlington’s eyes opened, bright and golden. “Where have you been?” Turner started at the sound of Darlington’s voice, human but for that cold echo. “You reek of death.” Alex groaned. “You’re not helping.” “Why did you bring me here?” Turner bit out. “I asked for help with a case. I thought I made it clear I don’t want any part of this crazy cult shit.” “Let’s go downstairs,” said Dawes. “Stay,” said Darlington, and Alex couldn’t tell if it was a plea or a command. “I think Darlington can help you,” she said. “I think he’s the only one of us who can.” “That thing? Listen, Stern, I don’t know how much of this is real and how much is … hocus-pocus bullshit, but I know a monster when I see one.” “Do you?” Alex felt her anger rising. “Did you know Dean Sandow was a killer? Did you know Blake Keely was a rapist? I showed you what’s behind the door. You can’t just shut it and pretend you never saw.” Turner rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I sure as hell wish I could.” “Come on.” Alex marched into the room and hoped he would follow. The air was lush with heat. That sweet scent was everywhere, that wildfire smell, the stink of disaster riding the wind, the kind that sends coyotes running from the hills and into suburban backyards to crouch and howl by swimming pools. “Detective,” said the creature behind the golden wall. Turner hovered in the doorway. “That really you?” Darlington paused, considered. “I’m


had told her the truth from the beginning. But that would’ve reflected badly on him, as a husband and father, and to Simon, appearance was everything. “What happened on the night she died? My father never said much about it. Was she hurt badly? Did she suffer?” These were terrible questions to ask. Just saying them out loud made her feel sick. But she had to know. Mr. Noble took Marion’s hands in his. “Your father called the theater that night and they got into a bad row. Lucille wasn’t coming back to him, and he knew it by then. When she hung up, she was upset and one of the other actresses offered to walk her back to the hotel where we were all staying. The car came flying down the street but your mother was distracted and stepped off the curb without looking. She died instantly, I was told. A terrible loss for the theater, and a terrible loss for you.” He paused. “I’m sorry, this isn’t the typical job interview, by any means. Can I get you a drink? I could sure use one.” “You’re so kind, and I’m sorry if I’m going off the rails here.” “I understand. You are allowed to go off the rails. This is the theater, after all.” Marion wiped away her tears. “I’m glad she had you as a friend. And thank you for telling me all this. It’s an enormous relief, to know the truth.” “As for that drink?” Mr. Noble had a hand raised, calling for the waiter. As much as she could have used one, she needed time to think about this sudden right turn in her career, as well as the revelations about Lucille. And there was only one person she wanted to confide in. * * * “I’m sorry, but it’s just not going to work out,” said Marion. Nathaniel sat forlornly in an armchair in a corner of the Rehearsal Club’s sitting room. For once, it was devoid of residents, and when he’d shown up with a bouquet of red roses just as she was getting ready to meet Peter for dinner downtown, she knew it was time to make her intentions—or lack of intentions—clear. “Why not?” asked Nathaniel. “What about everything we talked about? Living in your house with your dad, having kids, our life together.” “You talked about that, I listened. I’m going to be working here in New York from now on, living here as well. Our paths are going in different directions, and I think it’s best we part ways amicably, don’t you think?” “But I have the ring.” He patted his jacket pocket. “Now that the bomber has been caught and it’s safe, I thought we could take a carriage ride, like we talked about.” “Like you talked about. The life you want, it’s not for me, and I’m sorry if it took me so long to figure that out.” A trio of girls walked in, giggling, and went up the stairs. Nathaniel stared at the bouquet. “Well, now I feel like


refer to him by his first name.” “How else should I refer to him?” “Historically, your clients have been, you know . . . Big Nostrils Jim. Not Anderson Cooper. Doomsday Prepper Pete. Anchovy Breath One. Anchovy Breath Two. Deep V-Neck. Anchovy Breath Three—” “I get the gist.” “Kirk is always just Kirk, which has me wondering if . . .” “Whoa.” Her eyes widen dramatically. “Am I being attacked? In my own home?” “No. I just—” “At my own table?” I shake my head. “No, I—” “On my own chair that I retrieved from the curbside and that used to have bedbugs and maybe still does?” “No! I didn’t mean to—” I notice Cece’s sly smile. “You’re evil.” She laughs. “Is Greg still on that hippie retreat where you pay to weed their flower beds? When’s he coming back? And when is the search committee voting on the candidates?” Is she