A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

3 The swift December dusk had come tumbling clownishly after its dull day and, as he stared through the dull square of the window of the schoolroom, he felt his belly crave for its food. He hoped there would be stew for dinner, turnips and carrots and bruised potatoes and fat mutton pieces to be ladled out in thick peppered flour-fattened sauce. Stuff it into you, his belly counselled him. It would be a gloomy secret night. After early nightfall the yellow lamps would light up, here and there, the squalid quarter of the brothels. He would follow a devious course up and down the streets, circling always nearer and nearer in a tremor of fear and joy, until his feet led him suddenly round a dark corner. The whores would be just coming out of their houses making ready for the night, yawning lazily after their sleep and settling the hairpins in their clusters of hair. He would pass by them calmly waiting for a sudden movement of his own will or a sudden call to his sin-loving soul from their soft perfumed flesh. Yet as he prowled in quest of that call, his senses, stultified only by his desire, would note keenly all that wounded or shamed them; his eyes, a ring of porter froth on a clothless table or a photograph of two soldiers standing to attention or a gaudy playbill; his ears, the drawling jargon of greeting: --Hello, Bertie, any good in your mind? --Is that you, pigeon? --Number ten. Fresh Nelly is waiting on you. --Good night, husband! Coming in to have a short time? The equation on the page of his scribbler began to spread out a widening tail, eyed and starred like a peacock's; and, when the eyes and stars of its indices had been eliminated, began slowly to fold itself together again. The indices appearing and disappearing were eyes opening and closing; the eyes opening and closing were stars being born and being quenched. The vast cycle of starry life bore his weary mind outward to its verge and inward to its centre, a distant music accompanying him outward and inward. What music? The music came nearer and he recalled the words, the words of Shelley's fragment upon the moon wandering companionless, pale for weariness. The stars began to crumble and a cloud of fine stardust fell through space. The dull light fell more faintly upon the page whereon another equation began to unfold itself slowly and to spread abroad its widening tail. It was his own soul going forth to experience, unfolding itself sin by sin, spreading abroad the bale-fire of its burning stars and folding back upon itself, fading slowly, quenching its own lights and fires. They were quenched: and the cold darkness filled chaos. A cold lucid indifference reigned in his soul. At his first violent sin he had felt a wave of vitality pass out of him and had feared to find his body or his soul maimed by the excess. Instead the vital wave had carried him on its


the battered Toyota through the window and realize it doesn’t instill confidence in my ability to pay. But she lets me go to my vehicle, rummage through my belongings for the netsuke. I am moving slowly, hoping beyond hope that Hazel will rescue me. When I return, I hold the bone carving out to the receptionist. “I had this appraised,” I say. “It’s worth a thousand dollars.” I read the skepticism on her face as she looks at it, and I glance desperately at the parking lot. And that is when a sleek black Mercedes pulls in. It is her! Hazel. Relief floods through me like a drug. “She’s here.” I say it more to myself than to the frustrated girl behind the counter. I watch Hazel get out of the car, her hair dark and shiny and so like mine now. She’s wearing a long cardigan and huge sunglasses and has a stylish leather bag over her shoulder. She is the epitome of style, of cool, but there is a grim set to her mouth, and her movements are rushed and frazzled. “Sorry,” she says as she hustles to the counter, already pulling the wallet out of her purse. “Her treatments are on me.” “Thanks.” My throat is thick with relief, gratitude, shame. The woman swipes the proffered credit card, her demeanor slowly returning to polite, even obsequious in Hazel’s presence. I wait patiently, awkwardly, until the transaction is complete. And then I trail Hazel out the door. We stop next to my car and Hazel addresses me for the first time. “I’m sorry. I fell asleep. Last night was… a lot.” “Are you okay?” I ask, though she is clearly not. Without a word, she removes her sunglasses. Under her left eye is a half-moon of dark purple bruising. “I have to leave,” she says softly. “Before he kills me.” 20 WE SIT IN MY CAR, parked behind a fast-food restaurant a few blocks from the spa. We’ve left Hazel’s Mercedes there, in the lot. She says we will be safer, less conspicuous in my Toyota. I’m not sure what she means, but I do know that her luxury vehicle is less likely to be towed away than my old Corolla. Hazel touches her eye gingerly. “It’s my own fault. I knew what Benjamin wanted from me, but I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t degrade myself again. So, he hit me.” “You have to get away from him.” My voice is pleading. “Now.” “I know,” she says. “My passport came. I got your ID, too. I meant to bring it, I just… I blanked.” “It’s fine,” I say, though I wish she had. I’m excited to see my new persona, to try it on and walk around in it. What will my new name be? I’ve already planned to tell people that Lee is my middle name. It’s an easy sell. Lee is probably the most ubiquitous middle name in North America. “I’ve got the cash and the ID,” Hazel continues. “I’m just afraid I won’t make it to


little wine. Hareton and Joseph, who had been wakened by the ringing and the sound of feet, and heard our talk from outside, now entered. Joseph was fain, I believe, of the lad's removal; Hareton seemed a thought bothered, though he was more taken up with staring at Cather- ine than thinking of Linton. But the master bade him get off to bed again; we didn't want his help. He after- wards made Joseph remove the body to his chamber, and told me to return to mine, and Mrs. Heathcliff re- mained by herself. "In the morning he sent me to tell her she must come down to breakfast. She had undressed, and appeared going to sleep, and said she was ill, at which I hardly wondered. I informed Mr. Heathcliff, and he re- plied,--- " 'Well, let her be till after the funeral, and go up now and then to get her what is needful; and as soon as she seems better, tell me.' " Cathy stayed upstairs a fortnight, according to Zillah, who visited her twice a day, and would have been rather more friendly, but her attempts at increas- ing kindness were proudly and promptly repelled. Heathcliff went up once to show her Linton's will. He had bequeathed the whole of his and what had been her movable property to his father. The poor crea- ture was threatened or coaxed into that act during her week's absence when his uncle died. The lands, being a minor, he could not meddle with. However, Mr. Heath- cliff has claimed and kept them in his wife's right and his also--I suppose legally. At any rate, Catherine, des- titute of cash and friends, cannot disturb his posses- sion. "Nobody," said Zillah, "ever approached her door, except that once, but I; and nobody asked anything about her. The first occasion of her coming down into the house was on a Sunday afternoon. She had cried out, when I carried up her dinner, that she couldn't bear any longer being in the cold; and I told her the master was going to Thrushcross Grange, and Earn- shaw and I needn't hinder her from descending; so, as soon as she heard Heathcliff's horse trot off, she made her appearance, donned in black, and her yellow curls combed back behind her ears as plain as a Quaker. She couldn't comb them out. "Joseph and I generally go to chapel on Sundays." The kirk, you know, has no minister now, explained Mrs. Dean, and they call the Methodists' or Baptists' place (I can't say which it is) at Gimmerton a chapel. "Joseph has gone," she continued, "but I thought proper to bide at home. Young folks are always the better for an elder's overlooking; and Hareton, with all his bashfulness, isn't a model of nice behaviour. I let him know that his cousin would very likely sit with us, and she had been always used to see the Sab- bath respected, so he had as good leave his guns and bits of indoor work alone while she stayed.


mortal fear,--'I--I won't scream or cry--not once--hear me--speak to me--tell me what I have done!' 'You know, you she devil!' returned the robber, suppressing his breath. 'You were watched to-night; every word you said was heard.' 'Then spare my life for the love of Heaven, as I spared yours,' rejoined the girl, clinging to him. 'Bill, dear Bill, you cannot have the heart to kill me. Oh! think of all I have given up, only this one night, for you. You SHALL have time to think, and save yourself this crime; I will not loose my hold, you cannot throw me off. Bill, Bill, for dear God's sake, for your own, for mine, stop before you spill my blood! I have been true to you, upon my guilty soul I have!' The man struggled violently, to release his arms; but those of the girl were clasped round his, and tear her as he would, he could not tear them away. 'Bill,' cried the girl, striving to lay her head upon his breast, 'the gentleman and that dear lady, told me to-night of a home in some foreign country where I could end my days in solitude and peace. Let me see them again, and beg them, on my knees, to show the same mercy and goodness to you; and let us both leave this dreadful place, and far apart lead better lives, and forget how we have lived, except in prayers, and never see each other more. It is never too late to repent. They told me so--I feel it now--but we must have time--a little, little time!' The housebreaker freed one arm, and grasped his pistol. The certainty of immediate detection if he fired, flashed across his mind even in the midst of his fury; and he beat it twice with all the force he could summon, upon the upturned face that almost touched his own. She staggered and fell: nearly blinded with the blood that rained down from a deep gash in her forehead; but raising herself, with difficulty, on her knees, drew from her bosom a white handkerchief--Rose Maylie's own--and holding it up, in her folded hands, as high towards Heaven as her feeble strength would allow, breathed one prayer for mercy to her Maker. It was a ghastly figure to look upon. The murderer staggering backward to the wall, and shutting out the sight with his hand, seized a heavy club and struck her down. CHAPTER XLVIII THE FLIGHT OF SIKES Of all bad deeds that, under cover of the darkness, had been committed with wide London's bounds since night hung over it, that was the worst. Of all the horrors that rose with an ill scent upon the morning air, that was the foulest and most cruel. The sun--the bright sun, that brings back, not light alone, but new life, and hope, and freshness to man--burst upon the crowded city in clear and radiant glory. Through costly-coloured glass and paper-mended window, through cathedral dome and rotten crevice, it shed its equal ray. It lighted up the room


