him forever, into the bargain. --------------------------------------------------------- -191- Chapter XIX TOM arrived at home in a dreary mood, and the first thing his aunt said to him showed him that he had brought his sorrows to an unpromising market: "Tom, I've a notion to skin you alive!" "Auntie, what have I done?" "Well, you've done enough. Here I go over to Sereny Harper, like an old softy, expecting I'm going to make her believe all that rubbage about that dream, when lo and behold you she'd found out from Joe that you was over here and heard all the talk we had that night. Tom, I don't know what is to become of a boy that will act like that. It makes me feel so bad to think you could let me go to Sereny Harper and make such a fool of myself and never say a word." This was a new aspect of the thing. His smartness of the morning had seemed to Tom a good joke before, and very ingenious. It merely looked mean and shabby now. He hung his head and could not think of anything to say for a moment. Then he said: --------------------------------------------------------- -192- "Auntie, I wish I hadn't done it -- but I didn't think." "Oh, child, you never think. You never think of anything but your own selfishness. You could think to come all the way over here from Jackson's Island in the night to laugh at our troubles, and you could think to fool me with a lie about a dream; but you couldn't ever think to pity us and save us from sorrow." "Auntie, I know now it was mean, but I didn't mean to be mean. I didn't, honest. And besides, I didn't come over here to laugh at you that night." "What did you come for, then?" "It was to tell you not to be uneasy about us, because we hadn't got drownded." "Tom, Tom, I would be the thankfullest soul in this world if I could believe you ever had as good a thought as that, but you know you never did -- and I know it, Tom." "Indeed and 'deed I did, auntie -- I wish I may never stir if I didn't." "Oh, Tom, don't lie -- don't do it. It only makes things a hundred times worse." "It ain't a lie, auntie; it's the truth. I wanted to keep you from grieving -- that was all that made me come." "I'd give the whole world to believe that -- it would cover up a power of sins, Tom. I'd 'most be glad you'd run off and acted so bad. But it ain't reasonable; because, why didn't you tell me, child?" --------------------------------------------------------- -193- "Why, you see, when you got to talking about the funeral, I just got all full of the idea of our coming and hiding in the church, and I couldn't somehow bear to spoil it. So I just put the bark back in my pocket and kept mum." "What bark?" "The bark I had wrote on


I can to find the remaining one thousand. That way we can at least pay half and beg the teachers for more time.” “Ìyá Ẹniọlá, if we offend God and he forgives us, why would I, a mortal, not forgive? This is not about the past. If I am angry with you, would I then take it out on your children? Even though you’ve hidden them from me these past years, I still think of them like my own. If good comes to them, it is for my own good. The Bible that I read every day says that I should not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in my power. Why would I allow you to be the reason I offend my God? And anyway, let’s say God forgives me for withholding this money from you, will alajobi forgive me? Won’t the ancestral spirits that roam this compound haunt me until the day I die for being so mean to you? If I had the power, Ìyá Ẹniọlá—look at my face, ehen—if I had the power to help you, I would.” “Please, I want…I want these children to go to school. It’s their only chance in life. I don’t have any property I’m going to leave them. I have nothing else to give them that can—” “You think I am happy to see you suffer like this? Why do you think I am angry with your husband? God has not blessed this family with wealth, but were you ever hungry? Look at the wells in your neck. If he knew he could not take care of you, why did he marry you? You too look at what you are wearing—were you not better dressed when you lived here?” Ìyá Ẹniọlá looked down at her washed-out ankara dress. The hem had come apart, and if you stared long enough, you could see that it had been patched at the hip. “Let me stop talking about your husband before this becomes another fight.” “Okay sir.” “But, Ìyá Ẹniọlá, I can’t afford to give you more than one thousand five hundred naira. Me too, I just finished paying school fees last week. My purse is still recovering from that.” Ìyá Ẹniọlá leaned forward. Surely she’d misheard. “You just finished paying what?” “School fees, I said school fees.” “For?” “My children.” “Children? It’s okay, Alàgbà, you don’t want to give me the money. No problem.” “Well, our God did not abandon me where you left me.” He gestured towards the door. “You might have seen them outside when you were coming in, my wife has two children from her first marriage.” “Wife?” “Yes, because the sun never sets on God’s mercies, I got married last year. My wife’s first husband died after the last child was born, and since then, she was shouldering the responsibilities of those children alone. That is until last year when we got married. Now they are my responsibility too.” This was joyful news, but Ìyá Ẹniọlá could not even force herself to smile. She


eyes too. Maybe she has been awake all along, because when she sits up on the bed, the first thing she says is “What will happen?” Clytemnestra doesn’t reply. Her daughters stare at her, their heads cocked to one side, their breath held. She can tell they have waited to ask this question. Unable to keep the silence, Chrysothemis speaks again, her small voice no more than a breath of wind. “Will he hurt us?” The question cracks Clytemnestra’s heart open. “He will never touch you,” she says. Electra sits up too, jaw set, body tense. “How do you know?” “Because I won’t allow it. While he was gone, much changed.” “Some things didn’t,” Electra replies. “You still hate him.” She is almost tempted to draw back as she looks into Electra’s eyes. It is like staring into deep, dark water. “He took my children away from me,” she says. “My perfect daughter and my baby boy. Would you not hate someone like that?” She knows “hate” is the wrong word. But in all these years, she has never found the right one. Some feelings aren’t meant to be captured. Chrysothemis seems alarmed. She leans forward and takes her hand. “We understand, Mother. We always have.” Electra draws her knees up to her chest. “Do you think the gods are watching us? Do you think they know that you hate him?” “Listen to me,” Clytemnestra says. “Gods do not care about us. They have other concerns. That is why you should never live in the shadow of their anger. It is men you must fear. It is men who will be angry with you if you rise too high, if you are too much loved. The stronger you are, the more they will try to take you down.” Her daughters’ profiles are sharper now. Soon it will be dawn, and the summer heat will become unbearable. “Father doesn’t love us, does he?” Chrysothemis asks. Clytemnestra looks away, the words carrying her to a painful place. A scorching heat. A purple tent. Iphigenia’s sweet voice. Her daughter had asked the same question before she died. “It doesn’t matter what he feels,” Clytemnestra says. “It doesn’t matter what he thinks. I love you both, as I loved your sister, more than anything in the world.” Her daughters’ faces brighten like shields in sunlight. She takes their hands. When vengeance calls and the gods stop watching, what happens to those who have touched the people I love? * * * Aegisthus is waiting for her in her room, wide awake. She finds his body in the dawning light, takes his head in her hands. When he kisses her, she can taste his hunger for revenge. The lion comes home and finds the wolf ready to welcome him. “The fire,” he says, his voice flat. “He is coming back.” She nods and walks to the window, looking at the golden sky. He follows and brushes his lips against her shoulders. She feels herself growing tense, her mind sharpening like a blade. She closes her eyes and


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

whole tumultuous rush has passed and the Iping streets with its gauds and flags is deserted save for the still raging Unseen, and littered with cocoanuts, overthrown canvas screens, and the scattered stock in trade of a sweetstuff stall. Everywhere there is a sound of closing shutters and shoving bolts, and the only visible humanity is an occasional flitting eye under a raised eyebrow in the corner of a window pane. The Invisible Man amused himself for a little while by breaking all the windows in the Coach and Horses, and then he thrust a street lamp through the parlour window of Mrs. Gribble. He it must have been who cut the telegraph wire to Adderdean just beyond Higgins' cottage on the Adderdean road. And after that, as his peculiar qualities allowed, he passed out of human perceptions altogether, and he was neither heard, seen, nor felt in Iping any more. He vanished absolutely. But it was the best part of two hours before any human being ventured out again into the desolation of Iping Street. Chapter 13 Mr. Marvel Discusses His Resignation When the dusk was gathering and Iping was just beginning to peep timorously forth again upon the shattered wreckage of its Bank Holiday, a short, thick-set man in a shabby silk hat was marching painfully through the twilight behind the beechwoods on the road to Bramblehurst. He carried three books bound together by some sort of ornamental elastic ligature, and a bundle wrapped in a blue tablecloth. His rubicund face expressed consternation and fatigue; he appeared to be in a spasmodic sort of hurry. He was accompanied by a Voice other than his own, and ever and again he winced under the touch of unseen hands. "If you give me the slip again," said the Voice; "if you attempt to give me the slip again--" "Lord!" said Mr. Marvel. "That shoulder's a mass of bruises as it is." "--on my honour," said the Voice, "I will kill you." "I didn't try to give you the slip," said Marvel, in a voice that was not far remote from tears. "I swear I didn't. I didn't know the blessed turning, that was all! How the devil was I to know the blessed turning? As it is, I've been knocked about--" "You'll get knocked about a great deal more if you don't mind," said the Voice, and Mr. Marvel abruptly became silent. He blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were eloquent of despair. "It's bad enough to let these floundering yokels explode my little secret, without your cutting off with my books. It's lucky for some of them they cut and ran when they did! Here am I--No one knew I was invisible! And now what am I to do?" "What am I to do?" asked Marvel, sotto voce. "It's all about. It will be in the papers! Everybody will be looking for me; everyone on their guard--" The Voice broke off into vivid curses and ceased. The despair of Mr. Marvel's face deepened, and his pace slacked. "Go on!" said