trying to change the topic? “I have no idea. I don’t even know if George has already been interviewed. Greg should be back by the weekend, but he’ll have tons of messages, and . . .” “And he’ll see a million texts from you. He’ll call the second he turns on his phone. You’ll calmly explain what happened, and you’ll come up with a plan together. Don’t worry about it, okay?” I nod. As it turns out, Cece is right—I do get a call from Greg the moment he comes back to civilized society. But she’s also wrong, because things don’t go the way she predicted. Not at all. Not even a little bit. • • • MY FIRST THOUGHT WHEN I READ U NKNOWN B OSTON N UMBER IS that I’m going to be offered the job. It must be the sheer depth of my desperation making an optimist and a fool out of me. For a moment, I see myself holding back tears as I accept an appointment letter. I would like to thank the Academy, my roommate, and the girl who runs the WhatWouldMarieDo account—my rocks during the harrowing years of grad school. I owe this to you. It makes the fall back to reality that much harder. “Do you know someone named Gregory Smith?” Whoever’s on the other end of the line sounds so angry, I briefly forget how to talk. “Um—” “I sure hope so, because there are forty unread texts from you on his phone. And if you’re his stalker . . . you’ll still do. He was brought here an hour ago for emergency dental surgery, and we need someone to come pick him up.” “Pick him . . . up?” “Yes. It means that you come here. Get him. Then take him where he lives.” She’s speaking very slowly. If I told her about my doctoral degree, she would not believe me. “With a vehicle such as a car. Or a wheelbarrow, for all I care.” “I—I don’t own a car. And I don’t know where he lives. Can’t you call him an Uber and—” “Honey, he’s drugged out of his mind.


she thinks such old maid's rubbish." "Mother is not an old maid," said his virgin sister with pinched lips. He felt like shouting back: "Yes, she is, and so are the van der Luydens, and so we all are, when it comes to being so much as brushed by the wing-tip of Reality." But he saw her long gentle face puckering into tears, and felt ashamed of the useless pain he was inflicting. "Hang Countess Olenska! Don't be a goose, Janey-- I'm not her keeper." "No; but you DID ask the Wellands to announce your engagement sooner so that we might all back her up; and if it hadn't been for that cousin Louisa would never have invited her to the dinner for the Duke." "Well--what harm was there in inviting her? She was the best-looking woman in the room; she made the dinner a little less funereal than the usual van der Luyden banquet." "You know cousin Henry asked her to please you: he persuaded cousin Louisa. And now they're so upset that they're going back to Skuytercliff tomorrow. I think, Newland, you'd better come down. You don't seem to understand how mother feels." In the drawing-room Newland found his mother. She raised a troubled brow from her needlework to ask: "Has Janey told you?" "Yes." He tried to keep his tone as measured as her own. "But I can't take it very seriously." "Not the fact of having offended cousin Louisa and cousin Henry?" "The fact that they can be offended by such a trifle as Countess Olenska's going to the house of a woman they consider common." "Consider--!" "Well, who is; but who has good music, and amuses people on Sunday evenings, when the whole of New York is dying of inanition." "Good music? All I know is, there was a woman who got up on a table and sang the things they sing at the places you go to in Paris. There was smoking and champagne." "Well--that kind of thing happens in other places, and the world still goes on." "I don't suppose, dear, you're really defending the French Sunday?" "I've heard you often enough, mother, grumble at the English Sunday when we've been in London." "New York is neither Paris nor London." "Oh, no, it's not!" her son groaned. "You mean, I suppose, that society here is not as brilliant? You're right, I daresay; but we belong here, and people should respect our ways when they come among us. Ellen Olenska especially: she came back to get away from the kind of life people lead in brilliant societies." Newland made no answer, and after a moment his mother ventured: "I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner." He frowned, and she continued: "I thought you might explain to her what you've just said: that society abroad is different . . . that people are not as particular, and that Madame Olenska may not have realised how we feel about such things. It