graduated from secondary school and Wúràọlá was home from her boarding school on a midterm break when her father sent her to the Cokers with a sealed envelope. She knew from eavesdropping on her parents that the white envelope contained dollar notes for Kúnlé’s father, who was preparing to leave for a sabbatical in Saudi Arabia. Kúnlé’s family still lived in the General Hospital’s staff quarters, and though the row of identical bungalows confused Wúràọlá, her father’s driver had driven straight to the Cokers’ doorstep. Kúnlé had been standing on the lawn when she stepped out of the car, his back to the house, where his parents were fighting about his results. Láyí, who had aced all his exams, had already told Wúràọlá about Kúnlé’s terrible results. Kúnlé had failed biology and chemistry, key requirements for admission into any medical school in the country. Kúnlé’s father wanted him to write the exams again. Meanwhile, his mother thought he should take on other subjects and forget about a future in medicine. Kúnlé’s bloodshot eyes announced that he had been crying or was about to, but he smiled as Wúràọlá approached him. He held the smile in place while she stood before him, unsure about what to say after she thrust the envelope into his hand. He kept asking her about school, reeling out questions at a rising pitch that did nothing to obscure the fact that his parents were fighting in the house. It was impossible to ignore the cursing, the screaming, the sharp sound of something crashing to the terrazzo floor. Overwhelmed by a sudden surge of tenderness towards a boy she had barely noticed before then, Wúràọlá had stepped forward to hug Kúnlé before running back to the waiting car. She felt that surge again as she imagined him splayed on his bed, still deflated by last night’s argument. “I’ll think about the wedding,” she said. “That’s all I was asking for last night before you shouted me down.” “I didn’t do that.” “I just want our lives to start as soon as possible. I wish I were already waking up next to you every morning. Wúrà, don’t you understand that you’re such a comfort to me?” “Don’t worry about it, we’ll figure out a compromise. Can we talk about something else?” “Yeah…What are you wearing?” She tugged at the hem of her nightgown. “Nothing.” His breath stuttered while she watched the ascendant sun streak the clouds with a flamelike glow. · 10 · Before she showered or even brushed her teeth that Saturday, Yèyé Christianah Àlàkẹ́ Mákinwá sat at her dressing table and polished her gold jewellery. She nestled each piece in her palm and recalled how many grams it weighed. For necklaces and rings, she did this without consulting the grey notebook in which she recorded major purchases. Every other week, Yèyé asked Alhaja Ruka, a former neighbour who traded secondhand gold jewellery, about her buying price per gram. That way, she could estimate how much she would get for hers if, heavens forbid, her husband was duped of


I have searched for you--they told me you would possibly be married by now. That a man named Canler had come up here to wed you. Is that true?" "Yes." "Do you love him?" "No." "Do you love me?" She buried her face in her hands. "I am promised to another. I cannot answer you, Tarzan of the Apes," she cried. "You have answered. Now, tell me why you would marry one you do not love." "My father owes him money." Suddenly there came back to Tarzan the memory of the letter he had read--and the name Robert Canler and the hinted trouble which he had been unable to understand then. He smiled. "If your father had not lost the treasure you would not feel forced to keep your promise to this man Canler?" "I could ask him to release me." "And if he refused?" "I have given my promise." Chapter 27 160 He was silent for a moment. The car was plunging along the uneven road at a reckless pace, for the fire showed threateningly at their right, and another change of the wind might sweep it on with raging fury across this one avenue of escape. Finally they passed the danger point, and Tarzan reduced their speed. "Suppose I should ask him?" ventured Tarzan. "He would scarcely accede to the demand of a stranger," said the girl. "Especially one who wanted me himself." "Terkoz did," said Tarzan, grimly. Jane shuddered and looked fearfully up at the giant figure beside her, for she knew that he meant the great anthropoid he had killed in her defense. "This is not the African jungle," she said. "You are no longer a savage beast. You are a gentleman, and gentlemen do not kill in cold blood." "I am still a wild beast at heart," he said, in a low voice, as though to himself. Again they were silent for a time. "Jane," said the man, at length, "if you were free, would you marry me?" She did not reply at once, but he waited patiently. The girl was trying to collect her thoughts. What did she know of this strange creature at her side? What did he know of himself? Who was he? Who, his parents? Why, his very name echoed his mysterious origin and his savage life. He had no name. Could she be happy with this jungle waif? Could she find anything in common with a husband whose life had been spent in the tree tops of an African wilderness, frolicking and fighting with fierce anthropoids; tearing his food from the quivering flank of fresh-killed prey, sinking his strong teeth into raw flesh, and tearing away his portion while his mates growled and fought about him for their share? Could he ever rise to her social sphere? Could she bear to think of sinking to his? Would either be happy in such a horrible misalliance? "You do not answer," he said. "Do you shrink from wounding me?" "I do not know what answer to make," said Jane sadly. "I do not know


a good long job, but I was getting towards the end of it when I heard pap's gun in the woods. I got rid of the signs of my work, and dropped the blanket and hid my saw, and pretty soon pap come in. Pap warn't in a good humor -- so he was his natural self. He said he was down town, and everything was going wrong. His lawyer said he reckoned he would win his lawsuit and get the money if they ever got started on the trial; but then there was ways to put it off a long time, and Judge Thatcher knowed how to do it And he said people allowed there'd be another trial to get me away from him and give me to the widow for my guardian, and they guessed it would win this time. This shook me up considerable, because I didn't want to go back to the widow's any more and be so cramped up and sivilized, as they called it. Then the old man got to cussing, and cussed every- thing and everybody he could think of, and then cussed them all over again to make sure he hadn't skipped any, and after that he polished off with a kind of a general cuss all round, including a considerable parcel of people which he didn't know the names of, and so called them what's-his-name when he got to them, and went right along with his cussing. He said he would like to see the widow get me. He said he would watch out, and if they tried to come any such game on him he knowed of a place six or seven mile off to stow me in, where they might hunt till they dropped and they couldn't find me. That made me pretty uneasy again, but only for a minute; I reckoned I wouldn't stay on hand till he got that chance. The old man made me go to the skiff and fetch the things he had got. There was a fifty-pound sack of corn meal, and a side of bacon, ammunition, and a four-gallon jug of whisky, and an old book and two newspapers for wadding, besides some tow. I toted up a load, and went back and set down on the bow of the skiff to rest. I thought it all over, and I reckoned I would walk off with the gun and some lines, and take to the woods when I run away. I guessed I wouldn't stay in one place, but just tramp right across the country, mostly night times, and hunt and fish to keep alive, and so get so far away that the old man nor the widow couldn't ever find me any more. I judged I would saw out and leave that night if pap got drunk enough, and I reckoned he would. I got so full of it I didn't notice how long I was staying till the old man hollered and asked me whether I was asleep or drownded. I got the


class="p3">

I didn’t hug her.

I saw her into the Range Rover, then marched back to Pa and Willy.

34.

|v A RING from Meg’s jewelry box and gave it to a designer, so he’d

know her size.

Since he was also the keeper of Mummy’s bracelets, earrings and

necklaces, I asked him to harvest the diamonds from one particularly

beautiful bracelet of Mummy’s and use those to create a ring.

I’d cleared all this in advance with Willy. I’d asked my brother if I

could have the bracelet, and told him what it was for. I don’t recall him

hesitating, for one second, in giving it to me. He seemed to like Meg,

despite his oft-cited concerns. Kate seemed to like her too. We’d had them

over for dinner during one of Meg’s visits, and Meg cooked, and

346

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everything was good. Willy had a cold: he was sneezing and coughing, and

Meg ran upstairs to get him some of her homeopathic cure-alls. Oregano

oil, turmeric. He seemed charmed, moved, though Kate announced to the

table that he’d never take such unconventional remedies.

We talked about Wimbledon that night, and Suits, and Willy and Kate

weren’t brave enough to admit to being superfans. Which was sweet.

The only possibly discordant note I could think of was the marked

difference in how the two women dressed, which both of them seemed to

notice.

Meg: ripped jeans, barefoot.

Kate: done up to the nines.

No big deal, I thought.

Along with the diamonds from the bracelet I'd asked the designer to

add a third—a blood-free diamond from Botswana.

He asked if there was a rush.

Well...now that you mention it...

30:

M°* PACKED uP her house, gave up her role in Suits. After seven

seasons. A difficult moment for her,


off to say: "Keep your eye on the rats. You better have the lead in your lap, handy." So she dropped the lump into my lap just at that moment, and I clapped my legs together on it and she went on talking. But only about a minute. Then she took off the hank and looked me straight in the face, and very pleasant, and says: "Come, now, what's your real name?" "Wh -- what, mum?" "What's your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or Bob? -- or what is it?" I reckon I shook like a leaf, and I didn't know hardly what to do. But I says: "Please to don't poke fun at a poor girl like me, mum. If I'm in the way here, I'll --" "No, you won't. Set down and stay where you are. I ain't going to hurt you, and I ain't going to tell on you, nuther. You just tell me your secret, and trust me. I'll keep it; and, what's more, I'll help you. So'll my old man if you want him to. You see, you're a runaway 'prentice, that's all. It ain't anything. There ain't no harm in it. You've been treated bad, and you made up your mind to cut. Bless you, child, I wouldn't tell on you. Tell me all about it now, that's a good boy." So I said it wouldn't be no use to try to play it any longer, and I would just make a clean breast and tell her everything, but she musn't go back on her promise. Then I told her my father and mother was dead, and the law had bound me out to a mean old farmer in the country thirty mile back from the river, and he treated me so bad I couldn't stand it no longer; he went away to be gone a couple of days, and so I took my chance and stole some of his daughter's old clothes and cleared out, and I had been three nights coming the thirty miles. I traveled nights, and hid daytimes and slept, and the bag of bread and meat I carried from home lasted me all the way, and I had a-plenty. I said I believed my uncle Abner Moore would take care of me, and so that was why I struck out for this town of Goshen. "Goshen, child? This ain't Goshen. This is St. Petersburg. Goshen's ten mile further up the river. Who told you this was Goshen?" "Why, a man I met at daybreak this morning, just as I was going to turn into the woods for my regular sleep. He told me when the roads forked I must take the right hand, and five mile would fetch me to Goshen." "He was drunk, I reckon. He told you just ex- actly wrong." "Well,,he did act like he was drunk, but it ain't no matter now. I got to be moving along. I'll fetch Goshen before daylight." "Hold on a minute. I'll put you up a snack to eat.