around Donald Trump considered something like this after the 2020 election. They misconstrued an executive order that I helped write (EO 13848), as part of their plot. The EO empowered the president to punish countries that meddled in U.S. elections, but MAGA lawyers twisted it to justify the potential seizure of voting machines. Fortunately, they didn’t succeed. But what if those powers had been enshrined in a classified annex and preauthorized by Congress? It would have been much easier for the president to abuse those authorities and harder for the public to figure out what was going on. I should note that I don’t see the “secret law” scenario as particularly probable. Democrats, Republicans, and nonpartisan lawyers must review the language of classified annexes ahead of time, before the documents get attached to bills and voted on by the House or Senate. Abusing the practice would be difficult. But the fact that the idea came up is a red flag. Former members of Congress and their staff are so concerned by the rise of far-right figures in the American political system that they now view routine aspects of the lawmaking process with suspicion. A former official who broached the subject asked me not to take notes, just in case a MAGA majority came looking for him. “I don’t want to get subpoenaed,” he explained. Chapter 5 THE SHIELD Energy in the Executive is a leading character in the definition of good government. It is essential to the protection of the community against foreign attacks… the steady administration of the laws… the protection of property… [and] the security of liberty against the enterprises and assaults of ambition, of faction, and of anarchy. —ALEXANDER HAMILTON, FEDERALIST NO. 70, 1788 PART I March 28, 2019 The large wooden desk had seen thousands of moments like this, moments of decision. It had been in the Oval Office for more than a hundred years, a gift from Britain to the United States fashioned from the timbers of an abandoned naval vessel, the HMS Resolute. The desk was a national stage for presidents to pronounce formidable words, a platform for celebrating triumphs, and in certain tumultuous periods, a graveyard of bad decisions. Seated behind the iconic helm of American power, Trump weighed his options. He squinted his eyes as a bevy of advisors took turns speaking about the issue at hand. On the Resolute desk, his fingers hovered near a red button—prepared to make a fateful decision. The mood was tense as aides argued with each other. But it became clear by the look on his face that he’d made up his mind. His finger was now on the button. The president pressed it, decisively. Click. The door to an anteroom swung open almost instantly, and an attendant strode into the Oval Office, placing an ice-filled glass on the desk and popping open a Diet Coke. “Does anyone want anything?” the president asked insincerely. No one was stupid enough to answer. The waiter poured the soda into the tall glass. When it was full, the president waved him


spied a figure on the approach. A wisp of a person, a moth-wing flutter of black lace, fair hair. But there was a force around her, pressure in the air. “Madam,” called Alice, raising her hand. The figure paused. The light shifted, dissolved, and Miss de Vries turned and looked her way. The first time Alice saw Madam, she’d been startled. She hadn’t expected Miss de Vries to be so tiny. To be such a small, delicate person. She was—what? Two years older than herself, at most? Twenty-three, and only just that. Just a girl, really. Miss de Vries was wearing mourning, black-dyed and ruffled lawn, and the lace came all the way up to her chin. Her flaxen hair was teased and curled so that just one lock fell on her forehead. She had curious features. A thin nose, and slightly protuberant eyes. Like a fairy, or a goblin. She waited for Alice to approach. And it was the way she waited—patiently, perfectly, preternaturally still—that gave Alice pause. As she stepped closer, Alice felt it. Electricity crackling around those delicate hands, wrists. Miss de Vries’s bones seemed miniature, like a bird’s, but there was something dense, ferocious, about the way she was constructed. “Alice, isn’t it?” Miss de Vries said. Her voice was low, carefully modulated, controlled. Alice nodded. “Good. Come to the dressing room. I’ve something to ask you.” The bedroom doors were on runners, and they slid back noiselessly. The light changed when you entered the bedroom. It was an enormous gilded box, cold and lofty and strange. There were pale pink flowers printed on the walls, and the windows were thickly sheathed in muslin, but you could still see the gray-green shadow of Hyde Park across the road. There was a bureau where Miss de Vries kept her letters and her personal papers and—Alice had squinted through the crack in the dressing-room door to make sure of this—her own personal funds. Banknotes and postal orders and petty cash tied up in silk bags. The bed was very grand indeed. Someone had stitched words into the canopy: “If you do not rise early, you can make progress in nothing.” Alice had always assumed young ladies stayed in bed till noon. But Miss de Vries got up at dawn, before her servants were even awake. “What does she do with her time, rising so early?” Alice had asked Mrs. King. Mrs. King had considered this, deciding whether it was a relevant question or not. “She reads,” she’d said, at last, voice stiff. “Oh? What does she read?” Alice had detected a tiny note of doubt in her sister’s voice. “Improving texts.” “What sort of topics?” Mrs. King had frowned. “War. Philosophy. The art of diplomacy. Chronicles of great kings.” Alice had laughed. “Not really?” Mrs. King had been quite serious. “What else?” Miss de Vries opened the door to the dressing room. It was a miniature copy of the bedroom, mirrored and gilded and festooned in silk. But it was much darker, and without windows. It contained only wardrobes and


Yeltalay. Houses rotted on tall stilts, while towers had crumbled into heaps of stone, thick with yellow moss. A rickety boardwalk greeted them, winding through the mist, into the ruins of a settlement. King Padar tested it underfoot before he put his weight on it. Dumai followed him. ‘This was an outpost,’ he said. ‘People lived here for decades, to broaden their knowledge of the world – alchemists, metalsmiths, skywatchers.’ He frowned at a large bronze urn, dulled by mud. ‘That is a Lacustrine instrument, for measuring the tremors in the ground. They must have left in a hurry, to have abandoned an object of such value.’ Dumai eyed it. ‘What drew them to this place?’ ‘They saw the earth was open here and came to hear its deep secrets.’ ‘And smell them.’ Kanifa watched the steam rise. ‘I’m not sure I could stand these fumes.’ ‘Listening to the earth sounds like Northern oddness,’ Nikeya said hoarsely. ‘I hear they have conversations with ice.’ ‘They did once,’ King Padar agreed. ‘Now they praise a warrior.’ ‘You seem half a warrior yourself, good king, traipsing through dangerous valleys with strangers.’ ‘I had another life before I wore a crown.’ He glanced back at Dumai. ‘Much like you, Princess.’ They kept going, walking in the dragons’ shadows. Behind the base of a fallen tower, Dumai spotted a cave. Clearing the trailing moss from its mouth, she saw a faded mural of a peak brimming with fire, and people reaching for the stars. A yelp pulled her attention away. Nikeya had put her boot straight through the ground. She lurched away from the scalding pool beneath, losing her footing. ‘Nikeya,’ Dumai said, starting towards her. ‘I’m fine.’ Nikeya caught her breath. ‘Stay there.’ Kanifa stretched out a hand for hers. Nikeya grasped it and let him drag her away from the pool. ‘Come to the boardwalk,’ King Padar said, beckoning. ‘The Broken Valley is fragile. If you had slipped into that pool, there would have been nothing left to send back to Seiiki.’ Dumai gave Nikeya her flask before she followed him. For once, the Lady of Faces was silent. Her hands shook as she drank. The sun had gone down, making the fog much harder to cross. Furtia raised her head, and her crest shone like a clear full moon; the Sepuli dragons did the same. King Padar stopped where the boardwalk did. When Dumai saw the reason it had buckled, she took a careful step forward, so she could see over the edge, to where the earth had yawned wide. Furtia bared her teeth, eyes wildening. Too many. Dumai stared into the rift. Inside, pitted boulders were clustered together, leaking molten lava through their cracks, rattling. Not one small clutch this time, but hundreds. King Padar knelt beside her, the glow catching in his eyes. What are they? Twistings of fire and earth. Furtia hissed. They cannot be calmed now. The sky will burn . . . Something broke through the nearest rock, cracking its dark crust. ‘Princess Dumai,’ King Padar said, his


say anything. `Why,' said the Dodo, `the best way to explain it is to do it.' (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (`the exact shape doesn't matter,' it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no `One, two, three, and away,' but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out `The race is over!' and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, `But who has won?' This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, `EVERYBODY has won, and all must have prizes.' `But who is to give the prizes?' quite a chorus of voices asked. `Why, SHE, of course,' said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, `Prizes! Prizes!' Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece all round. `But she must have a prize herself, you know,' said the Mouse. `Of course,' the Dodo replied very gravely. `What else have you got in your pocket?' he went on, turning to Alice. `Only a thimble,' said Alice sadly. `Hand it over here,' said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying `We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble'; and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. `You promised to tell me your history, you know,' said Alice, `and why it is you hate--C and D,' she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. `Mine is a long and a


against his side. Then his eyes narrowed. “Say, you wouldn’t be trying to trick me, would you?” “Disengaging Flirting Protocol. Yes. I was doing exactly that. There is lubrication, but it would not have mattered given what I was about to do.” “Impressive,” the Coachman whispered. “I still almost want to try just to see what happens. But there will be time for that later. On to the next!” Back to the desk again, picking up the third label. This time, he approached warily, stretching the robot arm as far as it would go and setting the paper on the stool in front of Hap, who glared at him. “Easy there, handsome. I wouldn’t try anything if I were you. I hate to think what would happen, especially since we’re just starting to be friends.” Hap’s arms shot out between the bars, fingers crooked, but the Coachman and the stool were out of reach. “L-let us go.” “That’s no way to treat your boss,” the Coachman said. He paused, head tilted to the side. “But I can see why you would, given how I’m acting. My apologies! Language matters, yes? To that end, think of us not as illustrious employer and murderous employee, but rather as a family. You wouldn’t hurt your family, would you?” “I d-don’t hurt,” Hap growled. “Right-o!” the Coachman said. “But don’t let that stop you from acting like you could. Really sell it, my angry friend. To assist you in this endeavor, I’ve labeled you THE MOST DANGEROUS MACHINE IN EXISTENCE. You’re welcome.” “Aw, Hap,” Rambo said. “It’s like he knows you!” “Last, but certainly not least,” the Coachman said, bent at the knees and bending over backward until his torso was horizontal with the ground. He extended the robot arm, grabbed the last piece of paper, then snapped upright with a mechanical groan. “The strangest machine of them all. Who made him? Where did he come from? What is his purpose? Why does he look like he knows a cruel trick has been played upon him, but doesn’t have the wherewithal to do anything about it?” “He has got you there,” Nurse Ratched said. The Coachman approached Vic’s cage, setting the label upon the stool in front of it. “You, my odd companion, will be a mystery without answer. A puzzle with no solution. They will come from miles around to gaze upon your physical self, each of them asking the same question: Why? To help facilitate such discussions, you are hereby henceforth known as THE COACHMAN’S MALADROIT MACHINE OF MYSTERIOUS MACHINATIONS!” “Nurse Ratched says that alliteration is a sign of imaginative weakness,” Rambo said. The Coachman laughed. “Is that right? Far be it from me to speak against such beauty, but my customers appreciate it.” He frowned. “I think. Anyway! You all have your parts to play. While some will be bigger than others, every one of you is important. That’s called positive reinforcement. Huzzah!” Streamers shot from his hands again, and were sucked back up almost immediately. “Sorry about that. I can’t always control