dream. I’d write the bloody plays myself. I’ve got a great talent.” “I know.” “A rare talent. It deserves proper cultivation.” She sent another cherry stone bouncing into the bowl. Perfect aim. “It’s pretty rich, you marching in here, out of the blue. I haven’t heard from you for months.” Winnie opened her mouth. Closed it again. “I always write,” she said uneasily. “And I reply!” “Well,” said Winnie, not able to help herself, “you send me pictures of yourself.” Hephzibah shot her a look. “Picture postcards.” Winnie wilted. “Yes.” “Very fetching ones.” Sometimes the moment was presented to you, the window opened just a crack. Winnie forced herself not to be a coward. “Hephzibah. I’m so—” The words came in a rush. “I’m so enormously—sorry.” That face! Immaculate, the expression smoothing out, like the tide sweeping the sands. Hephzibah said nothing. Winnie remembered the day Hephzibah had left. Upped and vanished in the night, they said. Yet another runaway. It had infuriated everybody, Winnie included, who’d been left with the task of clearing out Hephzibah’s rubbish and sad, much-mended uniforms. Dinah King had laughed. “You know how she is,” she’d said. “She’s got dreams. She wants to be onstage.” They hadn’t asked any questions. Hephzibah crumpled the program in her hands, tossed it aside. Grabbed her glass of sherry, spilling a little over the brim. “If you weren’t so bloody pious,” she said, “and po-faced, then I shouldn’t get so annoyed with you. Honestly, it’s too bad. Every time you come plodding down to see me you just make me feel beastly. It brings everything up again. You do understand that, don’t you?” Winnie nodded. “I don’t mean to.” Hephzibah handed Winnie her own glass. “Here. Put some color in your cheeks. I can’t sit here and watch you sweating all night.” Winnie grasped it. “Thanks.” “So, tell me.” Winnie took a swig. “There’s something delicate we want you to do,” she said, feeling the burn in her throat. “We?” “Me and Dinah King.” Hephzibah’s eyes widened. Winnie raised a palm. “She doesn’t know, Hephzibah. On my honor, she doesn’t know a thing.” Hephzibah leaned back in her chair. “Lucky her. Go on, then.” 6 Twenty-three days to go Alice Parker was running late. She tied her apron, two hasty knots. Tucked her crucifix under her collar and gave herself a quick look in the glass. One month in Park Lane and she’d grown accustomed to wearing a uniform. She’d feared she would hate it, feel pinched at the neck and the wrists. But she slipped into it so easily. This was how a soldier must feel, putting on fatigues. It made her pleasingly anonymous. She didn’t look like herself—she simply looked like a maid. She adjusted her black armband. Mrs. King had handed it to her on her first day in the house. “We’re in mourning for the old master,” she’d said evenly. They didn’t seem mournful. Mr. de Vries was hardly cold in his grave. Yet the new mistress was making plans for a costumed ball, the best of


watching the scroll of calendar-pretty farmland and woods you couldn’t see into, just walls of green. Everything smelled like manure, which I was used to, and then, suddenly, like pine. I said, “It smells like air freshener out there!” The Robesons reacted as if I were a small child who’d said something delightful. “Like air freshener!” Severn Robeson repeated, and gleefully slapped the steering wheel. On campus that first day, I couldn’t believe the density of woods, the way the ground was somehow the woods, too—rocks and logs and pine needles and moss. You always had to watch your feet. The only woods I’d known in Indiana stood between rows of houses or out back of gas stations—woods you could walk through to the other side. There were cigarette butts, soda cans. When I’d heard fairy tales as a child, those were the woods I pictured. But now the stories of primeval forests, lost children, hidden lairs, made sense. This was a forest. Outside Lee’s cab: the Granby Post Office, and what used to be the video store. The Circle K was unchanged, but it was hard to get nostalgic over a gas station. Here was the campus road, and here was a wave of adrenaline. I ended my fake phone call, wishing Gary a great day. When all the leaves fell that first November, I expected to see the houses and buildings that had been waiting, all along, through the trees. But no: Beyond these bare branches, more bare branches. Beyond them, only more. At night, there were owls. Sometimes, if the dumpsters hadn’t been latched, black bears would take entire garbage bags, drag them across campus to open like party favors. The car we’d been following took the fork toward the boys’ dorms, but Lee opted for the long route around Lower Campus so he could give me a tour, and all I could do now was listen politely. He said, “Where you have me dropping you, that’s Upper Campus, above the river, the fancy new buildings. But down here, this is the old part, going back to seventeen-something.” The 1820s, but I didn’t correct him. It was midafternoon, and a few kids trudged out of Commons and across the quad, hunched against the cold. Lee pointed out the original classroom building, the dorms adolescent farmer boys used to freeze in, the cottages where bachelor teachers of yore passed solitary lives, Old Chapel and New Chapel (neither a real chapel anymore, both impossibly old), the headmaster’s house. He pointed out the bronze statue of Samuel Granby and said, falsely, “That’s the guy who started the school with just one classroom.” As a student, I couldn’t pass Samuel Granby without rubbing his foot, a tradition shared by no one. I also couldn’t pass a pay phone without flipping the receiver upside down. This was incredibly witty and rebellious; you’ll have to believe me. When Lee finally circled to the bottom of Upper Campus and stopped the car, I opened the door onto a wall of cold. I paid him and he