uh something.” Hambo said, “Yo’ wife is uh born orator, Starks. Us never knowed dat befo’. She put jus’ de right words tuh our thoughts.” Joe bit down hard on his cigar and beamed all around, but he never said a word. The town talked it for three days and said that’s just what they would have done if they had been rich men like Joe Starks. Anyhow a free mule in town was something new to talk about. Starks piled fodder under the big tree near the porch and the mule was usually around the store like the other citizens. Nearly everybody took the habit of fetching along a handful of fodder to throw on the pile. He almost got fat and they took a great pride in him. New lies sprung up about his free-mule doings. How he pushed open Lindsay’s kitchen door and slept in the place one night and fought until they made coffee for his breakfast; how he stuck his head in the Pearsons’ window while the family was at the table and Mrs. Pearson mistook him for Rev. Pearson and handed him a plate; he ran Mrs. Tully off of the croquet ground for having such an ugly shape; he ran and caught up with Becky Anderson on the way to Maitland so as to keep his head out of the sun under her umbrella; he got tired of listening to Redmond’s long-winded prayer, and went inside the Baptist church and broke up the meeting. He did everything but let himself be bridled and visit Matt Bonner. 70 Zora Neale Hurston But way after a while he died. Lum found him under the big tree on his rawbony back with all four feet up in the air. That wasn’t natural and it didn’t look right, but Sam said it would have been more unnatural for him to have laid down on his side and died like any other beast. He had seen Death com- ing and had stood his ground and fought it like a natural man. He had fought it to the last breath. Naturally he didn’t have time to straighten himself out. Death had to take him like it found him. When the news got around, it was like the end of a war or something like that. Everybody that could knocked off from work to stand around and talk. But finally there was nothing to do but drag him out like all other dead brutes. Drag him out to the edge of the hammock which was far enough off to satisfy sanitary conditions in the town. The rest was up to the buzzards. Everybody was going to the dragging- out. The news had got Mayor Starks out of bed before time. His pair of gray horses was out under the tree and the men were fooling with the gear when Janie arrived at the store with Joe’s breakfast. “I god, Lum, you fasten up dis store good befo’ you leave, you hear me?” He was eating fast and talking with one eye out


great banks of fog; and the anchorage, under lee of Skeleton goodish while to get up with it, crawling, often on all fours, Island, lay still and leaden as when first we entered it. The among the scrub. Night had almost come when I laid my HISPANIOLA, in that unbroken mirror, was exactly por- hand on its rough sides. Right below it there was an exceed- trayed from the truck to the waterline, the Jolly Roger hang- ingly small hollow of green turf, hidden by banks and a thick ing from her peak. underwood about knee- deep, that grew there very plenti- Alongside lay one of the gigs, Silver in the stern- sheets— fully; and in the centre of the dell, sure enough, a little tent of him I could always recognize—while a couple of men were goat- skins, like what the gipsies carry about with them in leaning over the stern bulwarks, one of them with a red cap— England. the very rogue that I had seen some hours before stride-legs I dropped into the hollow, lifted the side of the tent, and upon the palisade. Apparently they were talking and laugh- there was Ben Gunn’s boat—home-made if ever anything was ing, though at that distance—upwards of a mile—I could, of home-made; a rude, lop-sided framework of tough wood, and course, hear no word of what was said. All at once there stretched upon that a covering of goat- skin, with the hair began the most horrid, unearthly screaming, which at first inside. The thing was extremely small, even for me, and I can startled me badly, though I had soon remembered the voice hardly imagine that it could have floated with a full-sized of Captain Flint and even thought I could make out the bird man. There was one thwart set as low as possible, a kind of by her bright plumage as she sat perched upon her master’s stretcher in the bows, and a double paddle for propulsion. wrist. I had not then seen a coracle, such as the ancient Britons Soon after, the jolly-boat shoved off and pulled for shore, made, but I have seen one since, and I can give you no fairer and the man with the red cap and his comrade went below by idea of Ben Gunn’s boat than by saying it was like the first the cabin companion. and the worst coracle ever made by man. But the great ad- Just about the same time, the sun had gone down behind vantage of the coracle it certainly possessed, for it was exceed- the Spy-glass, and as the fog was collecting rapidly, it began ingly light and portable. to grow dark in earnest. I saw I must lose no time if I were to Well, now that I had found the boat, you would have Contents find the boat that evening. thought I had had enough of truantry for once, but in the The white rock, visible enough above the brush, was still meantime I had taken another notion and become so obsti- Robert


was he doing? They hadn’t actually been summoned here by a landlord. There was no reason for them to smash their way in. Car gestured for Turner to follow. “Fuck it,” said Turner. What else were they going to do this morning? King Tut was their only lead, and no way Big Car was getting jammed up on an illegal search. Turner drew his weapon, took a few steps back, then slammed his shoulder into the door, feeling it give way. Before he could even ask Car what they were doing, Car had a finger to his lips and was pointing up the stairs. “There’s someone up there. I heard it.” “Heard what?” Turner whispered. “Could have been a cat. Could have been a girl. Could have been nothing.” The prickle spread from the back of Turner’s neck. Not nothing. “Clear the ground floor,” said Car. “I’m going up.” Turner did as he was told, but there wasn’t much territory to cover. A living room with a stained mattress and dirty clothes heaped on top, a bare kitchen where nearly every cupboard was open, as if someone had searched it. Two empty bedrooms, a bathroom with a rotting floor where it looked like a pipe had burst. “Clear,” he shouted. “I’m coming up!” He had one foot on the bottom step when he heard Car shout. A shot rang out, then another. Turner sprinted up the steps, weapon drawn. He felt it squirm in his hand, looked down, and saw nothing but the hard black shadow of his sidearm. Fear was messing with his head. Not fear for himself. Fear for what he might do, who he might hurt, his brother’s voice in his head: You like that badge and gun. Turner always said the same prayer. Please, God. Don’t let it be a kid. Don’t let it be one of us. “Carmichael?” he called out. No answer came. No sound. The layout of the second floor was almost identical to the floor below. Turner spoke into his radio. “Detective Abel Turner. I am at 372 Orchard. Shots fired, request backup and medical.” He didn’t wait for the response, sweeping through the first bedroom, the bathroom. As he entered the second, he saw a body on the floor. Not Carmichael. His mind took a minute to understand. The man on the ground, a boy really, couldn’t be older than twenty, a hole in his chest, a hole in the floorboards beside him. Carmichael standing over him. Turner recognized Delan Tuttle from his file. King Tut. Bleeding out on the ground. “Shit,” said Turner kneeling beside the body. “You hit?” he asked Car, because that’s what he was supposed to say. But he knew Car wasn’t hit, the same way he knew this kid wasn’t strapped. His eyes scanned the room, hoping a weapon might materialize. “I called a bus,” Carmichael said. That was something at least. But an ambulance wasn’t going to do Tuttle any good. The boy didn’t have a pulse. No heartbeat. No weapon. “What happened?” Turner asked. “He took


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

it sufficed; and when I had had it, I sat over a cigar, trying to plan my line of action. And outside a snowstorm was beginning. "The more I thought it over, Kemp, the more I realised what a helpless absurdity an Invisible Man was--in a cold and dirty climate and a crowded civilised city. Before I made this mad experiment I had dreamt of a thousand advantages. That afternoon it seemed all disappointment. I went over the heads of the things a man reckons desirable. No doubt invisibility made it possible to get them, but it made it impossible to enjoy them when they are got. Ambition--what is the good of pride of place when you cannot appear there? What is the good of the love of woman when her name must needs be Delilah? I have no taste for politics, for the blackguardisms of fame, for philanthropy, for sport. What was I to do? And for this I had become a wrapped-up mystery, a swathed and bandaged caricature of a man!" He paused, and his attitude suggested a roving glance at the window. "But how did you get to Iping?" said Kemp, anxious to keep his guest busy talking. "I went there to work. I had one hope. It was a half idea! I have it still. It is a full blown idea now. A way of getting back! Of restoring what I have done. When I choose. When I have done all I mean to do invisibly. And that is what I chiefly want to talk to you about now." "You went straight to Iping?" "Yes. I had simply to get my three volumes of memoranda and my cheque-book, my luggage and underclothing, order a quantity of chemicals to work out this idea of mine--I will show you the calculations as soon as I get my books--and then I started. Jove! I remember the snowstorm now, and the accursed bother it was to keep the snow from damping my pasteboard nose." "At the end," said Kemp, "the day before yesterday, when they found you out, you rather--to judge by the papers--" "I did. Rather. Did I kill that fool of a constable?" "No," said Kemp. "He's expected to recover." "That's his luck, then. I clean lost my temper, the fools! Why couldn't they leave me alone? And that grocer lout?" "There are no deaths expected," said Kemp. "I don't know about that tramp of mine," said the Invisible Man, with an unpleasant laugh. "By Heaven, Kemp, you don't know what rage is! To have worked for years, to have planned and plotted, and then to get some fumbling purblind idiot messing across your course! Every conceivable sort of silly creature that has ever been created has been sent to cross me. "If I have much more of it, I shall go wild--I shall start mowing 'em. "As it is, they've made things a thousand times more difficult." "No doubt it's exasperating," said Kemp, dryly. Chapter 24 The Plan That Failed "But now," said Kemp, with a side glance out


fortunes and made possible many more exciting expeditions for the Five. Chapter One A GREAT SURPRISE Contents/Next "MOTHER, have you heard about our summer holidays yet?" said Julian, at the breakfast-table. "Can we go to Polseath as usual?" "I'm afraid not," said his mother. "They are quite full up this year." The three children at the breakfast-table looked at one another in great disappointment. They did so love the house at Polseath. The beach was so lovely there, too, and the bathing was fine. "Cheer up," said Daddy. "I dare say we'll find somewhere else just as good for you. And anyway, Mother and I won't be able to go with you this year. Has Mother told you?" "No!" said Anne. "Oh, Mother-is it true? Can't you really come with us on our holidays? You always do." "Well, this time Daddy wants me to go to Scotland with him," said Mother. "All by ourselves! And as you are really getting big enough to look after yourselves now, we thought it would be rather fun for you to have a holiday on your own too. But now that you can't go to Polseath, I don't really quite know where to send you." "What about Quentin's?" suddenly said Daddy. Quentin was his brother, the children's uncle. They had only seen him once, and had been rather frightened of him. He was a very tall, frowning man, a clever scientist who spent all his time studying. He lived by the sea- but that was about all that the children knew of him! "Quentin?" said Mother, pursing up her lips. "Whatever made you think of him? I shouldn't think he'd want the children messing about in his little house." "Well," said Daddy, "I had to see Quentin's wife in town the other day, about a business matter- and I don't think things are going too well for them. Fanny said that she would be quite glad if she could hear of one or two people to live with her for a while, to bring a little money in. Their house is by the sea, you know. It might be just the thing for the children. Fanny is very nice- she would look after them well." "Yes- and she has a child of her own too, hasn't she?" said the children's mother. "Let me see- what's her name- something funny- yes, Georgina! How old would she be? About eleven, I should think." "Same age as me," said Dick. "Fancy having a cousin we've never seen! She must be jolly lonely all by herself. I've got Julian and Anne to play with- but Georgina is just one on her own. I should think she'd be glad to see us." "Well, your Aunt Fanny said that her Georgina would love a bit of company," said Daddy. "You know, I really think that would solve our difficulty, if we telephone to Fanny and arrange for the children to go there. It would help Fanny, I'm sure, and Georgina would love to have someone to play with in the holidays. And