the man centered himself. His arm was steady. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said. He lifted his pistol. “I’ve got the money!” Alice’s voice was strangled. She drew out a fistful of banknotes from her apron, keeping her eyes only on the gun. “Here, here. See? You can count it. Take what I owe.” Slowly, he came to her. He smelled ripe, as if he needed to bathe, but his overcoat still carried the faintest whiff of gardenias. “Show me.” He kept the pistol on Mrs. King and Alice unfolded banknotes with shaking hands. He sniffed, held out his hand. Folded it all away in the lining of his coat. “This was a bad business,” he said, staring her in the eye. “You’re lucky.” He swiveled the pistol away. Tipped a finger to Mrs. King. “Good day to you.” Alice didn’t watch him trudging away through the trees. She felt no relief. She closed her eyes. The plane trees were whispering, worrying, overhead. She heard Mrs. King’s voice, tight, and from a distance. “Alice,” she said. “Are you safe?” “Dinah,” she said. “I’ve been in trouble.” * * * At last, Miss de Vries got out of bed. It was a sound that did it. An echo of something, crystalline and pure, at the outermost edges of her consciousness. A cry. She ran a hand across the rippled surface of her sheets, instincts stirring. When she rolled the bedroom doors back, the air around her felt as if it had been hollowed out, immeasurably expanded. The lights were burning, same as always, in the passage. But she saw the wrongness at once. The floor: glossy black paint, obsidian smooth. It made her dizzy. Someone had taken up her splendid carpets. They’d left only the bare, stained boards underneath. She touched the floor with a toe. Cold. Movement below. Footsteps, hundreds of them, unmistakable. But no voices. She stepped out into the passage. 38 3:00 a.m. Winnie surveyed the courtyard. It was still filled with water, the abandoned rafts bobbing worriedly on the surface of the Nile. The garden was alive with activity, and she could hear a racket building in the mews: coaches and wheelbarrows and pony traps and boys with panniers over their shoulders. Cart after cart after cart was rattling away from Park Lane, out of sight of Hyde Park, taking the side streets and mews lanes and alleys of Mayfair. Enormous motors stood at the gates, spiriting the angels and triptychs and diptychs into the night. Winnie saw their agents observing proceedings from the gate. The whole underworld was out tonight. She came back to the hall. The Janes appeared, limping. “How much more time do you need?” “Five minutes.” Winnie tried to be calm. “Five more?” She had hoped they could be away by three. It had seemed very nearly impossible that they would keep the crowd in the park for even ninety minutes, even with their pyramid and their vans carefully blocking the junctions. “Give Alice the word. Let’s get Madam downstairs.” “We haven’t seen Alice


excitedly. "I hit him all right. The spear stuck in. I wounded him!" He sunned himself in their new respect and felt that hunting was good after all. "I walloped him properly. That was the beast, I think!" Jack came back. "That wasn't the beast. That was a boar." "I hit him." "Why didn't you grab him? I tried--" Ralph's voice ran up. "But a boar!" Jack flushed suddenly. "You said he'd do us. What did you want to throw for? Why didn't you wait? He held out his arm. "Look." He turned his left forearm for them all to see. On the outside was a rip; not much, but bloody. "He did that with his tusks. I couldn't get my spear down in time." Attention focused on Jack. "That's a wound," said Simon, "and you ought to suck it. Like Berengaria." Jack sucked. "I hit him," said Ralph indignantly. "I hit him with my spear, I wounded him." He tried for their attention. "He was coming along the path. I threw, like this--" Robert snarled at him. Ralph entered into the play and everybody laughed. Presently they were all jabbing at Robert who made mock rushes. Jack shouted. "Make a ring!" The circle moved in and round. Robert squealed in mock terror, then in real pain. "Ow! Stop it! You're hurting!" The butt end of a spear fell on his back as he blundered among them. "Hold him!" They got his arms and legs. Ralph, carried away by a sudden thick excitement, grabbed Eric's spear and jabbed at Robert with it. "Kill him! Kill him!" All at once, Robert was screaming and struggling with the strength of frenzy. Jack had him by the hair and was brandishing his knife. Behind him was Roger, fighting to get close. The chant rose ritually, as at the last moment of a dance or a hunt. "_Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in!_" Ralph too was fighting to get near, to get a handful of that brown, vulnerable flesh. The desire to squeeze and hurt was over-mastering. Jack's arm came down; the heaving circle cheered and made pig-dying noises. Then they lay quiet, panting, listening to Robert's frightened snivels. He wiped his face with a dirty arm, and made an effort to retrieve his status. "Oh, my bum!" He rubbed his rump ruefully. Jack rolled over. "That was a good game." "Just a game," said Ralph uneasily. "I got jolly badly hurt at rugger once." "We ought to have a drum," said Maurice, "then we could do it properly." Ralph looked at him. "How properly?" "I dunno. You want a fire, I think, and a drum, and you keep time to the drum. "You want a pig," said Roger, "like a real hunt." "Or someone to pretend," said Jack. "You could get someone to dress up as a pig and then he could act--you know, pretend to knock me over and all that." "You want a real pig," said Robert, still caressing his rump, "because you've got to kill him."


GLOW OF THE WEDDING had worn off, and I was back in my happy place—my camp—knowing that it might not be my happy place for much longer. I walked to the end of the long dock and sat down, feet swinging, like my sister and I used to do when we were little girls. I hadn’t been able to save my sister. And now, I might not be able to save Holly Springs. I took a deep breath, listening to the rustle of the light breeze through the trees on the riverbank. The wooden swim platform bobbed effortlessly in the river twenty-five yards in the distance. I could still remember the first time I swam all the way out to it alone, how I felt like I could take on the world, I could do anything, be anyone. Where had that little girl gone? She was tired. Tired of fighting a battle every day. And, while I thought the fight was worth it, registration was down, donations were down, and we’d even lost a few grants for scholarship campers. I needed to be out provisioning for Lanier’s bachelorette party this weekend, but I had a phone call to make first. It was one I didn’t want to make, but at this point, it was inevitable. I sighed and got up, walking back down the dock, taking in the sight of the sailing hut, the scattered cabins, and the basketball court as I made my way toward my office. I remembered the day I made the command decision, twenty-six years ago, to buy an ailing, aging girls’ summer camp. It was impulsive at best, insane at worst, but I was twenty-four years old and feeling a type of pain I didn’t know was possible. After my parents died in a terrible car accident—and left both me and Melanie a sizable amount of money in their will—I wanted to go where I felt safest, happiest. Only one place came to mind. When I got to camp the day after their funeral, it looked eerie, desolate, lonely. I was used to this place being filled with excited girls and young women holding painted welcome signs, hugging, cheering, waving. But now, all of that was gone. A chain hung at the camp entrance with two removable placards attached: NO TRESPASSING. FOR SALE. I knew instantly I would use the money my parents had left me to buy Camp Holly Springs. I unfastened the clasp holding the chain to an eye hook, ignoring the NO TRESPASSING sign. That didn’t apply to me. I drove to the director’s hut, and when I opened the door, Karen Stevenson, the camp’s owner, had her head down on the office desk. She startled when I entered. “June!” She stood to hug me. “Hi, Karen.” I burst into tears, the story of my parents’ death pouring out. It was only when I finished that I realized she was crying too. “I’m so sorry, June. Doubly so. I’m sorry about your parents, and I’m sorry to say that I’ve lost the camp,” she


my last name in my twenties. My dad’s last name, the one I grew up with, was Callahan, and my first manager told me Finnegan Callahan was too much of a mouthful to be booking anything. Too many consonants.” A grimace. “But I haven’t been Finn Callahan in years. I have about zero attachment to it. I’ve been waiting, actually, to be Finn Walsh longer than I was Finn Callahan, and it’s coming up. A few more years. One less connection to my dad.” “I’m glad.” “When I decided to change my name, I spent a lot of time thinking about whether I wanted one that was visibly Jewish or not. And every so often, I wonder if I made the right choice,” he says. “I’ve been pretty safe from antisemitism, but now . . . I don’t know.” Without my voice recorder, I try to commit his words to memory. His Judaism is important to him: the community, the traditions, the history. The chapter that starts with an image of that menorah in the background of Ms. Mistletoe is going to be an absolute knockout—I’ll settle for nothing less. “Speaking as someone with a name that’s instantly recognizable as Jewish, it’s a mixed bag. I love that immediate connection I can have with someone because of it, but on the other hand . . .” I think back to a listicle I wrote back at The Catch, “Eight Unexpectedly Jewish Movies to Watch This Hanukkah”—a fluff piece, really, something that should have been innocent—where the comments had to be turned off when they veered antisemitic, which usually doesn’t take too long when you’re visibly Jewish online. Horrifying images started showing up in my DMs and I had to lock my social media accounts for weeks. I tell him this, and he shakes his head, disgusted. “Fucking horrible,” he mutters. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” I attempt to shrug it off, because I accepted it long ago as a side effect of moving through the world with my last name. But then I stop myself. “Yeah,” I say. Firmly. Solidly. “It was fucked up.” An older man stops by our table, asks if he can take a photo for his granddaughter. Before we get up, Finn places a hand on my wrist again, a whisper of contact before he drops his arm back to his side. “Chandler? In case I haven’t said it lately, I’m really glad you’re the one writing this book.” chapter eighteen RENO, NV The con that afternoon passes in a blur of capes and Sharpie ink. Afterward, we wind up at a karaoke bar where the bouncer scrutinizes my ID with its February 29 birth date for a few extra moments, something I got used to years ago and that Finn finds hilarious. It’s a dive with neon signs and crackly speakers and, most important, Finn’s best friend from high school. Krishanu is tall, Indian American, with wavy dark hair beneath a Reno Aces cap. He’s a high school English teacher, and his boyfriend, Derek,