it off and let me die. Shoot me. Hang me. Sentence me to twenty-five years. Is there somebody else you want me to give away? Just say who it is and I'll tell you anything you want. I don't care who it is or what you do to them. I've got a wife and three children. The biggest of them isn't six years old. You can take the whole lot of them and cut their throats in front of my eyes, and I'll stand by and watch it. But not Room 101!' 'Room 101,' said the officer. The man looked frantically round at the other prisoners, as though with some idea that he could put another victim in his own place. His eyes settled on the smashed face of the chinless man. He flung out a lean arm. 'That's the one you ought to be taking, not me!' he shouted. 'You didn't hear what he was saying after they bashed his face. Give me a chance and I'll tell you every word of it. HE'S the one that's against the Party, not me.' The guards stepped forward. The man's voice rose to a shriek. 'You didn't hear him!' he repeated. 'Something went wrong with the telescreen. HE'S the one you want. Take him, not me!' The two sturdy guards had stooped to take him by the arms. But just at this moment he flung himself across the floor of the cell and grabbed one of the iron legs that supported the bench. He had set up a wordless howling, like an animal. The guards took hold of him to wrench him loose, but he clung on with astonishing strength. For perhaps twenty seconds they were hauling at him. The prisoners sat quiet, their hands crossed on their knees, looking straight in front of them. The howling stopped; the man had no breath left for anything except hanging on. Then there was a different kind of cry. A kick from a guard's boot had broken the fingers of one of his hands. They dragged him to his feet. 'Room 101,' said the officer. The man was led out, walking unsteadily, with head sunken, nursing his crushed hand, all the fight had gone out of him. A long time passed. If it had been midnight when the skull-faced man was taken away, it was morning: if morning, it was afternoon. Winston was alone, and had been alone for hours. The pain of sitting on the narrow bench was such that often he got up and walked about, unreproved by the telescreen. The piece of bread still lay where the chinless man had dropped it. At the beginning it needed a hard effort not to look at it, but presently hunger gave way to thirst. His mouth was sticky and evil-tasting. The humming sound and the unvarying white light induced a sort of faintness, an empty feeling inside his head. He would get up because the ache in his bones was no longer bearable, and then would sit down again almost at once because he


telling Matthew all about it at the next morning's breakfast table. "There are Billy and Jane nowI hear the wheels. Come on." Billy Andrews insisted that Anne should ride on the front seat with him, so she unwillingly climbed up. She would have much preferred to sit back with the girls, where she could have laughed and chattered to her heart's content. There was not much of either laughter or chatter in Billy. He was a big, fat, stolid youth of twenty, with a round, expressionless face, and a painful lack of conversational gifts. But he admired Anne immensely, and was puffed up with pride over the prospect of driving to White Sands with that slim, upright figure beside him. Anne, by dint of talking over her shoulder to the girls and occasionally passing a sop of civility to Billy-who grinned and chuckled and never could think of any reply until it was too late-contrived to enjoy the drive in spite of all. It was a night for enjoyment. The road was full of buggies, all bound for the hotel, and laughter, silver clear, echoed and reechoed along it. When they reached the hotel it was a blaze of light from top to bottom. They were met by the ladies of the concert committee, one of whom took Anne off to the performers' dressing room which was filled with the members of a Charlottetown Symphony Club, among whom Anne felt suddenly shy and frightened and countrified. Her dress, which, in the east gable, had seemed so dainty and pretty, now seemed simple and plain-too simple and plain, she thought, among all the silks and laces that glistened and rustled around her. What were her pearl beads compared to the diamonds of the big, handsome lady near her? And how poor her one wee white rose must look beside all the hothouse flowers the others wore! Anne