afoot on the road to Lowton. A picturesque track it was, by the way, lying along the side of the beck and through the sweetest curves of the dale. But that day I thought more of the letters that might or might not be awaiting me at the little burgh whither I was bound, than of the charms of lea and water.     My ostensible errand on this occasion was to get measured for a pair of shoes; so I discharged that business first, and when it was done, I stepped across the clean and quiet little street from the shoemaker's to the post-office; it was kept by an old dame, who wore horn spectacles on her nose, and black mittens on her hands.     "Are there any letters for J. E.?" I asked.     She peered at me over her spectacles, and then she opened a drawer, and fumbled among its contents for a long time so long that my hopes began to falter. At last, having held a document before her glasses for nearly five minutes, she presented it across the counter, accompanying the act by another inquisitive and mistrustful glance it was for J. E.     "Is there only one?" I demanded.     "There are no more," said she; and I put it in my pocket and turned my face homeward: I could not open it then; rules obliged me to be back by eight, and it was already half-past seven.     Various duties awaited me on my arrival. I had to sit with the girls during their hour of study; then it was my turn to read prayers; to see them to bed: afterward I supped with the other teachers. Even when we finally retired for the night, the inevitable Miss Gryce was still my companion: we had only a short end of candle in our candlestick, and I dreaded lest she should talk till it was all burned out; fortunately, however, the heavy supper she had eaten produced a soporific effect; she was already snoring before I had finished undressing. There still remained an inch of candle: I now took out my letter: the seal was an initial F.; I brote it; the contents were brief:     "If J. E., who advertised in the  shire Heraldof last Thursday, possesses the acquirements mentioned, and if she is in a position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can be offered her where there is but one pupil a little girl, under ten years of age; and where the salary is thirty pounds per annum. J. E. is requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars, to the direction, 'Mrs. Fairfax, Thornfield, near Millcote,  shire."'     I examined the document long; the writing was old-fashioned and rather uncertain, like that of an elderly lady. This circumstance was satisfactory; a private fear had haunted me that, in thus acting


won’t. Not a chance worth riskin’. Antoine got ambition.” “Who don’t?” Kuba says. “Antoine got it big-time. For now.” “For now?” “Not so much come day after tomorrow.” Kuba thinks about that. “Antoine gonna be enlightened?” “A sudden education.” Kuba spends time thinking about it and then says, “Somebody might have a chance to move up come day after tomorrow.” “You got somebody in mind?” “I might.” Aleem smiles. “You ready to make a recommendation, I’ll value it highly. Most highly.” The afternoon slowly darkles, and rain falls in such volume as to float an ark large enough to spare all the species of the world from extinction. A VIRTUAL JOURNEY Aware that the GPS in the post-office vehicle indicates that it is in front of the house, Michael puts aside his wineglass and takes the elevator up one floor and crosses the foyer, where the etched-steel forest is forever without weather, where the still and silent deer gaze perpetually in witness of those who come and go. He steps outside into the rain just as the mail truck pulls away from the curb. He takes nine envelopes from the box beside the front door, returns to the house, leaves six envelopes on the foyer floor, and descends to the library with three pieces of mail, all from the Department of Motor Vehicles. The licenses, each with his photo but featuring a different name, should get him through the coming year. However, he’ll soon be the most wanted fugitive in history. As those hunting for him become more aware of his capabilities, they’ll adopt strategies and tactics that force him to change identities as frequently as a chameleon changes colors as it scurries across the vibrant palette of a tropical forest. Having drunk two generous servings of cabernet, he concludes that changes to his metabolic process have rendered him immune to the inebriating effect of alcohol—which is a disappointment—though he does feel somewhat relaxed. With a wine as good as Caymus, he’s happy to drink it for the flavor alone, and he pours a third glass. In the armchair, Michael stares at the Pacific, where earlier Catalina had loomed in the distance and container ships had wallowed at anchor in the long lineup for the port of Long Beach. At the moment, all is formless—rushing rain, billowing mist, the ocean a gray amorphia of swells and swales and flung spume. He is at all times linked to the internet by electromagnetic waves produced and managed by his own strangely altered physiology. Without need of a computer, he can for the most part reach into any website or digitized archives with which he is familiar, pore through its content, and access whatever information he needs in seconds, while remaining entirely aware of—and active in—the real world. In addition, if he plants a data trigger in a system, he’ll be instantly notified when the event that he has anticipated in fact occurs; the alert will come in the form of a brief text message he created with the trigger, appearing as neon-blue letters in


village, doing just as it pleases. The pig can’t be trusted. It should be stopped.’ ‘It probably should,’ Lin agreed, but her thoughts were not on Nadine, they were on the man she had loved for over fifty years. She rushed inside, so that her neighbours would not see her cry. Josie stood on the Toomeys’ red and white barge, a wide smile on her face; she’d just hidden the packages to be brought up later. She and Cecily had planned the baby shower, collecting many wonderful presents, clothes, a little hairbrush, nappies, a teddy bear, all wrapped in tissue. Florence would be delighted. Josie was looking forward to seeing her expression when she unwrapped the gifts. Right now, Florence was facing the other way, talking to Devlin Toomey, placing dishes on a small table helped by Adam and Malia. She moved slowly now, swaying as she turned. Josie walked down to the riverbank, where Cecily was talking quietly with Jack Lovejoy, who carried a guitar case. She watched Jack and Finn Toomey setting up a cable and an amplifier. She’d heard the rumours that had been circulating; Jimmy Baker had told everyone in The Sun that the old lady was still full of beans and Jack was Jack the lad, all right. Most people had told him to shut up, especially Dickie Junior, but Dickie Senior had found it funny and Kenny Hooper had been visibly upset by it, repeating that if anyone hurt Miss Hamilton’s feelings, he would give them a good hiding. Josie watched as Cecily laid a hand on Jack’s arm and Jack grinned, his face warm with affection. The rumour was ridiculous; she watched Cecily and Jack begin to tune up, their heads close. Josie was looking forward to the music; it was going to be a lovely afternoon all round. Fergal was boiling beans and sausages on the stove, and the trestle table on the riverbank was filled with food and drink. Josie gazed towards the village green. It was an idyllic setting, trees dipping their leaves in the water like lazy fingers, the river calm except for tiny ripples made by wriggling minnows. People had started to arrive in clusters; Jimmy Baker and Dickie Junior had brought fruit punch. They were talking to Brandon Dyer, his hands in his pockets, while Natalie chatted happily to Malia and Florence. Dangerous Dave was laughing with Jimmy Baker, eyeing Cecily and Jack. The Featherstones were there in pristine shorts and blazers; Darryl Featherstone smiled and waved to Josie. She’d have found him attractive when she’d been young; he was good-looking and there was something about the intensity of his eyes that reminded her of Harry. Josie wondered if Gerald Harris would arrive. He’d been invited, but he’d been a bit distant the last few times she’d passed Chandos. Josie knew why, of course; she’d refused him when he’d asked for a date. Some people found it hard to accept rejections, even polite ones. Besides, she’d had a drink with Fergal a couple of times, and Gerald disapproved of


be my companion. I would show you the world. Florence, New York. You’d have a salary, since that’s so important to you.” That word companion. It made Alice’s heart flicker. “I’d be no use, Madam,” she said. “I’ve nothing you need.” “Need has nothing to do with it,” said Miss de Vries, voice rough. “I need nothing. I wish to keep you. You understand?” The ball might have been taking place a hundred miles away. The roar was distant, contained beneath sediment and rock. “Keep me?” said Alice, trying to laugh. “You can’t keep me.” Miss de Vries’s expression changed. “Whyever not?” she said. “Shouldn’t you like it?” Her voice was strained. Miss de Vries was very close, then. It was possible to make out the beating of her pulse. There was something heightened, hectic about it. It matched the rhythm of Alice’s own. Miss de Vries reached for Alice. Her touch wasn’t cool. It transmitted heat. Alice saw Madam’s lips: soft, faintly touched with wine. Would she like it? Alice wondered. The room held its breath. Miss de Vries’s eyes widened, as if checking herself. It was an expression Alice had never seen on Madam’s face before. Uncertainty: delicate, shivering in the heat. Alice reached out to touch the most brittle parts of Madam’s dress, around the shoulders. She alone knew where the joins were, where the clasps could be found. It was her strength that loosened them. Miss de Vries closed her eyes. But she didn’t move. She inched closer, the tiniest, clearest fraction. Alice went further. She closed the breach between them. She kissed her mistress, the air wreathed with orchids, lamplight flickering overhead. * * * Winnie stood back from the smoke machines, her nostrils burning. Her scalp was slick with sweat. Her hands shone with greasepaint. Now, she thought. Now. The Janes nodded. Winnie pulled air into her lungs, opened one of the doors, and let loose a cry. “Fire!” she shouted. Her voice came out as a croak. “Fire, fire!” Figures appeared at the foot of the stairs and she hauled the doors open fully. Smoke billowed out around her. Blueish, stinking, sweet—far more than she could have hoped for. She covered her mouth and ran down the stairs, arms aloft. “Fire!” she cried. * * * The Janes followed Winnie downstairs. They observed the pleasing majesty of it all. Footmen running. Noses turning upward. Disbelief. The orchestra falling silent, waltz frozen midspin. “Fire, fire!” yelled a voice. And then it was real, the fear. It unfurled itself like a ribbon. The guests were like starlings in flight, a drunken, frightened rush of powdered hair and crooked crowns and ermine trains. Jane-two tested her voice. “Fire!” she bellowed. “Everybody out!” “Oh, give over,” muttered Jane-one, pressing a hand to her ear. Together they worked the crowd: pushing, shoving, scaring, very nearly ramming people down the stairs. Mrs. Bone’s men, the ones dressed as guests, helped. “Out, out, out,” they chanted, and it was remarkable to see the world obey them, growing increasingly frightened. “I’m choking!” cried