Someone had stitched words into the canopy: “If you do not rise early, you can make progress in nothing.” Alice had always assumed young ladies stayed in bed till noon. But Miss de Vries got up at dawn, before her servants were even awake. “What does she do with her time, rising so early?” Alice had asked Mrs. King. Mrs. King had considered this, deciding whether it was a relevant question or not. “She reads,” she’d said, at last, voice stiff. “Oh? What does she read?” Alice had detected a tiny note of doubt in her sister’s voice. “Improving texts.” “What sort of topics?” Mrs. King had frowned. “War. Philosophy. The art of diplomacy. Chronicles of great kings.” Alice had laughed. “Not really?” Mrs. King had been quite serious. “What else?” Miss de Vries opened the door to the dressing room. It was a miniature copy of the bedroom, mirrored and gilded and festooned in silk. But it was much darker, and without windows. It contained only wardrobes and painted screens. Alice was here all the time, carrying bolts of fabric back and forth from the closets. “Tell me,” said Miss de Vries, and her voice lightened, as if she could talk frankly now that they were alone. She marched to the wardrobe, threw open the doors, rummaged quickly for something—and drew out a stack of papers. “Are these yours?” Alice flushed. Madam was holding the sketches, the ones Alice had made. She raised an eyebrow when Alice didn’t reply. “Well?” Alice reached for them. “Beg pardon, Madam,” she said. “I shouldn’t have left those there.” Miss de Vries smiled, a cold line. She lifted the sketches into the air, out of reach. “They’re good,” she said shortly, spreading them out on the dressing-room table, expression unreadable. “You’re a remarkable draftsman,” she said. “Or draftswoman, I suppose.” Alice shook her head. “I wouldn’t say that, Madam.” Miss de Vries’s eyes narrowed. “Nonsense. I can’t abide false modesty.” She pressed a finger to one of the pages. “This one. What would it take to make it?” Alice felt a prickle of unease. “Make it?” “Yes.” Miss de Vries tapped it with her nail. Alice went to the table, examined her own design. A gown with a waist strapped and laced, a fanciful and cloud-like train, shoulders that were mere skeins of thread, slipping off the skin. Something that would ripple when it moved. Something entirely unsuitable for a lady in mourning. Alice reached for the paper, to hide it. “I really shouldn’t have, Madam.” Miss de Vries placed her fist on the table, holding the page in place. “Shouldn’t have what? Imagined something nice for me to wear?” Alice shook her head. “They’re just scribbles, Madam. Silly drawings.” “My dress is ghastly. It won’t do at all—I see that now.” Miss de Vries stepped back. Up close, at this angle, it was perfectly possible for Alice to inspect Madam’s skin, the tiny freckles and wisps of hair on the back of her neck. It made her gentler, more human. “I want something like


somehow making the bow tie look softer. Like it could be whipped off at any moment. He’d tried to tame his hair, but the wind in his truck must have gotten hold of it, because some pieces were refusing to stay in line. Honestly, though, who cared about hair when his shoulders could seat a party of four? He sauntered closer, his right hand stroking the cat’s back absently. “Yeah, I can see you like me in a tux, princess.” She smirked at him, hoping the heat in her cheeks wasn’t turning them red. “Nice of you to show up.” “Aw,” he drawled. “Were you getting worried?” “That you slipped in a puddle of your own caveman drool and hit your head? Yes. I was.” His smile showed off a row of strong, white teeth. “Were you able to get a dress made of Dalmatian fur on short notice?” “Had one in my closet already, as a matter of fact. I just had to find a good man.” The corners of her mouth lifted. “And by good, I mean standing upright, with a pulse.” “Gosh, Natalie. You sure know how to make an Adonis feel special.” “It is our wedding day, after all.” Now that she’d made sure they were on even footing, in that safe bickering space where they tended to live, Natalie was comfortable enough to draw an object from her robe pocket and hold it out to him. “You mentioned wedding gifts and I just picked up a small thing. It’s really just a very small thing. Like you said, this was short notice and . . .” Stop rambling. “I found your Facebook profile, which you haven’t posted anything on in like, seven years, but there was a picture of Sam, and . . .” She couldn’t seem to stop moving as he turned the laminated picture over in his hand, reading the words that were printed there. Then back. Right side up again. He said nothing, just looked down at the small card with his brow puckered. “This is the U.S. Navy hymn,” he said quietly, finally looking up at her. “Yes.” She tucked a strand of loose hair back into her low chignon. “I had to google it obviously. I don’t just know hymns off the top of my head.” “Natalie . . .” “Sam can’t be here, but you can put that in your pocket and . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’ll feel a tiny bit like he is. Like I said, it’s just a small thing—” He moved quickly, his firm mouth pressing to hers and cutting her off mid-sentence, staying there for a long moment while neither one of them seemed to breathe. “No, it’s not,” he said, releasing her lips, but staying close. So close she’d tilted her head all the way back to receive the kiss. “This isn’t small, princess.” She couldn’t think of an adequate response to that and talking at all seemed like it might be difficult, so she just nodded, the pressure on her chest increasing


had never told her things. "Humph," muttered Mrs. Medlock, staring at her queer, unresponsive little face. She did not say any more for a few moments and then she began again. "I suppose you might as well be told something--to prepare you. You are going to a queer place." Mary said nothing at all, and Mrs. Medlock looked rather discomfited by her apparent indifference, but, after taking a breath, she went on. "Not but that it's a grand big place in a gloomy way, and Mr. Craven's proud of it in his way--and that's gloomy enough, too. The house is six hundred years old and it's on the edge of the moor, and there's near a hundred rooms in it, though most of them's shut up and locked. And there's pictures and fine old furniture and things that's been there for ages, and there's a big park round it and gardens and trees with branches trailing to the ground--some of them." She paused and took another breath. "But there's nothing else," she ended suddenly. Mary had begun to listen in spite of herself. It all sounded so unlike India, and anything new rather attracted her. But she did not intend to look as if she were interested. That was one of her unhappy, disagreeable ways. So she sat still. "Well," said Mrs. Medlock. "What do you think of it?" "Nothing," she answered. "I know nothing about such places." That made Mrs. Medlock laugh a short sort of laugh. "Eh!" she said, "but you are like an old woman. Don't you care?" "It doesn't matter" said Mary, "whether I care or not." "You are right enough there," said Mrs. Medlock. "It doesn't. What you're to be kept at Misselthwaite Manor for I don't know, unless because it's the easiest way. He's not going to trouble himself about you, that's sure and certain. He never troubles himself about no one." She stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time. "He's got a crooked back," she said. "That set him wrong. He was a sour young man and got no good of all his money and big place till he was married." Mary's eyes turned toward her in spite of her intention not to seem to care. She had never thought of the hunchback's being married and she was a trifle surprised. Mrs. Medlock saw this, and as she was a talkative woman she continued with more interest. This was one way of passing some of the time, at any rate. "She was a sweet, pretty thing and he'd have walked the world over to get her a blade o' grass she wanted. Nobody thought she'd marry him, but she did, and people said she married him for his money. But she didn't--she didn't," positively. "When she died--" Mary gave a little involuntary jump. "Oh! did she die!" she exclaimed, quite without meaning to. She had just remembered a French fairy story she had once read called "Riquet a la Houppe." It had been about a poor hunchback and a beautiful princess


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

eccentricities, though indeed, occasionally, I remonstrated with him. I did this very gently, however, because, though the civilest, nay, the blandest and most reverential of men in the morning, yet in the afternoon he was disposed, upon provocation, to be slightly rash with his tongue, in fact, insolent. Now, valuing his morning services as I did, and resolved not to lose them; yet, at the same time made uncomfortable by his inflamed ways after twelve o’clock; and being a man of peace, unwilling by my admonitions to call forth unseemly retorts from him; I took upon me, one Saturday noon (he was always worse on Saturdays), to hint to him, very kindly, that perhaps now that he was growing old, it might be well to abridge his labors; in short, he need not come to my chambers after twelve o’clock, but, dinner over, had best go home to his lodgings and rest himself till teatime. But no; he insisted upon his afternoon devotions. His countenance became intolerably fervid, as he oratorically assured me—gesticulating with a long ruler at the other end of the room—that if his services in the morning were useful, how indispensable, then, in the afternoon? “With submission, sir,” said Turkey on this occasion, “I consider myself your right-hand man. In the morning I but marshal and deploy my columns; but in the afternoon I put myself at their head, and gallantly charge the foe, thus!”—and he made a violent thrust with the ruler. “But the blots, Turkey,” intimated I. “True,—but, with submission, sir, behold these hairs! I am getting old. Surely, sir, a blot or two of a warm afternoon is not to be severely urged against gray hairs. Old age—even if it blot the page—is honorable. With submission, sir, we both are getting old.” This appeal to my fellow-feeling was hardly to be resisted. At all events, I saw that go he would not. So I made up my mind to let him stay, resolving, nevertheless, to see to it, that during the afternoon he had to do with my less important papers. Nippers, the second on my list, was a whiskered, sallow, and, upon the whole, rather piratical-looking young man of about five and twenty. I always deemed him the victim of two evil powers—ambition and indigestion. The ambition was evinced by a certain impatience of the duties of a mere copyist, an unwarrantable usurpation of strictly professional affairs, such as the original drawing up of legal documents. The indigestion seemed betokened in an occasional nervous testiness and grinning irritability, causing the teeth to audibly grind together over mistakes committed in copying; unnecessary maledictions, hissed, rather than spoken, in the heat of business; and especially by a continual discontent with the height of the table where he worked. Though of a very ingenious mechanical turn, Nippers could never get this table to suit him. He put chips under it, blocks of various sorts, bits of pasteboard, and at last went so far as to attempt an exquisite adjustment by final pieces of folded blotting paper. But no