laid her hat and jacket away, and shrank miserably into a corner. She wished herself back in the white room at Green Gables. It was still worse on the platform of the big concert hall of the hotel, where she presently found herself. The electric lights dazzled her eyes, the perfume and hum bewildered her. She wished she were sitting down in the audience with Diana and Jane, who seemed to be having a splendid time away at the back. She was wedged in between a stout lady in pink silk and a tall, scornful-looking girl in a white-lace dress. The stout lady occasionally turned her head squarely around and surveyed Anne through her eyeglasses until Anne, acutely sensitive of being so scrutinized, felt that she must scream aloud; and the white-lace girl kept talking audibly to her next neighbor about the "country bumpkins" and "rustic belles" in the audience, languidly anticipating "such fun', from the displays of local talent on the program. Anne believed that she would hate that white-lace girl to the end of life. Unfortunately for Anne, a professional elocutionist was staying at the hotel and had consented to recite. She was a


really might have been a better speculation. Chapter 13 It was a trial to my feelings, on the next day but one, to see Joe arraying himself in his Sunday clothes to accompany me to Miss Havisham's. However, as he thought his court-suit necessary to the occasion, it was not for me tell him that he looked far better in his working dress; the rather, because I knew he made himself so dreadfully uncomfortable, entirely on my account, and that it was for me he pulled up his shirt-collar so very high behind, that it made the hair on the crown of his head stand up like a tuft of feathers. At breakfast time my sister declared her intention of going to town with us, and being left at Uncle Pumblechook's and called for "when we had done with our fine ladies" - a way of putting the case, from which Joe appeared inclined to augur the worst. The forge was shut up for the day, and Joe inscribed in chalk upon the door (as it was his custom to do on the very rare occasions when he was not at work) the monosyllable HOUT, accompanied by a sketch of an arrow supposed to be flying in the direction he had taken. We walked to town, my sister leading the way in a very large beaver bonnet, and carrying a basket like the Great Seal of England in plaited straw, a pair of pattens, a spare shawl, and an umbrella, though it was a fine bright day. I am not quite clear whether these articles were carried penitentially or ostentatiously; but, I rather think they were displayed as articles of property - much as Cleopatra or any other sovereign lady on the Rampage might exhibit her wealth in a pageant or procession. When we came to Pumblechook's, my sister bounced in and left us. As it was almost noon, Joe and I held straight on to Miss Havisham's house. Estella opened the gate as usual, and, the moment she appeared, Joe took his hat off and stood weighing it by the brim in both his hands: as if he had some urgent reason in his mind for being particular to half a quarter of an ounce. Estella took no notice of either of us, but led us the way that I knew so well. I followed next to her, and Joe came last. When I looked back at Joe in the long passage, he was still weighing his hat with the greatest care, and was coming after us in long strides on the tips of his toes. Estella told me we were both to go in, so I took Joe by the coat-cuff and conducted him into Miss Havisham's presence. She was seated at her dressing-table, and looked round at us immediately. "Oh!" said she to Joe. "You are the husband of the sister of this boy?" I could hardly have imagined dear old Joe looking so unlike himself or so like some extraordinary bird; standing, as he did, speechless, with his


burying his face in his hands. "No, she will never come to life. She has played her last part. But you must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a strange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene from Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur. The girl never really lived, and so she has never really died. To you at least she was always a dream, a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare's plays and left them lovelier for its presence, a reed through which Shakespeare's music sounded richer and more full of joy. The moment she touched actual life, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. Mourn for Ophelia, if you like. Put ashes on your head because Cordelia was strangled. Cry out against Heaven because the daughter of Brabantio died. But don't waste your tears over Sibyl Vane. She was less real than they are." There was a silence. The evening darkened in the room. Noiselessly, and with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. The colors faded wearily out of things. After some time Dorian Gray looked up. "You have explained me to myself, Harry," he