to think he was an alien from his fellows," according to her publisher John Blackwood. Look at this figure silhouetted against the sky--solitary, sad, and weighed down. It's a strong visual image, which would make a striking opening shot of a movie. Because the weavers come from another part of the country, villagers see them as a threat and shun them. Eliot asks you to understand the mentality of people who have no contact with the world outside their home village. In Eliot's time, this was already hard for readers to grasp. Just think how much harder it is for us, living in our mobile society of supersonic jets, long-distance telephones, satellite television, and space shuttles! Try, however, to put yourself into the villagers' frame of mind for a minute, and imagine how you would regard the lone figure of the weaver. Now, after the broad sweeping opening, Eliot moves from the general to the particular--to one weaver named Silas Marner. She shows you the precise location of his cottage and makes you hear the rasping sound of his loom. Some readers have pointed out that Silas is unlike the villagers because he works with a machine. Others point out that the farmers work with machines, too--Eliot mentions the winnowing-machine and flail--but those sounds are familiar to Raveloers, while the loom's sound is not. The loom does seem to have taken over Silas' spirit. As the lively village boys peer in the window, you see Silas bent like a slave at his work, unaware of the world around him. Notice how Eliot shifts in and out of different minds. One moment she is with the boys, looking in the window. The next moment, she sympathizes with harmless Silas, irritated at the interruption. Then she shares the boys' terror as they run from Silas' goggle-eyed stare. She moves from there into the minds of their parents, with their primitive superstitions. NOTE: AUTHOR'S COMMENTS Eliot pauses to discuss this superstitious quality of the peasant mind. In her sociological analysis, however, her language becomes abstract and incomprehensible. What she's really saying is that the peasants' life is hard, so they naturally think God is harsh, too. It's interesting that Eliot refers to her own experience with an old laborer to illustrate this concept. It's as if she's proving her credentials as a social analyst. Now Eliot fills in the details of her setting. She locates Raveloe on the map, in the English Midlands. She sets a date for the story, by referring to coach-roads (by Eliot's own day, railroads had replaced coaches) and the Napoleonic Wars. She describes the buildings of the village and sketches its social hierarchy, headed by a few farmers with large land holdings. Picture the village to yourself. Do you think it's a glorified vision or a realistic one? What evidence can you point to? Silas came to this place from the north fifteen years ago, you learn, but he's never joined in the village life. Eliot shows you the villagers' view of him. She tells Jem Rodney's story about finding


think Cecily’s coming too.’ Neil grinned. ‘Lin told me about the Shakespeare and the picnic. You must have had a great time.’ Josie nodded. ‘It’s a shame Minnie couldn’t have stayed on. She was May Queen once…’ ‘We all were,’ Lin recalled. ‘I was Miss Middleton Ferris 1964.’ ‘I remember.’ Neil pecked her cheek. ‘You’re still as lovely.’ Lin flushed with pleasure. Fergal arrived with two glasses of fruit punch for Lin and Josie. ‘Here you are, ladies.’ He turned to Neil. ‘I’m getting myself a cider – do you want one, Neil?’ ‘Oh, I’m not staying.’ Josie frowned. ‘Not staying to watch the fun?’ ‘Neil’s doing a lot of walking at the moment – his cholesterol is a bit high,’ Lin explained uncomfortably. ‘The weather is perfect for a walk,’ Neil added. He pecked Lin’s cheek. ‘I’ll see you this evening, love. I’ll make us an omelette with Janice’s hens’ eggs, and a salad.’ He walked away from the village green, and Josie said, ‘It’s good he’s keeping himself fit. Didn’t you want to go walking with him, Lin?’ ‘I ought to – I worry that he might stumble and fall in Old Scratch’s woods. The phone reception is not good from there…’ ‘Ah, he’ll be fine.’ Fergal had arrived back with a glass of cider, and took a deep draught. ‘That’s good stuff.’ Dangerous Dave wandered over towards them, glass in hand. ‘Lin, good to see you. Where’s Neil? He was here a moment ago…’ ‘He’s off for a walk.’ Lin sighed. ‘How’s Florence?’ Dave gazed at his daughter, who was watching the dancers. ‘She’s fine.’ He turned to Josie. ‘She told me everything when she got in last night. I wanted to say thanks to you – and to you, Lin – for taking her under your wing.’ ‘She’s a lovely girl,’ Josie said. ‘Oh, I’m proud of her – she’s all I have.’ Dave shook his head. ‘And a baby on the way. That’s two of them to take care of now.’ ‘A babby is it, Dangerous?’ Fergal sipped cider thoughtfully. ‘That’s the one thing about having boys – you don’t worry about them bringing a kiddie back to the house.’ Dangerous Dave sipped from his glass. ‘I keep wondering who put her in the family way – I bet he’s here today.’ He gazed around, his eyes falling on Jack Lovejoy and Bobby Ledbury, who were dancing with the Morris men. Beyond, the Johnson family had assembled, Rita and Linval and Adam. His eyes swivelled to the Toomey boys at the makeshift bar, laughing and joking. ‘Hello.’ A polite cough came from behind Josie and she turned to find the vicar wearing clip-on sunglasses and a Panama hat. ‘Are we all having a lovely time?’ ‘Hello, Andrew. It’s a great turn out, isn’t it?’ Josie beamed. ‘It is.’ Andrew Cooper waved a hand to indicate the growing throng. ‘A perfect sunny day for the celebrations. It was Lin I wanted to see – well, Neil, really.’ ‘Oh?’ Lin offered a warm smile. ‘Neil’s gone for a walk


to arrange the bedcovers neatly and stumbles out to the kitchen, where he finds Nick making breakfast. More specifically, he finds Nick in his underwear making breakfast. He’s wearing boxer shorts and a sleeveless undershirt, a cigarette between his lips, the beginnings of a beard already showing on his jaw, and in general looking every inch the ruffian. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Nick calls out without turning around. “There’s some coffee on the stove. Two eggs or three?” “Two.” A patch of dark hair is visible at the neckline of Nick’s undershirt, and Andy finds this . . . arresting, somehow. He already knew it was there—Nick loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt at the slightest provocation, so Andy’s had glimpses. But Andy must be a bit hungover or maybe he’s dealing with some emotional fallout from yesterday, because the fact of Nick in his underwear seems like a riddle that Andy can’t quite solve. “Did I take your only pair of pajamas?” he blurts out. “Nah, I never wear them. Those were a gift.” Nick turns and looks at Andy, his gaze skimming up from where the pajama bottoms trail on the floor to where they barely cling to Andy’s hips. Nick is an inch or two taller than Andy and probably forty pounds heavier, if not more. Andy has always been whip thin, and Nick is—well. All you have to do is look at him to see where that extra weight goes. His arms and shoulders are— “Milk’s in the icebox,” Nick says, flipping an egg. “Sugar’s on the table.” Andy pours himself some coffee and sits at the kitchen table. His head’s still a little foggy from last night’s drinking and he realizes that his eyes are sort of glazing over as he watches Nick cook. It’s just eggs. He’s watched people make eggs before, hasn’t he? There’s nothing so mesmerizing about it. Andy’s just tired and emotionally overwrought. Nick comes over to the table with two plates of eggs and some toast. “Want to play tennis later?” Andy looks up in alarm. “Jesus, Nick, I got jilted; I’m not dying.” Nick hates tennis. He’s decent at it, which somehow only makes him hate it more. Last summer, Andy convinced him that he had to learn to play golf or tennis in case he ever needed to cultivate country club types of sources. This was horseshit. Andy wanted someone to play tennis with, and knew that with golf as an alternative, Nick would agree to tennis. Nick drew the line at buying tennis whites, saying that they could play at public courts like normal people, and Andy conceded. Andy thought that Nick would make a grouchy, recalcitrant student, but was pleasantly surprised to be wrong. Nick watched, he listened, and then he did as he was told. Later, as they were cooling down on the side of the court, sitting with their backs against the fence, Andy said as much. “If I only did what came naturally, I’d be knocking heads together outside a


as she was, had always been densely constructed. She could have easily pressed a pillow down, muffled any noises, stolen the breath from her father’s lungs. To stop him repeating that slander: Mrs. King has rights on you. “If I were you,” said Mrs. King softly, “I would start looking to make some new friends. Protection. In case anyone else works it out.” Miss de Vries disliked this: it showed in her face. “I don’t need protection,” she said. “I can help you.” “How?” Mrs. King reached into her coat, drew out a small silver watch. The letters flashed at them: WdV. Miss de Vries took a tiny breath. “Sell it,” Mrs. King said. “If you like. It’s an heirloom. It will have enormous value.” “You’re mad,” Miss de Vries replied. “I could report you.” Chairs scraped in the room at the back of the shop. The girls were getting up from the workbench, ready for their lunch. Mrs. King held out the watch, but Miss de Vries remained motionless. Mrs. King felt a quiver of irritation. Move, she thought. Fight me. Say something. She’d taken such care over her costume, over her appearance, wanting to communicate something: strength, honor. Clearly, she transmitted nothing to Miss de Vries. She carried no currency at all. “Take it,” she said. “I wish you would. You deserve something.” Miss de Vries shook her head. “I’d rather bet on myself,” she said. Bets, games, risks, odds: long ones, short ones. Mrs. King could see the light sparkling in Miss de Vries’s eyes, and she looked so entirely like their father that it twisted her in the gut. But if Mr. de Vries were present in the room, as a specter or a memory, he made almost no impression; he was very nearly forgotten. His name would die; it would simply fade away. “Fair enough,” said Mrs. King. What had she expected? That they would talk, that they would speak of their own betrayals, and compare notes? Mrs. King could see it, almost: the two of them, ladies of an equal height and temperament, taking a brisk walk together around the park. Mrs. King realized that she had come here to find a sister, but there wasn’t one to be found. She reached into her pocket. Drew out an envelope. “This isn’t from me,” she said. “And it’s not a gift.” Alice had given her the instructions. Indeed, she’d purchased all the tickets. The train to the coast, the cabin for the crossing from Plymouth, the trains from France to Italy. “Don’t say anything,” she’d said to Mrs. King. “Just give them to her.” Miss de Vries took the envelope, puzzled. She didn’t open it. This didn’t surprise Mrs. King. She wouldn’t have done so, either—not in public, not under observation. She said, simply, “Good day.” And then she left the shop, not looking back, not even for a moment. 43 June 1906 Mrs. King waved her hands to clear the dust from the air. She looked across the street. She could see secretaries, lawyers, men from