too. I felt certain she was here with some really great news, but one look at her face tells me that is not the case. I hug her. “What’s the matter?” “I think I just did something really stupid,” she whispers. We walk up the steps, and I pull her inside the unlocked front door. “Do you want some tea?” I ask. “Lemonade?” She sits down on the couch, discarding her flip-flops and tucking her legs underneath her. It’s like watching my mother. It takes my breath away. “What’s going on?” “So, David from Price Development stopped by this morning.” “Ew. Oh no.” Maybe that wasn’t fair. From our professional conversations—I was June’s lawyer, after all—David seemed like a nice enough guy. And, well, he was giving my aunt a way out should we not be able to prevent the worst from happening. “What did David say?” “He said I could have one more summer at camp, but that I needed to make the decision to sell or not. He said it was now or never.” I brace myself for the news that she has sold, that that part of my life is over. So it stuns me when she says, “So I told him it was never.” I practically melt into the club chair I’ve been standing in front of. “June!” I know I shouldn’t scold her. She is here because she is panicking, and my job is to soothe her. But between Huff and Bryce and Lanier and now this, I am at my wits’ end. “I am your attorney! This is why you have me!” Granted, she doesn’t actually pay me. But we are family, so that is fine. “When David Price says now or never, you say, ‘Thank you, David. I will contact my attorney and get back to you as soon as possible.’ ” “I know,” she says, her head in her hands. “I know. I messed up big-time.” I feel awful for her, but, even still, I can’t help but say, “June, how in the world are we going to come up with almost one hundred thousand dollars? That money from David was our backup plan.” She looks up at me and, in a shocking role reversal, says, “Well, we just have to figure out how to get that money.” She says it casually, like I haven’t devoted every spare minute to that very cause. Finn and I have spent hours and hours trying to get bank loans, secure any Covid funding that might be left. Not to mention that Mary Stuart is working herself to the bone trying to bring in more donors, more press. I feel out of options, out of time. And June has just sunk her lifeboat. “What if I call David,” I say. “Tell him you were having a bad morning and that if they could just give us thirty days—” “No.” “No?” “You know, Daphne, I realized something on the drive over: I’m a hider. I don’t trust myself enough to take risks, so I stay at camp all year


paper label, with the words `DRINK ME' beautifully printed on it in large letters. It was all very well to say `Drink me,' but the wise little Alice was not going to do THAT in a hurry. `No, I'll look first,' she said, `and see whether it's marked "poison" or not'; for she had read several nice little histories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they WOULD not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your finger VERY deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked `poison,' it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later. However, this bottle was NOT marked `poison,' so Alice ventured to taste it, and finding it very nice, (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavour of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast,) she very soon finished it off. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * `What a curious feeling!' said Alice; `I must be shutting up like a telescope.' And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going though the little door into that lovely garden. First, however, she waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further: she felt a little nervous about this; `for it might end, you know,' said Alice to herself, `in my going out altogether, like a candle. I wonder what I should be like then?' And she tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing. After a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided on going into the garden at once; but, alas for poor Alice! when she got to the door, she found he had forgotten the little golden key, and when she went back to the table for it, she found she could not possibly reach it: she could see it quite plainly through the glass, and she tried her best to climb up one of the legs of the table, but it was too slippery; and when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing sat down and cried. `Come, there's no use in crying like that!' said Alice to herself, rather sharply; `I advise you to leave off this minute!' She generally gave herself very good advice, (though she very seldom followed it), and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into her eyes; and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having cheated herself in a game of croquet she was


old as a private tutor--or a `private' anything--is almost as chilling to the imagination as a second secretaryship at Bucharest. Sometimes I feel I must make a plunge: an immense plunge. Do you suppose, for instance, there would be any opening for me in America-- in New York?" Archer looked at him with startled eyes. New York, for a young man who had frequented the Goncourts and Flaubert, and who thought the life of ideas the only one worth living! He continued to stare at M. Riviere perplexedly, wondering how to tell him that his very superiorities and advantages would be the surest hindrance to success. "New York--New York--but must it be especially New York?" he stammered, utterly unable to imagine what lucrative opening his native city could offer to a young man to whom good conversation appeared to be the only necessity. A sudden flush rose under M. Riviere's sallow skin. "I--I thought it your metropolis: is not the intellectual life more active there?" he rejoined; then, as if fearing to give his hearer the impression of having asked a favour, he went on hastily: "One throws out random suggestions--more to one's self than to others. In reality, I see no immediate prospect--" and rising from his seat he added, without a trace of constraint: "But Mrs. Carfry will think that I ought to be taking you upstairs." During the homeward drive Archer pondered deeply on this episode. His hour with M. Riviere had put new air into his lungs, and his first impulse had been to invite him to dine the next day; but he was beginning to understand why married men did not always immediately yield to their first impulses. "That young tutor is an interesting fellow: we had some awfully good talk after dinner about books and things," he threw out tentatively in the hansom. May roused herself from one of the dreamy silences into which he had read so many meanings before six months of marriage had given him the key to them. "The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?" she questioned coldly; and he guessed that she nursed a secret disappointment at having been invited out in London to meet a clergyman and a French tutor. The disappointment was not occasioned by the sentiment ordinarily defined as snobbishness, but by old New York's sense of what was due to it when it risked its dignity in foreign lands. If May's parents had entertained the Carfrys in Fifth Avenue they would have offered them something more substantial than a parson and a schoolmaster. But Archer was on edge, and took her up. "Common--common WHERE?" he queried; and she returned with unusual readiness: "Why, I should say anywhere but in his school-room. Those people are always awkward in society. But then," she added disarmingly, "I suppose I shouldn't have known if he was clever." Archer disliked her use of the word "clever" almost as much as her use of the word "common"; but he was beginning to fear his tendency to dwell on the things he disliked in


to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled `ORANGE MARMALADE', but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. `Well!' thought Alice to herself, `after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they'll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!' (Which was very likely true.) Down, down, down. Would the fall NEVER come to an end! `I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?' she said aloud. `I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think--' (for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a VERY good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) `--yes, that's about the right distance--but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I've got to?' (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.) Presently she began again. `I wonder if I shall fall right THROUGH the earth! How funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think--' (she was rather glad there WAS no one listening, this time, as it didn't sound at all the right word) `--but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. Please, Ma'am, is this New Zealand or Australia?' (and she tried to curtsey as she spoke--fancy CURTSEYING as you're falling through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) `And what an ignorant little girl she'll think me for asking! No, it'll never do to ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere.' Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. `Dinah'll miss me very much to-night, I should think!' (Dinah was the cat.) `I hope they'll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time. Dinah my dear! I wish you were down here with me! There are no


attached. Holy shit! Jack was armed? Bile rises in my throat and I fight it down. “Don’t touch, Mrs. Grey,” says Prescott when I bend to pick it up. Sawyer emerges from Taylor’s office wearing latex gloves. “I’ll take care of that, Mrs. Grey,” he says. “It’s his?” I ask. “Yes ma’am,” says Ryan, wincing once more from Mrs. Jones’s ministra- tions. Holy crap. Ryan fought an armed man in my home. I shudder at the thought. Sawyer bends and gingerly picks up the Glock. “Should you be doing that?” I ask. “Mr. Grey would expect it ma’am.” Sawyer slides the gun into a zip-lock bag then squats to pat down Jack. He pauses and partially pulls a roll of duct tape from the man’s pocket. Sawyer blanches and pushes the tape back into Hyde’s pocket. Duct tape? My mind idly registers as I watch the proceedings with fascina- tion and an odd detachment. Then bile rises to my throat again as I realize the im- plications. Rapidly, I dismiss them from my head. Don’t go there, Ana! “Should we call the police?” I mutter, trying to hide my fear. I want Hyde out of my home, sooner rather than later. Ryan and Sawyer glance at each other. “I think we should call the police,” I say rather more forcefully, wondering what’s going on between Ryan and Sawyer. 208/551 “I’ve just tried Taylor, and he’s not answering his cell. Maybe he’s asleep.” Sawyer checks his watch. “It’s one forty-five in the morning on the East Coast.” Oh no. “Have you called Christian?” I whisper. “No, ma’am.” “Were you calling Taylor for instructions?” Sawyer looks momentarily embarrassed. “Yes, ma’am.” Part of me bristles. This man—I glance down at Hyde again—has invaded my home, and he needs to be removed by the police. But looking at the four of them, into their anxious eyes, I decide I must be missing something so I decide to call Christian. My scalp prickles. I know he’s mad at me—really, really mad at me—and I falter at the thought of what he’ll say. And how he’ll stress because he’s not here and can’t be here until tomorrow evening. I know I’ve worried him enough this evening. Perhaps I shouldn’t call him. And then it occurs to me. Shit . What if I’d been here? I pale at the thought. Thank heavens I was out. Maybe I won’t be in so much trouble after all. “Is he okay?” I ask, pointing at Jack. “He’ll have an aching skull when he wakes,” Ryan says, gazing down at Jack with contempt. “But we need paramedics here to make sure.” I reach into my purse and pull out my BlackBerry, and before I can give too much thought to the extent of Christian’s anger, I dial his number. It goes straight to voice mail. He must have switched it off because he’s so mad. I cannot think what to say. Turning away, I walk down the hallway a little, away from everyone. “Hi. It’s me. Please don’t be mad. We’ve had an