murmured, with something of a sigh of relief. "I felt all that you have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and I could not express it to myself. How well you know me! But we will not talk again of what has happened. It has been a marvellous experience. That is all. I wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvellous." "Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing that you, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do." "But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and gray, and wrinkled? What then?" "Ah, then," said Lord Henry, rising to go,--"then, my dear Dorian, you would have to fight for your victories. As it is, they are brought to you. No, you must keep your good looks. We live in an age that reads too much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful. We cannot spare you. And now you had better dress, and drive down to the club. We are rather late, as it is." "I think I shall join you at the Opera, Harry. I feel too tired to eat anything. What is the number of your sister's box?" "Twenty-seven, I believe. It is on the grand tier. You will see her name on the door. But I am sorry you won't come and dine." "I don't feel up to it," said Dorian, wearily. "But I am awfully obliged to you for all that you have said to me. You are certainly my best friend. No one has ever understood me as you have." "We are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian," answered Lord Henry, shaking him by the hand. "Good-by. I shall see you before nine-thirty, I hope. Remember, Patti is singing." As he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray


nodded. “You’re so flighty, unfocused. I see that attitude in the way you do things around the house, and of course it was reflected in your results. You need to grow out of it, Mọ́tárá. I want you to grow out of it, or else that attitude will follow you into your future. Imagine you’re married and your in-laws are visiting on a rainy day, then without thinking, you serve them cups of cold water. How would that play?” “And forty-nine.” When she began keeping count, Mọ́tárá had not expected to get to fifty within a week, but here she was, just one mention away. “You said?” “Thank you sir.” On a good day, she could tell Yèyé about her count and use it as a basis for challenging her constant references to marriage as the ultimate motivation for any self-improvement, but with her father, there was no frame for that kind of conversation. Maybe there was for children like Wúràọlá, who had done all he expected her to, but as for Mọ́tárá, she knew she might not feel confident enough to have that sort of discussion with him until she had earned at least one degree. * * * Wúràọlá came to the house with Kúnlé the next day, wearing a bright blue scarf around her neck. Mọ́tárá stayed in the living room while they chatted with her parents about the introduction, waiting for a window of time alone with her sister. But Wúràọlá never left Kúnlé’s side, not to go upstairs for something she needed to take back to the hospital with her, not even to use the restroom. Mọ́tárá studied the scarf all afternoon, noting how large it was, how it hid every inch of Wúràọlá’s neck and was not taken off or loosened when they sat at the dining table for lunch. Mọ́tárá developed a theory before she dug into her Sunday rice. Wúràọlá had to be hiding a giant bruise beneath the soft fabric. Somehow, she could not believe the incident she had witnessed had never happened before. The effrontery of slapping Wúràọlá in her family home, with her family so close by? No, he had to be doing worse when they were alone elsewhere. As the meal progressed, Wúràọlá seemed too bright and happy, her smile stayed in place even as she chewed, like something painted on. Yet Mọ́tárá was sure that her sister flinched each time Kúnlé reached for something that was on Wúràọlá’s side of the table. Mọ́tárá had even asked him to pass the salt twice, just so she could observe Wúràọlá and make sure she was not imagining the fleeting movements on her sister’s face. Mọ́tárá could feel her face heating up as Yèyé talked about the aṣọ-ebí for the introduction. She wanted to scream at her mother as she talked about the merits of coffee-brown gèlè and peach lace. It upset her more than she expected that her mother did not believe her at all. Of course she sometimes lied for fun, but she did not expect Yèyé to be so