on Simon’s face as he extricated himself from the pond, but she was overcome with a fit of shivers that fully distracted her. The water hadn’t been all that cold while she was in it, but now that she was out in the air, she mourned the hidden sun and the loss of Simon’s warmth. Mostly the sun, she told herself. She would have been warm next to anyone, and it wasn’t Simon himself she missed, just . . . just the way he had held her like he would never let anything bad happen to her. “I’d best get you back to the house,” Nick said, and he put his arm around Lucy, pulling her to his side. The gesture was nearly as intimate as it had been with Simon in the pond, so why didn’t Lucy feel the same level of heat? She had to draw even closer to Nick to stop her teeth from chattering. “Are you coming, Simon?” Lucy glanced back and realized Simon had collapsed onto his back, and he was lying on the shore with his thick hair plastered to his forehead and his arm over his face. “No,” he said, barely audible. “Not yet. Go on without me.” And Lucy wondered if he was as undone by the afternoon as she was. Chapter Nineteen Simon had never been more of a fool in his life, and he was really starting to think he was incapable of reading a sheet of paper and comprehending any of it. After two disastrous days in a row with Lucy—frankly, every day with her had been a disaster—he had to buckle down and get to work. But the entire morning as well as all of last night when he should have been sleeping were filled with thoughts of Lucy Hayes. She was Lucy Hayes, not Staley—he was sure of it now—assuming her name was even Lucy to begin with. He hadn’t wanted to consider it, and at the pond he had told himself every reason he should believe her story. She hadn’t given him any real reason to think otherwise, so he had been determined to stop thinking the worst of her. That look in her eyes, though, when Simon had told her William was lucky to have her . . . she had looked at him like . . . well, like he had never been more wrong about something in his life. Either she had some other monstrous secret that would somehow ruin William through their marriage, or . . . Or they weren’t engaged to begin with. And she had winced when he’d called her Miss Staley. As someone who was a terrible liar, he had recognized the signs of being caught in a lie. Considering that plus the fact that the illustrious Mr. Granger had called her Hayes, Simon couldn’t deny his family had been duped. He had been duped. He only wished he knew why she would lie in the first place or how the whole thing had begun. Had she drugged William with something?


say, and what a destiny it had turned out to be: the Hill, with all of its spotless marble, excessive green, and gilded safety. Thais had sought opportunity like a wilting plant craning its stem toward sunlight: with Malena Silnova and her artist friends, and later Thomas Mutton and his freelance work. But things kept falling apart, and every time Thais returned to their little apartment in the Silts, defeated and unfulfilled, she looked at the place as if it was a jail. She had found her opportunity at last, and even though it had come in the shape of Saint-Yves, Io was glad for her sister. Perhaps she was established enough in these circles by now that losing Saint-Yves wouldn’t cost her. Perhaps she could take over the Initiative and forge it into something truly honest and good. But first Io had to tell her, a professional breaker of hearts. Your fiancé is involved in the Silts murders. Bianca Rossi knows this and might come for him—and you. Our sister wanted me to stay out of it, to wait it out, but I came to tell you the truth. Wait it out. Gods, Ava could be annoying sometimes. Even as a child, Io remembered the sharp juxtaposition: Thais pacing the room, furious about one thing or another, and Ava on the sofa, calmly leafing through a book or listening to the latest radio drama. She would nod occasionally, or make a reaffirming sound, but Io knew she was only pretending to be listening to Thais’s tirades. Ava had even told her once, in a whisper, “We’ll just sit and wait till she gets it out of her system, all right? Then I’ll make us all crepes.” For the longest time, Io had obeyed. Then the rants began targeting her. And Ava still chose silence. Io didn’t want to think about this. She didn’t want to be hurt by this. She and Ava had always had a wonderful relationship, which got even better after Thais left. So why was Io scratching at old wounds, and why was she finding scabs instead of healed skin? It was because of Ava’s infernal questions: Are these women so important to you that you would risk us all for them? Why must you save them? Why are they so important to you? Why don’t we just wait it out? Because! she wanted to shout. Because! The wraiths were violent and murderous, but they were being manipulated. They were spewing someone else’s venom. They were slaying someone else’s targets. And they had been slowly and carefully coerced into thinking these were their own desires, their own beliefs. They had been made into villains, and they didn’t even know it. If Io didn’t fight for them, then who would? Settle, name your feelings, came Thais’s voice unbidden in her mind. Io closed her eyes and breathed until she could no longer hear the drum of her heartbeat in her ears. In through the nose, out through the mouth. How irrational it was that Thais was both the instigator


I wish I were drinking, because this deserves a spit take. “Cece, are you fake-girlfriending the dude who invented Tauron?” “Oh, yeah. That’s what it’s called.” “Tauron is literally everywhere.” I blink. “He must be a millionaire.” “I think he is. And that’s why you don’t have to teach sixty-nine classes next year.” She gives me an expectant look till I sigh and mutter, “Nice.” “Thank you. Anyway, I’ll cover rent. So you can work a reasonable amount. One or two classes. And the rest of the time you can stay home and do your research about sparkles.” “Crystals.” “Crystals. And we can spend our nights eating Gruyère and ranking Wong Kar-wai’s movies from most to least cinematographically poignant.” Does she know how much you like Twilight? I smile, trying to remember one single Wong Kar-wai movie. Pretty sure we did a two-day marathon three years ago, which I spent solving equations on my mind’s blackboard while Cece was in full Stendhal syndrome. “2046 would win.” She smiles dreamily. “Probably.” I don’t like Kirk. No—I don’t like the way Cece looks when she talks about him, because I’ve seen her act like that only about foreign movies, or Sapir-Whorf, or hedgehogs. It just doesn’t seem like a good idea to like one’s fake boyfriend that much. But I don’t have a chance to say it, because Cece is standing again, rummaging in the cupboard for wonton strips. And because my phone is buzzing with a text—the first I’ve ever gotten from this number: Are you free tomorrow night? 17 DISPLACEMENT I WEAR BLACK JEANS . A cute sweater. Ankle boots. I leave my hair down. Then I pull it up in a bun. Then I let it down again. Then I braid it. Then I leave it down. I haven’t told Cece where I’m going, because she’s not home, and I’m physically unable to send her a text explaining that: I. Am. Going. Out. WithJackSmithTurner. Maybe. I’m still not positive that the reason he wants to see me is not to stealthily substitute my insulin with Frappuccino. Maybe I should make a safety call—make the investigators’ job easier when they find my corpse in a swamp. But the car is already there when I get downstairs, and I simply slip into the passenger seat. The cabin smells like leather, Jack, and bad ideas. I should say something. Hi, how are you? Did you have a good week? Favorite Teletubby? Off-year elections thoughts? I’ve done this a million times—gone out with people. A million fake dates. Then why? Why? Why can’t I . . . Why? “I think,” he drawls, “I just heard your head explode.” I turn to him. He’s handsome in a near-painful way, and my head is still in mid-explosion. “Want to go back up?” The smile. Uneven. Amused. All-knowing. “Try this another day?” I shake my head before I change my mind. “I want to do this now.” I swallow. Face straight ahead. “I think.” He starts the engine. “Look at you.” “Look at me?” He puts his hand


in the game, should feel idyllic—but there is always the lake. It’s the backdrop of this place, and no matter how hard I try, I can never quite force myself to think of it as anything other than foreboding. Upstate New York is filled with lakes, but this one makes my skin crawl every time I look at it. The splash sounds again. I huff. I know I have to check it out even though I don’t want to. Part of my job is keeping everybody in camp terrified but generally safe, and that means making sure nobody is out there disobeying our very strict no-swimming rule. On the porch, it’s so humid I feel like I’m inhaling the mist from a boiling pot of water. Everything is damp and sticky and the insects love that. There is a never-ending parade of flies, gnats, and mosquitos that drives me nuts. I keep a can of Raid in my cabin for the times when the buzzing is too much to handle. Outside, a cloud of flies and mosquitoes is swarming the light bulb. Nobody is supposed to be messing around in the lake. We have paddleboats and canoes, but they’re just for looks. Their setup replicates the opening shot of The Curse of Camp Mirror Lake with the canoes bobbing in the water and the paddleboats nestled by the dock. It’s perfect for the game. It makes the guests feel like everything is normal right before it all gets turned upside down. The lake is flat calm this morning. Like a big sheet of black glass. I scan the area to see if maybe something has fallen in—a deer, a raccoon—but I don’t see anything or anyone. Everything is still. I sigh and grab my phone, switch off the alarm. There’s no sense in trying to get back to sleep. I scroll through my emails, which haven’t updated in a few hours due to the awful cell reception. The mini AC unit in my cabin is fighting for its life, so I switch it off and grab my shower kit and head over to the community stalls to clean up. In the light of day, there’s nothing to be afraid of. The shower building is a little run-down and the stalls are narrow, but the water’s warm and I feel like a brand-new person after cleaning off the mess from the previous night’s game. I dress for the heat—shorts, T-shirt, sneakers—and as I make my way to the office cabin, the dew is already beginning to evaporate as the sun tilts through the towering pines. A layer of mist rises from the ground and billows around my ankles like a low-lying cloud. Before I head to the main office, I do a walk-through of the camp to make sure everything is as it should be. I start at the eastern edge where the control center, located in the Craftsman Lodge, is situated. The outer door is locked, and I don’t bother to check inside. There’s never any issue in there, but outside, the


and lifeguard tower, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s actually Mirror Lake or not. “It was private,” Paige says. “The clipping made it sound like only rich folks could bring their kids up to the camp.” Porter crosses and uncrosses his legs like he can’t get comfortable. He avoids my eyes as I shift my gaze to him. “Porter?” I ask. “Something you want to share?” He purses his lips and then sighs. “In my defense, I thought it was a prop left over from when they shot the movie, so I didn’t bring it up.” A little ripple of unease pulses through me. “What are you talking about?” Porter sighs and clasps his hands together in front of him. “I was doing a walk-through when I first got hired, just tryna get a good handle on the layout of the camp, and I found something out there behind the supply shed.” He leans forward. “There was this mound of dirt. It looked out of place, so I went to check it out.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It was all overgrown, but on the back side there was wood sticking out. Like an upside-down canoe. The letters on the side said ‘Camp Mirror Lake.’ ” I exhale in frustration. “You didn’t think I should know about that?” Porter shrugs. “Like I said, I thought it was a prop. Maybe it is. I don’t know.” “Okay, well, so what?” Kyle asks. “Why do we care if it was a summer camp?” He’s right, I guess. I guess it doesn’t matter, but it doesn’t sit right with me. Did Mr. Lamont know? And if so, why hide it? “What did that lady with the shotgun say?” Bezi suddenly asks. She thinks for a minute. “If we knew what she knows? Do you think this camp has something to do with what she was saying?” “Wish we knew for sure that it even existed,” Tasha says. Paige huffs and slumps down in her seat. “It did.” “We could ask my grandma,” Javier offers. We all turn to look at him. “Why?” Kyle asks. “She was born in Groton,” he says. “And she’s nosy. She’s always in everybody’s business, especially the old ladies she plays cards with on Saturdays.” Javier readjusts himself on the blankets. “My grandma’s . . . protective. I’m her favorite grandkid. She has, like, twenty. So it’s a big deal.” Kyle bats his eyes dramatically. “Oh, that’s so cute. You’re Grandma’s favorite?” “Shut up,” Javier says. “The point is that there was no way she was gonna let me work at a horror-simulation camp. So I made some shit up so she wouldn’t worry. Told her it was a summer camp. When I told her it was up here in the woods, she started acting weird.” “Weird?” Kyle asks. “What’s that mean?” “She was asking me not to go,” Javier says. “Then she was telling me not to go. She said I wasn’t allowed to take the job but bills gotta get paid and she’s only getting her