being exposed to the influence of a young woman so careless of the dictates of Taste. "After all," he heard one of the younger men begin behind him (everybody talked through the Mephistopheles- and-Martha scenes), "after all, just WHAT happened?" "Well--she left him; nobody attempts to deny that." "He's an awful brute, isn't he?" continued the young enquirer, a candid Thorley, who was evidently preparing to enter the lists as the lady's champion. "The very worst; I knew him at Nice," said Lawrence Lefferts with authority. "A half-paralysed white sneering fellow--rather handsome head, but eyes with a lot of lashes. Well, I'll tell you the sort: when he wasn't with women he was collecting china. Paying any price for both, I understand." There was a general laugh, and the young champion said: "Well, then----?" "Well, then; she bolted with his secretary." "Oh, I see." The champion's face fell. "It didn't last long, though: I heard of her a few months later living alone in Venice. I believe Lovell Mingott went out to get her. He said she was desperately unhappy. That's all right--but this parading her at the Opera's another thing." "Perhaps," young Thorley hazarded, "she's too unhappy to be left at home." This was greeted with an irreverent laugh, and the youth blushed deeply, and tried to look as if he had meant to insinuate what knowing people called a "double entendre." "Well--it's queer to have brought Miss Welland, anyhow," some one said in a low tone, with a side- glance at Archer. "Oh, that's part of the campaign: Granny's orders, no doubt," Lefferts laughed. "When the old lady does a thing she does it thoroughly." The act was ending, and there was a general stir in the box. Suddenly Newland Archer felt himself impelled to decisive action. The desire to be the first man to enter Mrs. Mingott's box, to proclaim to the waiting world his engagement to May Welland, and to see her through whatever difficulties her cousin's anomalous situation might involve her in; this impulse had abruptly overruled all scruples and hesitations, and sent him hurrying through the red corridors to the farther side of the house. As he entered the box his eyes met Miss Welland's, and he saw that she had instantly understood his motive, though the family dignity which both considered so high a virtue would not permit her to tell him so. The persons of their world lived in an atmosphere of faint implications and pale delicacies, and the fact that he and she understood each other without a word seemed to the young man to bring them nearer than any explanation would have done. Her eyes said: "You see why Mamma brought me," and his answered: "I would not for the world have had you stay away." "You know my niece Countess Olenska?" Mrs. Welland enquired as she shook hands with her future son- in-law. Archer bowed without extending his hand, as was the custom on being introduced to a lady; and Ellen Olenska bent her head slightly, keeping her own pale-gloved hands


blood whooshed through her head. An owl screeched. Would Ella come here? Why would she be in any of these places? But where else to look? If only she were around that bend, standing on the shore, looking at the Hudson. But the shore was empty. The oak leaves rattled in the breeze. As she ran back up the trail, that terrifying thought rose again: a stranger, a kidnapping, Ella dragged from her bed. She slowed down and texted Gabriel: Ella’s gone. Do you know where she could be? She was crying by the time she reached the top of the trail. Please, God, she thought. Give her back. She would return home with Peter and the girls. She would stay in the marriage. She would never speak to Gabriel again. She would do anything. Back in front of the farmhouse, Peter was talking to a police officer, a man with a goatee whose calm demeanor made Maud more frightened. He said they had sent out patrol cars to look for Ella. “We almost always find these kids in the first hours,” he said. Maud heard only “almost.” “Has your daughter had problems lately?” the officer added. “She’s a teenager,” Peter said. “But nothing out of the ordinary.” Maud had never seen him so afraid, his face so closed, his voice so wobbly. But this wasn’t his fault. She was the one who had decided the girls should leave early. She had made Ella run away. The officer asked her to list everywhere that she’d taken Ella, repeating the places into his walkie-talkie for the other officers who were searching. Sleepy Hollow. The Italian restaurant. “We also went to the city.” Maud told him the name of the camp. “These places are all so far away.” “She might have hitched,” the officer said. “Has she before?” “No. No. She’s never done anything like this.” Who was on the roads in the middle of the night? Men. Men who had drunk too much and wove their cars into the bike lanes. Men with guns in their glove compartments. Men with rope in their trunks. “And no one around lately at this place?” the officer said. “Any strangers? Anything you’ve noticed?” “What do you mean?” Peter said, and Maud saw Ella sobbing in blackness. Ella gagged, wrists bound. Ella calling out for her mother. “There’s just me and the archaeologist who lives down there,” she said, her voice quavering. “He’s away.” “Ma’am, I know it’s hard,” the officer said, “but I don’t think she’s been abducted. Your husband told me her backpack and phone are gone and that he locked the front door when he went to bed. I don’t think you’d sleep through a forced entry.” “What about those people you know?” Peter said. “That guy you work with?” “I’ll go,” Maud said, already turned to head down the drive, through the gates, across the road. She pounded on Lydia and Frazer’s front door. Lydia answered in her robe, her silver hair flowing over her shoulders. “We can’t find Ella,” Maud said. Lydia


She didn’t have the time or the energy for it now. August’s throne wasn’t helping the crowding issue. It wasn’t the huge one from downstairs—instead, a travel throne stood on a wooden dais at the front end of the atrium, wrought in woven strands of gold and silver. At the top, a sun and moon hovered over each other, held up by threads of precious metals so thin they were nearly invisible. The Sainted King himself looked oddly stoic for a party. Stoic, and even worse than the last time Lore had seen him—his face gaunt, his eyes set back in darkened hollows, the skin beneath them bruised. He watched Gabe escort Lore inside but didn’t acknowledge them, his face drawn in thought. He appeared to be the only major player here so far. There were no Presque Mort, no Anton, no Bellegarde, though Alie was among the spinning dancers. This seemed like any other party, and the normalcy made Lore’s dread go from a slink through her middle to a slow spiral in her chest. Lore looked for Bastian, hoping he was here even if his captors weren’t. She didn’t see him. Nerves made her hand twitch—Gabe tightened his elbow around it, as good as a vise. “You make a good jailer,” she murmured from the side of her mouth. Something in him collapsed, just by a fraction, the steel in his frame buckling. “Lore, please—” “Finally!” On the floor, Alie broke away from her dance partner—Brigitte, who tipped Lore a wave before heading toward the wine table—and nearly ran to them, grinning widely. “I was wondering when you’d get here! The dancing is almost over!” Even with the way Anton’s reveals had twisted everything, having Alie close still felt like a comfort. “I thought it didn’t start until eight?” Lore asked. “The dinner starts at eight,” Alie corrected. “Or a bit after, I guess—I think the idea is to time it with the point of total eclipse.” The reminder of totality—of what August planned to do when the moon covered the sun and dipped the world in darkness—made the dread in Lore’s gut go from a slow spiral to a sharp knot. Alie fanned herself with her hand, drying the glowy sheen of sweat on her brow. “Why August is so adamant about making his select few guests eat in the dark, I have no idea.” A select few guests. So those August thought were on his side, who either wouldn’t interfere with the ritual or, like Bellegarde, planned to betray their King and stop it. Lore wasn’t sure which faction unsettled her more, really. The band struck up again, this time at a slower pace—a waltz. “The last dance of the night.” Alie swallowed, then firmed her chin and looked up at Gabe, who’d been silent since she approached. “Would you dance with me, Gabe?” He flinched; Lore felt it, her hand still imprisoned in the crook of his arm. “I’m afraid I…” “He’d love to,” came a voice from behind them, low and familiar. Bastian, thank the gods.


you he was in the loft." "If you didn't see him, how do you know he was in the loft?" "Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is," said the postmaster testily. "Didn't he get the telegram? If there is any mistake it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain." It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it was clear that in spite of Holmes's ruse we had no proof that Barry- more had not been in London all the time. Suppose that it were so -- suppose that the same man had been the last who had seen Sir Charles alive, and the first to dog the new heir when he returned to England. What then? Was he the agent of others or had he some sinister design of his own? What interest could he have in persecuting the Baskerville family? I thought of the strange warning clipped out of the leading article of the Times. Was that his work or was it possibly the doing of someone who was bent upon counteracting his schemes? The only conceivable motive was that which had been suggested by Sir Henry, that if the family could be scared away a comfortable and permanent home would be secured for the Barrymores. But surely such an explanation as that would be quite inadequate to account for the deep and subtle scheming which seemed to be weaving an invisible net round the young baronet. Holmes himself had said that no more complex case had come to him in all the long series of his sensational investigations. I prayed, as I walked back along the gray, lonely road, that my friend might soon be freed from his preoccupations and able to come down to take this heavy burden of responsibility from my shoulders. Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of run- ning feet behind me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned, expecting to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a stranger who was pursuing me. He was a small, slim, clean- shaven, prim-faced man, flaxen-haired and leanjawed, between thirty and forty years of age, dressed in a gray suit and wearing a straw hat. A tin box for botanical specimens hung over his shoulder and he carried a green butterfly-net in one of his hands. "You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson," said he as he came panting up to where I stood. "Here on the moor we are homely folk and do not wait for formal introduc- tions. You may possibly have heard my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer. I am Stapleton, of Merripit House." "Your net and box would have told me as much," said I, "for I knew that Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you know me?" "I have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me from the window of his surgery as you passed. As our road lay the same way I thought that I would overtake


life, that had nothing to do with the more or less noise that at the moment we might be engaged in making and that I could hear through any deepened exhilaration or quickened recitation or louder strum of the piano. Then it was that the others, the outsiders, were there. Though they were not angels, they "passed," as the French say, causing me, while they stayed, to tremble with the fear of their addressing to their younger victims some yet more infernal message or more vivid image than they had thought good enough for myself. What it was most impossible to get rid of was the cruel idea that, whatever I had seen, Miles and Flora saw MORE--things terrible and unguessable and that sprang from dreadful passages of intercourse in the past. Such things naturally left on the surface, for the time, a chill which we vociferously denied that we felt; and we had, all three, with repetition, got into such splendid training that we went, each time, almost automatically, to mark the close of the incident, through the very same movements. It was striking of the children, at all events, to kiss me inveterately with a kind of wild irrelevance and never to fail--one or the other-- of the precious question that had helped us through many a peril. "When do you think he WILL come? Don't you think we OUGHT to write?"--there was nothing like that inquiry, we found by experience, for carrying off an awkwardness. "He" of course was their uncle in Harley Street; and we lived in much profusion of theory that he might at any moment arrive to mingle in our circle. It was impossible to have given less encouragement than he had done to such a doctrine, but if we had not had the doctrine to fall back upon we should have deprived each other of some of our finest exhibitions. He never wrote to them--that may have been selfish, but it was a part of the flattery of his trust of me; for the way in which a man pays his highest tribute to a woman is apt to be but by the more festal celebration of one of the sacred laws of his comfort; and I held that I carried out the spirit of the pledge given not to appeal to him when I let my charges understand that their own letters were but charming literary exercises. They were too beautiful to be posted; I kept them myself; I have them all to this hour. This was a rule indeed which only added to the satiric effect of my being plied with the supposition that he might at any moment be among us. It was exactly as if my charges knew how almost more awkward than anything else that might be for me. There appears to me, moreover, as I look back, no note in all this more extraordinary than the mere fact that, in spite of my tension and of their triumph, I never lost patience with them. Adorable they must in truth