missed him for years and years, in every moment. “Can I take you to coffee?” Huff asks. “Let me shower really quick and we can—” He points to the upstairs of the house, and I touch his raised arm gently. “Daphne?” I look down at my feet. “Huff, I can’t,” I whisper. I have practiced this perfect speech that has now completely left my mind because it is taking everything inside me not to vomit all over Huff. “Well, we don’t have to go to coffee,” he whispers back, a questioning look in his eye, and I know then he knows what I’m saying. He takes my hands. “Daphne, I love you. And we are going to disagree sometimes in our life together. But I already told you if the Steven staying at your house thing is a nonnegotiable, I will concede that point.” He tries to laugh as he says, “If you want our future kids to call him Daddy Number Two then fine.” I lean into him and wrap him up so tight I think I must be cutting off his circulation. “I love you, Huff. I swear I do. But my life is too complicated now. I can’t complicate yours, too.” He pushes me back, gently, and looks me in the eyes. “Where is this coming from? Why would you do this to me? To you? To us? Things have been going so well.” He pauses, searching my eyes for answers. “Is this about Henry? Because I will coach his basketball team and throw the baseball in the yard with him. I will take him camping and fishing. I will be the best stepdad in the world. No one else could love him like I will because no one else could love you like I do.” Tears are streaming down my face because I know this. And I want to scream, Because your stupid sister doesn’t think I’m good enough for you, and if she doesn’t believe it, how can I? It was the exact same thought that ran through my mind that day seven years ago when I came back to the apartment and Huff was waiting for me. It had taken me an hour of walking around downtown Baltimore to come to terms with the fact that Lanier was right. And I had known she was right for a long time. I had felt myself sinking. But I’d been too afraid to face it. “Where have you been?” Huff had asked. He tried to come to me, to comfort me, but I walked by him, straight into the bathroom. I opened my Adderall and dumped it in the toilet. “You actually shouldn’t flush prescriptions,” Huff said. “They stay in the water system.” I turned to him as I flushed. “Seriously?” “Well, I mean, I’m just saying.” He paused. “What’s going on with you?” I flushed the Ambien and a few hydrocodone left over from a sprained ankle prescription that I kept refilling. Then I went to the kitchen and opened the freezer, removed the vodka, and poured


sharply like an animal that had sniffed death in the air. Her heart jumped painfully within her. The priestess had now reached Okonkwo's compound and was talking with him outside his hut. She was saying again and again that Agbala wanted to see his daughter, Ezinma. Okonkwo pleaded with her to come back in the morning because Ezinma was now asleep. But Chielo ignored what he was trying to say and went on shouting that Agbala wanted to see his daughter. Her voice was as clear as metal, and Okonkwo's women and children heard from their huts all that she said. Okonkwo was still pleading that the girl had been ill of late and was asleep. Ekwefi quickly took her to their bedroom and placed her on their high bamboo bed. The priestess screamed. "Beware, Okonkwo!" she warned. "Beware of exchanging words with Agbala. Does a man speak when a god speaks? Beware!" She walked through Okonkwo's hut into the circular compound and went straight toward Ekwefi's hut. Okonkwo came after her. "Ekwefi," she called, "Agbala greets you. Where is my daughter, Ezinma? Agbala wants to see her." Ekwefi came out from her hut carrying her oil lamp in her left hand. There was a light wind blowing, so she cupped her right hand to shelter the flame. Nwoye's mother, also carrying an oil lamp, emerged from her hut. The children stood in the darkness outside their hut watching the strange event. Okonkwo's youngest wife also came out and joined the others. "Where does Agbala want to see her?" Ekwefi asked. "Where else but in his house in the hills and the caves?" replied the priestess. "I will come with you, too," Ekwefi said firmly. "Tufia-al" the priestess cursed, her voice cracking like the angry bark of thunder in the dry season. "How dare you, woman, to go before the mighty Agbala of your own accord? Beware, woman, lest he strike you in his anger. Bring me my daughter." Ekwefi went into her hut and came out again with Ezinma. "Come, my daughter," said the priestess. "I shall carry you on my back. A baby on its mother's back does not know that the way is long." Ezinma began to cry. She was used to Chielo calling her "my daughter." But it was a different Chielo she now saw in the yellow half-light. "Don't cry, my daughter," said the priestess, "lest Agbala be angry with you." "Don't cry," said Ekwefi, "she will bring you back very soon. I shall give you some fish to eat." She went into the hut again and brought down the smoke-black basket in which she kept her dried fish and other ingredients for cooking soup. She broke a piece in two and gave it to Ezinma, who clung to her. "Don't be afraid," said Ekwefi, stroking her head, which was shaved in places, leaving a regular pattern of hair. They went outside again. The priestess bent down on one knee and Ezinma climbed on her back, her left palm closed on her fish and her eyes gleaming