if ir- ritated. Her brother, who loved her tenderly, was ap- palled at this fantastic preference. Leaving aside the degradation of an alliance with a nameless man, and the possible fact that his property, in default of heirs, male, might pass into such a one's power, he had sense to comprehend Heathcliff's disposition---to know that, though his exterior was altered, his mind was un- changeable and unchanged. And he dreaded that mind. It revolted him. He shrank forebodingly from the idea of committing Isabella to its keeping. He would have recoiled still more had he been aware that her attach- ment rose unsolicited, and was bestowed where it awak- ened no reciprocation of sentiment, for the minute he discovered its existence he laid the blame on Heathcliff's deliberate designing. We had all remarked, during some time, that Miss Linton fretted, and pined over something. She grew cross and wearisome, snapping at and teasing Catherine continually, at the imminent risk of exhausting her limited patience. We excused her, to a certain extent, on the plea of ill-health. She was dwindling and fading before our eyes. But one day, when she had been peculiarly wayward, rejecting her breakfast, complain- ing that the servants did not do what she told them; that the mistress would allow her to be nothing in the house, and Edgar neglected her; that she had caught a cold with the doors being left open, and we let the parlour fire go out on purpose to vex her, with a hundred yet more frivolous accusations, Mrs. Linton peremptorily insisted that she should get to bed, and having scolded her heartily, threatened to send for the doctor. Men- tion of Kenneth caused her to exclaim instantly that her health was perfect, and it was only Catherine's harsh- ness which made her unhappy. "How can you say I am harsh, you naughty fond- ling?" cried the mistress, amazed at the unreasonable assertion. "You are surely losing your reason. When have I been harsh, tell me?" "Yesterday," sobbed Isabella, "and now!" "Yesterday!" said her sister-in-law. "On what occa- sion?" "In our walk along the moor. You told me to ramble where I pleased, while you sauntered on with Mr. Heathcliff!" "And that's your notion of harshness?" said Cather- ine, laughing. "It was no hint that your company was superfluous. We didn't care whether you kept with us or not. I merely thought Heathcliff's talk would have nothing entertaining for your ears." "Oh no," wept the young lady; "you wished me away because you knew I liked to be there!" "Is she sane?" asked Mrs. Linton, appealing to me. "I'll repeat our conversation, word for word, Isabella; and you point out any charm it could have had for you." "I don't mind the conversation," she answered. "I wanted to be with------" "Well?" said Catherine, perceiving her hesitate to complete the sentence. "With him; and I won't be always sent off!" she con- tinued, kindling up. "You are a dog in the manger, Cathy, and desire no one to be loved but yourself!" "You are an


trying to erase all traces of my mother. If she’d known that dress was my mom’s, she’d have thrown it away even sooner. And maybe set a match to it first. “… Because I just do,” I finished. Lucinda stepped back then and eyed me as if to say, Just what I expected. Like she’d called me on my insultingly obvious bluff. “It’s gone,” she said on her way out the door. “Just let it go.” But after she left, I pressed the button for the nurse. When she showed up, I was crying so much, she took my hand and squeezed it. “Deep breaths. Deep breaths,” she said encouragingly. Finally, through breaths that were more like spasms, I conveyed the question. “The dress—I was wearing—when I came here—my stepmother said—to throw it away—but I need it. Is there any way to—get it back?” Her sigh seemed to deflate her entire body. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said—and by the end of those first two words alone, I knew all hope was lost. “If we threw it away, it went to the incinerator.” And so there was nothing left to do but cry myself to sleep. * * * LUCINDA DID NOT return “first thing in the morning.” Which was fine with me. I’d already had breakfast, an MRI, and begun a consultation with a deeply serious Filipino brain surgeon named Dr. Sylvan Estrera before she showed back up, appearing in the room just as he got to the juicy stuff. “The scan didn’t reveal anything urgent,” Dr. Estrera was saying. “No stroke or hemorrhage. No significant bleeds in the brain.” “That’s a relief,” I said. Then he continued. “But it did reveal a neurovascular issue.” Okay, that didn’t sound good. “A neurovascular issue?” The word neurovascular felt like a foreign language in my mouth. “A lesion,” he explained, “that should be treated.” “A lesion?” I asked, like he’d said something obscene. Dr. Estrera put some images from the MRI up onto a lightboard. He pointed to an area with a tiny dark dot and said, “The scan revealed a cavernoma.” He waited for recognition, like I might know what that was. I did not. So I just waited for him to go on. “It’s a malformed blood vessel in the brain,” he explained next. “You’ve had it all your life. An inherited condition.” I glanced at Lucinda, like that didn’t seem right. But Lucinda lifted her hands and said, “Don’t blame me. I’m just the stepmother.” I looked back at the scan—and that menacing little dot. Could he have gotten my scan mixed up with someone else’s? I mean, I just didn’t feel like a person walking around with a malformed blood vessel in her brain. I frowned at Dr. Estrera. “Are you sure?” “It’s plain as day right here,” he said, pointing at the image. Plain as day? More like a fuzzy blur, but okay. “Cavernomas frequently cause seizures,” he went on. “They can be neurologically silent. You could go your whole life without ever having a problem. But they can also


trading stores were very much in the people's eyes and minds. There were still many who saw these new institutions as evil, but even they talked and thought about little else, and certainly not about Okonkwo's return. And it was the wrong year too. If Okonkwo had immediately initiated his two sons into the ozo society as he had planned he would have caused a stir. But the initiation rite was performed once in three years in Umuofia, and he had to wait for nearly two years for the next round of ceremonies. Okonkwo was deeply grieved. And it was not just a personal grief. He mourned for the clan, which he saw breaking up and falling apart, and he mourned for the warlike men of Umuofia, who had so unaccountably become soft like women. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Mr. Brown's successor was the Reverend James Smith, and he was a different kind of man. He condemned openly Mr. Brown's policy of compromise and accommodation. He saw things as black and white. And black was evil. He saw the world as a battlefield in which the children of light were locked in mortal conflict with the sons of darkness. He spoke in his sermons about sheep and goats and about wheat and tares. He believed in slaying the prophets of Baal. Mr. Smith was greatly distressed by the ignorance which many of his flock showed even in such things as the Trinity and the Sacraments. It only showed that they were seeds sown on a rocky soil. Mr. Brown had thought of nothing but numbers. He should have known that the kingdom of God did not depend on large crowds. Our Lord Himself stressed the importance of fewness. Narrow is the way and few the number. To fill the Lord's holy temple with an idolatrous crowd clamouring for signs was a folly of everlasting consequence. Our Lord used the whip only once in His life--to drive the crowd away from His church. Within a few weeks of his arrival in Umuofia Mr. Smith suspended a young woman from the church for pouring new wine into old bottles. This woman had allowed her heathen husband to mutilate her dead child. The child had been declared an ogbanje, plaguing its mother by dying and entering her womb to be born again. Four times this child had run its evil round. And so it was mutilated to discourage it from returning. Mr. Smith was filled with wrath when he heard of this. He disbelieved the story which even some of the most faithful confirmed, the story of really evil children who were not deterred by mutilation, but came back with all the scars. He replied that such stories were spread in the world by the Devil to lead men astray. Those who believed such stories were unworthy of the Lord's table. There was a saying in Umuofia that as a man danced so the drums were beaten for him. Mr. Smith danced a furious step and so the drums went mad. The over-zealous converts who had smarted


a green sky. Imagine trying to talk to the natives--purple blobs of flesh that emit high-pitched whines. You might feel the way Silas Marner does when he arrives in Raveloe. Its landscape is unfamiliar--woods instead of rolling hills--and its people are slow-moving and prosperous, totally unlike the urban artisans he's lived among. Eliot stresses that this shock would have fallen especially hard on a simple mind like Silas'. His thoughts fly back longingly to Lantern-Yard, picturing the chapel and hearing the familiar service again. Though he has broken with its doctrines, he's still tied in his heart to the physical place, from years of association. This is natural, Eliot tells you--and she compares him to a child, responding instinctively to a parent's sheltering care. Already Eliot is foreshadowing the attachment to Eppie which will be his salvation. Eliot looks back in time, comparing Silas' faith to some ancient religion, ruled by local gods who co-existed easily with their neighbors' gods. In Eliot's own time, people debated endlessly over which religious group truly represented the universal God. Eliot, however, thought there should be room on Earth for many different religions. NOTE: LIGHT/DARK IMAGERY At the end of this second paragraph, light stands for knowledge and darkness stands for uncertainty. Right now Silas is frightened by life's mysteries--"the blackness of night." This image recurs at the end of the next paragraph, too, in his "dark" future. Yet in the paragraph after that, when he receives his first gold coins, their "brightness" seems simply to mean they're desirable. Eliot the psychologist reveals how young Silas Marner turns into that bent old man you saw earlier. First, he takes refuge in his work. Eliot compares him to a lower life form, a spider (insect imagery), especially apt because like a spider Silas weaves a web. Eliot says it's normal for any person to bury himself in work when life isn't going well. If you've ever known any workaholics, you may understand this defense. Silas' life is reduced to a series of physical actions--throwing the shuttle, watching the cloth grow, preparing meals. He doesn't allow himself to reflect upon his past, present, or future. Notice the image used to describe his worn channel of thought--"its old narrow pathway." One day, a Mrs. Osgood pays Silas in gold for the linen he weaves for her. Although Silas has no purpose for the coins, he likes them for physical reasons--they feel and look good. His old Puritan work ethic becomes transformed into a desire for the money itself. The new feeling grows like a plant, rooted in old feelings (here is another major strand of imagery). Now you learn the full story of Silas' curing Sally Oates. Though he's trying to shut off memory, when he sees the sick cobbler's wife he remembers how the same disease killed his mother. The memory of his mother reminds him of his herbal medicines, and he treats Sally. In a place like Raveloe, however, there are few private deeds. Soon everyone wants some of Silas' "stuff." Being honest, Silas doesn't claim any