a proof of--God knows what! For the woman's a horror of horrors." Mrs. Grose, at this, fixed her eyes a minute on the ground; then at last raising them, "Tell me how you know," she said. "Then you admit it's what she was?" I cried. "Tell me how you know," my friend simply repeated. "Know? By seeing her! By the way she looked." "At you, do you mean--so wickedly?" "Dear me, no--I could have borne that. She gave me never a glance. She only fixed the child." Mrs. Grose tried to see it. "Fixed her?" "Ah, with such awful eyes!" She stared at mine as if they might really have resembled them. "Do you mean of dislike?" "God help us, no. Of something much worse." "Worse than dislike?--this left her indeed at a loss. "With a determination--indescribable. With a kind of fury of intention." I made her turn pale. "Intention?" "To get hold of her." Mrs. Grose--her eyes just lingering on mine--gave a shudder and walked to the window; and while she stood there looking out I completed my statement. "THAT'S what Flora knows." After a little she turned round. "The person was in black, you say?" "In mourning--rather poor, almost shabby. But--yes--with extraordinary beauty." I now recognized to what I had at last, stroke by stroke, brought the victim of my confidence, for she quite visibly weighed this. "Oh, handsome--very, very," I insisted; "wonderfully handsome. But infamous." She slowly came back to me. "Miss Jessel--WAS infamous." She once more took my hand in both her own, holding it as tight as if to fortify me against the increase of alarm I might draw from this disclosure. "They were both infamous," she finally said. So, for a little, we faced it once more together; and I found absolutely a degree of help in seeing it now so straight. "I appreciate," I said, "the great decency of your not having hitherto spoken; but the time has certainly come to give me the whole thing." She appeared to assent to this, but still only in silence; seeing which I went on: "I must have it now. Of what did she die? Come, there was something between them." "There was everything." "In spite of the difference--?" "Oh, of their rank, their condition"--she brought it woefully out. "SHE was a lady." I turned it over; I again saw. "Yes--she was a lady." "And he so dreadfully below," said Mrs. Grose. I felt that I doubtless needn't press too hard, in such company, on the place of a servant in the scale; but there was nothing to prevent an acceptance of my companion's own measure of my predecessor's abasement. There was a way to deal with that, and I dealt; the more readily for my full vision--on the evidence--of our employer's late clever, good-looking "own" man; impudent, assured, spoiled, depraved. "The fellow was a hound." Mrs. Grose considered as if it were perhaps a little a case for a sense of shades. "I've never seen one like him. He did what he wished." "With HER?" "With them


start again from the well another way." This was really a very good idea. They did go the wrong way, and had to come back, rubbing out Julian's marks. They reached the well, and set off in the opposite direction. And this time they did find the wooden door! There it was, stout and sturdy, its old iron nails rusty and red. The children stared at it in delight. Julian lifted his axe. Crash! He drove it into the wood and round about the keyhole. But the wood was still strong, and the axe only went in an inch or two. Julian drove it in once more. The axe hit one of the big nails and slipped a little to one side. A big splinter of wood flew out- and struck poor Dick on the cheek! He gave a yell of pain. Julian jumped in alarm, and turned to look at him. Dick's cheek was pouring with blood! "Something flew out of the door and hit me," said poor Dick. "It's a splinter, or something." "Golly!" said Julian, and he shone his torch on to Dick. "Can you bear it a moment if I pull the splinter out? It's a big one, and it's still sticking into your poor cheek." But Dick pulled it out himself. He made a face with the pain, and then turned very white. "You'd better get up into the open air for a bit," said Julian. "And we'll have to bathe your cheek and stop it bleeding somehow. Anne's got a clean hanky. We'll bathe it and dab it with that. We brought some water with us, luckily." "I'll go with Dick," said Anne. "You stay here with George. There's no need for us all to go." But Julian thought he would like to see Dick safely up into the open air first, and then he could leave him with Anne while he went back to George and went on with the smashing down of the door. He handed the axe to George. "You can do a bit of chopping while I'm gone," he said. "It will take some time to smash that big door in. You get on with it- and I'll be down in a few minutes again. We can easily find the way to the entrance because we've only got to follow my chalk-marks." "Right!" said George, and she took the axe. "Poor old Dick- you do look a sight." Leaving George behind with Tim, valiantly attacking the big door, Julian took Dick and Anne up to the open air. Anne dipped her hanky into the kettle of water and dabbed Dick's cheek gently. It was bleeding very much, as cheeks do, but the wound was not really very bad. Dick's colour soon came back, and he wanted to go down into the dungeons again. "No, you'd better lie down on your back for a little," said Julian. "I know that's good for nose-bleeding- and maybe it's good for cheek-bleeding too. What about Anne and you going out on the rocks over there, where


about it. Not until she faced the freak. Don’t be crazy. You’re not just putting yourself in danger. Think about the baby. She’d be careful. Of course she would. And it wasn’t as if she wasn’t able to defend herself. She’d practiced tae kwon do for years, though admittedly, she was a bit rusty. She pulled out her phone, looked again at pictures of the cards she’d received. Studied them. So neat. So precise. So threatening. Not exactly Ned Zavala’s style; the Bayou Butcher was a brute of a man, not known for his light touch. As for Father John, she had no idea where that psycho was, and though he had always been more refined than Zavala, she didn’t fit the profile of his victims, all prostitutes except for Dr. Sam, his ultimate target. Was it possible that he might be behind the cryptic notes with their religious references? Yes, but unlikely. Nor did she see Mandel Jarvis, busy and outgoing as he was, scripting the notes with the roses. And he had a good thing going with his family and church. He’d threatened her after her trip to the New Faith and Glory Church of Praise, but it was reactionary, she thought, because she’d crossed the line, stepping on his turf. She remembered how he was with his wife and children. She couldn’t rule him out with any certainty, but Pastor Mandel was definitely on the back burner. That left Hamilton Cooke. She thought about it as she pushed back her chair and walked down the stairs and into Jay’s office, which remained nearly the same as it had been when he’d last sat in the chair with the creaking roller. The police had taken his laptop and a few other items for their investigation, but the pictures and awards remained, the books in the case, the tie he’d left slung over the back of his chair. She’d never put it away and now she stopped, running her fingers over the silk fabric. Her throat grew thick and she blinked rapidly. The horrible words she’d flung at him, “I don’t know why I ever married you,” echoed through her brain. She imagined him huddled over the desk, books scattered around him, reading glasses on the end of his nose reflecting tiny images of his computer screen. “But I do know,” she whispered now, fighting tears. “Because I loved you, Jay. I still do.” “I know.” Jay’s voice sounded so much clearer in here—in his room—and if she closed her eyes she could imagine the scent of his aftershave and the faint sound of his laughter. “Oh, baby,” she whispered, and sniffed, her emotions so suddenly raw again. She had to pull herself together. Maybe Bella had been right when she’d suggested a grief counselor. Maybe . . . But now she knew that she had to move forward. And that meant ending this reign of terror that had her in its grip. Whoever was behind Jay’s death had to pay. Newly resolved, she dropped his tie over the back of


only be done in Lagos. So at least another week after it arrives in Lagos this evening or tomorrow.” “You mean they can’t even do it in Ìbàdàn?” She glanced at her wall clock. If she did not leave her flat in ten minutes, she would be late for ward round. “Someone said there’ll be a new lab that can in Akure soonish, but for now, only three labs can do this in the whole country and the closest is in Lagos.” “I’m so sorry.” Wúràọlá slid her feet into her green ballet shoes. “How are you feeling?” “My fever is down, so that’s good.” “Temperature?” “Last check was thirty-two.” “Not so bad.” She picked up her handbag. “I have to go now, sorry I can’t—” “I know how it is. Don’t worry, I’ll be all right.” “I’ll call you again later in the day.” “A promise is a debt, golden babe.” She did not remember her promise until much later in the evening when Kúnlé checked her call log while they spooned in bed. Since Tifẹ́’s birthday, Kúnlé had been coming to spend the evenings with her. He cooked or bought dinner for her, cleaned up after her and once handwashed her pile of dirty underwear while she slept. “Why did you call Kingsley?” “He’s my friend.” “I said, why did you call him?” Wúràọlá felt the sudden urge to run into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. Someone’s heart was thudding; she was not sure if it was his or hers. Her tongue did not move when she wanted to speak, and although one of his hands was slung across her midriff, she felt as if both were at her throat again. “Wúrà?” “He’s sick.” “Why are you whispering?” Wúràọlá cleared her throat. So far, he did not seem upset. “Kingsley has been ill for a few days.” “Why didn’t you tell that me earlier?” Kúnlé wrapped his body tighter around her. “Hope he’s feeling better now?” Wúràọlá nodded. She closed her eyes as he tapped out a beat on her belly button. It seemed clear that he was not going to flare up, but she couldn’t bring herself to relax. Not even when he began to sing “Òló Mi” to her. During her finals, he would call her and place his phone against his sound system while the song played for exactly a minute. One minute of love, he’d called it. It had been his way of helping her stay calm during such an intense period. He’d also gotten Kay’s Chippy to deliver breakfast to her every day. Delivery from campus to the medical students’ hostel in Glory Land had probably cost more than the meals themselves, but Kúnlé made sure she got her breakfast anyway. Every single day. “Do you still like the song?” Kúnlé asked. Wúràọlá placed her hand over his. “Yes, yes. Keep singing.” So what if he was not perfect? No one was. At least he was doing his best to show her how sorry he was about hurting her. That counted, it


be thinking of marriage. Yet he is eager to see Eppie's future settled, and he's learned to be philosophical about change, so he decides to ask Dolly for her advice. How do you feel about this marriage? Do you think that's how Eliot wants you to feel? ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 17 As the story moves back to Godfrey's world, you see that the Red House has changed, too. The parlor is still dark, but now it's clean and neat. Like Silas, Nancy has preserved the past--the dead Squire's belongings--but no one touches them. In contrast to the big party you last saw here, it seems empty with only four people here today. Yet there were only two people in the scene before--what does Eliot feel is missing here? The interchange between Mr. Lammeter and Priscilla shows the shift in generations--Priscilla now manages the farm, and Mr. Lammeter has lost his firm control. Priscilla refuses to stay to tea, saying she needs to get home to watch over the dairymaid. Priscilla blames the girl's approaching marriage for her incompetence. Notice her outburst, a few paragraphs later, about men. Why is she so sour? As Priscilla and Nancy go for a walk, Eliot uses their conversation to help you catch up on their lives. Priscilla, who enjoys her own work, says running a dairy would keep Nancy's mind off her worries. But Nancy says that a dairy wouldn't lift Godfrey's spirits. After praising her husband, Nancy claims she understands why he frets about not having children. This, then, is their marital problem. After the Lammeters leave, Godfrey goes to look at the draining fields. Nancy sits alone with her Bible. Unlike Dolly, she can read the Bible. But like Dolly, she isn't a scholar, and the words on the page soon fade away as she meditates on her own life. Anxiously, she muses on her childlessness. She knows Godfrey feels deprived. She wanted children, too, but she can deal with her own sense of loss. She humbly accepted the death of their one baby, fourteen years ago. Since then, she's devoted herself to Godfrey to make up for it. But there's one thing she won't do--adopt a child. Eliot points out that adoption wasn't very common then (as it became in her own time and in ours). NOTE: Nancy tends to form rigid opinions and cling to them. These are essential to her personality--they grow in her mind like grass, Eliot says (more plant imagery). Nancy formed her code early in life, and formed it out of superstition as well as rational thought. How does Eliot seem to feel about Nancy's principles? Nancy is convinced that adopting a child would be going against the will of God. You can hear her recalling Godfrey's arguments against this. Interestingly, he talks about adopting a specific child--Eppie. Nancy is talking about a principle, however, and she won't budge. She says it was all right for Silas to adopt Eppie because the child came to him unsought--like Dolly, she accepts the mysterious workings of God. But this


never be the one to preemptively reject my ideas; I should force other people to. In fact, I should submit a minimum of two sketches each week, even if I didn’t think they were in perfect shape. There were so many variables affecting a sketch’s outcome—the host, the national moment, Nigel’s mood—plus an idea could always be drastically improved in rewrites. Also, Elliot said, I should seek out cast members who’d started around my year, who were as green and hungry as I was, and we should pool our talents and climb the ranks together. Our time might not be now, but if we persisted, it would come. The only way to learn, he said, was by doing it. He didn’t put it in these terms, and I’m not even sure if he knew this was what he was saying, but his message was: Act like a guy. It was a message that turned out to be invaluable. At that time, he was years away from being named head writer—we were part of a writing staff of twelve—and we became close friends. We didn’t write together, but for my second season on the show, we were editors of each other’s work, brainstorming ahead of time and punching up early drafts, and our compatibility had the unfortunate effect of making me think we were in love. I hadn’t dated anyone since my divorce, which had become official a few months after I’d arrived at TNO. Unlike in the dynamic with my ex-husband, Elliot and I shared a shorthand, a general sensibility, and the same incredibly weird schedule. After holding in my feelings for seven months, I half-drunkenly confessed my love to him at the after-party following the season finale of my second year, he rebuffed me, I cried to a writer named Stephanie while she ate a plate of grilled sesame shrimp and scallions, and I never again was close to Elliot. For the subsequent seven years, while frequently attending the same meetings and passing each other in the studio, we’d spoken only when necessary. But I neither longed for nor resented him, as I’d always sensed he believed. Though I’d been hurt and humiliated by his rejection, it had, I soon realized, freed me and offered clarity. I would never again risk poisoning TNO for myself by falling for or trying to date anyone there. And this decision made me see that there was a different way I wrote when, even subconsciously, I was seeking male approval, male sexual approval: a more coy way, more reserved, more nervous about being perceived as angry or vulgar. It was the syntactical equivalent of dressing up as a sexy zombie for Halloween. From my third season on, I’d embraced my anger and vulgarity. I’d been a gross zombie. I began writing about ostensibly female topics—camel toe and wage inequity, polycystic ovary syndrome and Jane Austen, Do-si-dos and Trefoils and mammograms and shapewear and Dirty Dancing and the so-called likeability of female politicians. By October of that year, I’d written my first viral sketch, Nancy Drew


After the game, when we get back to my house, June says, “Well, my girl, I’m heading back to the salt mines. Just a few weeks until opening day!” She is truly, genuinely thrilled. I can see it in her face. “Do I meet Lanier at five?” I ask. She shrugs. “You know, sweetie, you and Lanier have been together longer than a lot of married couples. So, it’s up to you to decide: Is this a rough patch you work through? Or do you get a divorce?” She squeezes my arm. “I will support any decision you make. But I think today is a crossroads. If you don’t go, you’ve sort of served her the papers.” I wince. I am still upset with her, sure. Her words cut me to my core, made me doubt the life I had spent years rebuilding, the sobriety that felt like the centerpiece of my existence. But, also, Lanier had been the one to live those hard years with me. Especially in those early months, when I had a stressful day and felt like I couldn’t cope without drugs or alcohol, it was Lanier who would spend hours walking with me. When my body was learning to sleep again totally on its own, it was Lanier who stayed up and watched movies with me. Even years after I felt like my sobriety had really “taken,” if I was ever having a weak moment, it was always Lanier I called. And she always answered. Every time. I decide to get in the car, to drive in the direction of camp and see how I feel. That seems reasonable, right? Steven and Henry are already embroiled in a video game, making a lot of loud noises. I smile, laughing at the two of them. “Hey, boys,” I say. Steven elbows Henry. “Pause it.” “I’m going to go see Aunt Lanier. I’ll be gone for a few hours.” “Okay!” they say. “Good job on the field today, buddy. I vote we have a big celebration breakfast if I’m not back in time for a big celebration dinner.” I lean over and kiss his doughy cheek. “Dad! If Mom isn’t going to be here for dinner…” “Pizza Hut!” they yell simultaneously. “You know what a gift it is to be the fun parent, right?” I ask. “I will not squander it,” Steven says wistfully. I laugh and walk down the steps to the car, thinking this is dumb. I have all I need in my life. I don’t need Lanier. But my throat grips. Lanier isn’t just my best friend; she’s my family. Her family is my family. The fact that we would fight about anything is just dumb. In fact, I start feeling afraid if I don’t show up on time that she might think I’m not coming, so I drive a little more aggressively than usual. Part of me feels insane for going. But I can’t end our friendship. I just can’t. Maybe I shouldn’t have to rely on memories to help me decide, but I can’t


mean, bitches who never shut the fuck up and treat you like a cabdriver (or a hostage) as they rattle on about shit you don’t know anything about? Theoretically, I love those people. They’d make for good TV!! Also, honorable mention to this episode for teaching me one of the most important friendship lessons I have ever learned: never tell your homegirl to break up with her man, it will be your fault if she’s miserable afterward. Instead, practice noncommittal yet sympathetic nodding while murmuring, “Yeah, that really stinks.” It’s the only way to survive with your friendship intact. Episode 4: “They Shoot Single People, Don’t They?” Another one of my absolute favorite, most bestest ever, top-tier desert-island episodes. This is the one where Carrie is profiled for a magazine and stays out the night before the accompanying photo shoot dancing and getting wasted. She arrives late to the set and gets her photo taken while looking like shit, then the shit photo is on the cover of the magazine when it comes out and she says, “I’m all over the city looking like…like something that got caught in a drain,” which is a line that made me cry laughing. I had a little write-up in the Chicago Tribune years ago, and the dude writing it appeared to be thoroughly unimpressed by his subject, which I get! Why should this blog person be in the newspaper?!?!?! They wanted to get photos of me for the article, and rather than sending a photographer to the cute restaurant I met the reporter in, they instead decided to send him to my animal hospital job? And I was like, “Okay, sure, but you know I’m not…a veterinarian, right?” What were they gonna do, take a picture of me explaining what a distemper vaccine is for? Apparently yes, and when the article came out, the picture that ran alongside it was so fucking terrible, I burst out laughing and immediately thought of poor Carrie and her hungover photo shoot. I should’ve had a cocktail on my lunch break, maybe it would’ve turned out cute. In this episode, Miranda fucks this ophthalmologist who she has to fake orgasms with, and what if instead of that she hopped out of bed, pulled out an anatomy book, and made him label all the parts of the vulva and vagina and then explained to him where his fingers should go and how? Episode 6: “The Cheating Curve” The power lesbians “adopt” Charlotte, despite her heterosexuality, starting a blood feud between them and Miranda and Carrie and Samantha. This is a thing I am really interested in, warring factions of adult friends, because I think it’s a thing we all go through to varying degrees. I have different group chats for different things: one that I text Simu Liu thirst traps to, another for depression memes, another for internet bullshit, and so on. It’s so deliciously sticky and awkward when your work friends meet your life friends or when your married friends meet your single friends and you’re stuck playing tour