about them too much, definitely more than they’d like me to. I can’t help it.” “When you say older . . .” I purse my lips, preparing for his reaction. “Pushing eighty. When I was in school, kids would always assume they were my grandparents. And now that I’m an adult, it’s only occasionally hitting me that they’re really, really different from how they used to be. And that terrifies me sometimes.” My voice goes soft, the hum of the pool filters filling the space. “I’d be doing the same thing,” he says. “That can’t be easy.” There’s something new in his voice, a gentleness that makes me keep talking. “It’s like—each year brings me new and additional ways to worry about them. Is it going to get below freezing? Then I’m worried about them getting out of a car when it’s icy. How’s their eyesight, their reflexes? Is it safe for them to drive? And—” I break off, wondering if I’m telling him too much. It’s definitely more than I’ve talked about to anyone except Noemie. “Even if they did need help, I feel like they’d go out of their way to prevent me from finding out. Because they wouldn’t want to inconvenience me.” One time, they didn’t tell me about a skin biopsy my dad had because they didn’t want me to get anxious about it. Which was probably the right call, because when my mom let it slip over text that the results had fortunately been benign, I called her five times in rapid succession when she didn’t answer. When she finally called me back, she didn’t understand why I was so worried about it. “They’re good people,” he says. “I can tell.” “Because they put up with me and my alien tendencies?” “No. It’s in the way you talk about them. There are so many parent horror stories in the industry, people who forced their kids to grow up too fast. I guess it’s been a while since I heard about someone genuinely loving and getting along with their parents.” The message from my mom finally shows up, giving my shoulders a chance to relax: all nrml dad & I going to clbrate w I push my phone away from the pool—but not too far. “Anyway, you don’t need a whole history about my parents.” “What if I want to hear about Mr. and Mrs. Cohen?” He maneuvers into a back float, flashing me a Cheshire cat grin. “It’s going to get pretty boring if I’m the only one who has to talk. I want to know things about you, too.” And then he swims off, sending a splash in my direction. chapter thirteen MEMPHIS, TN Memphis is an easy city to fall in love with, which I do almost instantly. It’s rich with history and culture, alive. The sun seems to follow us down streets of brick buildings, warming our necks and washing the whole place in amber hues. We take a tour of Sun Studio, where Finn insists on snapping a photo of me holding the


me. So as long as I stepped naturally over the junk piles on my floor, she’d never know my room was messy. As long as I brushed my teeth long enough, she wouldn’t know I hadn’t used toothpaste. The habit still crops up in adulthood, particularly when I can’t believe where I am, when I need to process myself from the outside. And as soon as Priscilla mentioned your name, as soon as she summoned you, the person I imagined watching me was you. In the lounge, you watched me pour chemical creamer into my coffee, stevia from a little green packet. I wasn’t furious with you yet. That would come later. For now, you were simply an audience. Don’t be flattered. I didn’t understand yet that I was there on your trail, that I wanted answers from you. But the subconscious has a funny way of working things out. 6 After HR, Petra walked me into Quincy Hall, swept me upstairs and down a corridor that still smelled exactly like itself, like the dark, ancient wood of its windowsills. Only—what used to be the darkroom was a 3D printing lab; the water fountain was now a bottle-filling station with a digital counter. In the corner classroom where I once took art history, my five podcasters waited. They were the most adorable, wide-eyed babies. There was a tall, skinny boy with an old-school high-top fade and a David Bowie shirt. There was a pale kid with purple hair who looked like Lillian Gish. They were all beautiful, in a way we never were. I don’t mean this on some profound spiritual level. It took a few minutes, but then I had it: It was their skin and teeth. Not an acne mark among them. No one wore braces, but their teeth were straight, already aligned in middle school. The dermatologists and orthodontists have finally solved it. We went around the table doing names and pronouns and hometowns and aspirations, but I couldn’t stop fixating on their youth. Unlike my UCLA students, these were children. Seniors, all but one (the guy in the Bowie shirt, an ebullient half-Ghanaian, half-Irish junior from Connecticut, wanted to work in public radio), but so dough-faced, so unformed. You would have loved these kids, Mr. Bloch. They would’ve been yours for the molding. The Bowie kid was named Alder (“like the tree,” he clarified) and he kept apologizing for his sneezing, getting up to grab Kleenex from the chalkboard ledge. Eventually I handed him the whole box, and he looked mortified. “I want to make something about the 1930s,” he said. We were going around a second time, spitballing podcast ideas. “But I want to do it like it is the 1930s.” In the email I’d sent the week before, I’d asked them to brainstorm topics related to the past or present of Granby. This way, I wrote, you’ll have easy access to interview sources and archives. It also meant I wouldn’t have to deal with video game fancasts or vampires. I included a list of ideas, with


is Mistis on dis plantation, Madam. But Ah aims to show you.’ “By dat time I had done managed tuh unkivver mah baby enough for her to see de head and face. “‘Nigger, whut’s yo’ baby doin’ wid gray eyes and yaller hair?’ She begin tuh slap mah jaws ever which a’way. Ah never felt the fust ones ’cause Ah wuz too busy gittin’ de kivver back over mah chile. But dem last lick burnt me lak fire. Ah had too many feelin’s tuh tell which one tuh follow so Ah didn’t cry and Ah didn’t do nothin’ else. But then she kept on astin me how come mah baby look white. She asted me dat maybe twenty-five or thirty times, lak she got tuh sayin’ dat and couldn’t help herself. So Ah told her, ‘Ah don’t know nothin’ but what Ah’m told tuh do, ’cause Ah ain’t nothin’ but uh nigger and uh slave.’ “Instead of pacifyin’ her lak Ah thought, look lak she got madder. But Ah reckon she was tired and wore out ’cause she didn’t hit me no more. She went to de foot of de bed and wiped her hands on her handksher. ‘Ah wouldn’t dirty mah hands on yuh. But first thing in de mornin’ de overseer will take you to de whippin’ post and tie you down on yo’ knees and cut de hide offa yo’ yaller back. One hundred lashes wid a raw-hide on yo’ bare back. Ah’ll have you whipped till de blood run down to yo’ heels! Ah mean to count de licks mahself. And if it kills you Ah’ll stand de loss. 22 Zora Neale Hurston Anyhow, as soon as dat brat is a month old Ah’m going to sell it offa dis place.’ “She flounced on off and let her wintertime wid me. Ah knowed mah body wasn’t healed, but Ah couldn’t consider dat. In de black dark Ah wrapped mah baby de best Ah knowed how and made it to de swamp by de river. Ah knowed de place was full uh moccasins and other bitin’ snakes, but Ah was more skeered uh whut was behind me. Ah hide in dere day and night and suckled de baby every time she start to cry, for fear somebody might hear her and Ah’d git found. Ah ain’t sayin’ uh friend or two didn’t feel mah care. And den de Good Lawd seen to it dat Ah wasn’t taken. Ah don’t see how come mah milk didn’t kill mah chile, wid me so skeered and worried all de time. De noise uh de owls skeered me; de limbs of dem cypress trees took to crawlin’ and movin’ round after dark, and two three times Ah heered panthers prowlin’ round. But nothin’ never hurt me ’cause de Lawd knowed how it was. “Den, one night Ah heard de big guns boomin’ lak thun- der. It kept up all night long. And de next mornin’ Ah could see uh big ship at a distance and a great stirrin’ round. So Ah wrapped Leafy


that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing, than any other man.'' ``You are very cruel,'' said her sister, ``you will not let me smile, and are provoking me to it every moment.'' ``How hard it is in some cases to be believed!'' ``And how impossible in others!'' ``But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge?'' ``That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make me your confidante.'' __ CHAPTER XIII (55) A FEW days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. ``Next time you call,'' said she, ``I hope we shall be more lucky.'' He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. ``Can you come to-morrow?'' Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity. He came, and in such very good time that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out, ``My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come -- Mr. Bingley is come. -- He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair.'' ``We will be down as soon as we can,'' said Jane; ``but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago.'' ``Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! Where is your sash, my dear?'' But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said, ``What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?'' ``Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you.'' She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and


and briskness, that did not seem indicative of natural strength. He had not a handsome face, but it was better than handsome: being extremely amiable and cheerful. His figure was a little ungainly, as in the days when my knuckles had taken such liberties with it, but it looked as if it would always be light and young. Whether Mr. Trabb's local work would have sat more gracefully on him than on me, may be a question; but I am conscious that he carried off his rather old clothes, much better than I carried off my new suit. As he was so communicative, I felt that reserve on my part would be a bad return unsuited to our years. I therefore told him my small story, and laid stress on my being forbidden to inquire who my benefactor was. I further mentioned that as I had been brought up a blacksmith in a country place, and knew very little of the ways of politeness, I would take it as a great kindness in him if he would give me a hint whenever he saw me at a loss or going wrong. "With pleasure," said he, "though I venture to prophesy that you'll want very few hints. I dare say we shall be often together, and I should like to banish any needless restraint between us. Will you do me the favour to begin at once to call me by my Christian name, Herbert?" I thanked him, and said I would. I informed him in exchange that my Christian name was Philip. "I don't take to Philip," said he, smiling, "for it sounds like a moral boy out of the spelling-book, who was so lazy that he fell into a pond, or so fat that he couldn't see out of his eyes, or so avaricious that he locked up his cake till the mice ate it, or so determined to go a bird's-nesting that he got himself eaten by bears who lived handy in the neighbourhood. I tell you what I should like. We are so harmonious, and you have been a blacksmith - would you mind it?" "I shouldn't mind anything that you propose," I answered, "but I don't understand you." "Would you mind Handel for a familiar name? There's a charming piece of music by Handel, called the Harmonious Blacksmith." "I should like it very much." "Then, my dear Handel," said he, turning round as the door opened, "here is the dinner, and I must beg of you to take the top of the table, because the dinner is of your providing." This I would not hear of, so he took the top, and I faced him. It was a nice little dinner - seemed to me then, a very Lord Mayor's Feast - and it acquired additional relish from being eaten under those independent circumstances, with no old people by, and with London all around us. This again was heightened by a certain gipsy character that set the banquet off; for, while the table was, as Mr. Pumblechook might have