Anxiety

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Satyricon (1)

  (Tortured by these cares I spent the whole night in anxiety, and at dawn, Giton, who had found out that I had slept at home, entered the room and bitterly accused me of leading a licentious life; he said that the whole household was greatly concerned at what I had been doing, that I was so rarely present to attend to my duties, and that the intrigue in which I was engaged would very likely bring about my ruin. I gathered from this that he had been well informed as to my affairs, and that someone had been to the house inquiring for me. Thereupon,) I began to ply Giton with questions as to whether anyone had made inquiry for me; “Not today,” he replied, “but yesterday a woman came in at the door, not bad looking, either, and after talking to me for quite a while, and wearing me out with her far-fetched conversation, finally ended by saying that you deserved punishment, and that you would receive the scourging of a slave if the injured party pressed his complaint.” (This news afflicted me so bitterly that I levelled fresh recriminations against Fortune, and) I had not yet finished grumbling when Chrysis came in and, throwing herself upon me, embraced me passionately. “I have you,” she cried, “just as I hoped I would; you are my heart’s desire, my joy, you can never put out this flame of mine unless you quench it in my blood!” (I was greatly embarrassed by this wantonness of Chrysis and had recourse to flattery in order that I might rid myself of her, as I feared that her passionate outcries would reach the ears of Eumolpus who, in the arrogance of success, had put on the manner of the master. So on this account, I did everything I could think of to calm Chrysis. I feigned love, whispered compliments, in short, so skillfully did I dissimulate that she believed I was Love’s own captive. I showed her what pressing peril overhung us should she be caught in that room with me, as Eumolpus was only too ready to punish the slightest offense. On hearing this, she left me hurriedly, and all the more quickly, as she caught sight of Giton, who had only left me a little before she had come in, on his way to my room. She was scarcely gone when) one of the newly engaged servants rushed in and informed me that the master was furiously angry with me because of my two days’ absence from duty; I would do well, therefore, to prepare some plausible excuse, as it was not likely that his angry passion would be placated until someone had been flogged. (Seeing that I was so vexed and disheartened, Giton said not a word about the woman, contenting himself with speaking of Eumolpus, and advising me that it would be better to joke with him than to treat the matter seriously. I followed this lead and appeared before the old fellow, with so merry a countenance that, instead of showing severity, he received me with good humor and rallied me upon the success of my love affairs, praising the elegance of my figure which made me such a favorite with the ladies. “I know very well,” he went on, “that a lovely woman is dying for love of you, Encolpius, and this may come in handy for us, so play your part and I’ll play mine, too!”)

• From Little Birds (1979)

  John stopped at an inn and I took the girls to the ladies’ room. They immediately went in to the toilet together. One was saying: “There is no blood. I guess he didn’t break through.” The other one was crying. We took them home. One of the girls thanked me and said, “I hope that never happens to you.” While my mother was talking I was wondering if she feared this and was preparing me. I cannot say that when Monday came I was not uneasy. I felt that if the painter was attractive I would be in greater danger than if he was not, for if I liked him I might get wet between the legs. The first one was about fifty, bald, with a rather European face and little mustache. He had a beautiful studio. He placed the screen in front of me so that I could change my dress. I threw my clothes over the screen. As I threw my last piece of underwear over the top of the screen I saw the painter’s face appear at the top, smiling. But it was done so comically and ridiculously, like a scene in a play, that I said nothing, got dressed, and took the pose. Every half-hour I would get a rest. I could smoke a cigarette. The painter put on a record and said: “Will you dance?” We danced on the highly polished floor, turning among the paintings of beautiful women. At the end of the dance, he kissed my neck. “So dainty,” he said. “Do you pose in the nude?” “No.” “Too bad.” I thought this was not so difficult to manage. It was time to pose again. The three hours passed quickly. He talked while he worked. He said he had married his first model; that she was unbearably jealous; that every now and then she broke into the studio and made scenes; that she would not let him paint from the nude. He had rented another studio she did not know about. Often he worked there. He gave parties there too. Would I like to come to one on Saturday night? He gave me another little kiss on the neck as I left. He winked and said: “You won’t tell the club on me?” I returned to the club for luncheon because I could make up my face and freshen myself, and they gave us a cheap lunch. The other girls were there. We fell into conversation. When I mentioned the invitation for Saturday night, they laughed, nodding at one another. I could not get them to talk. One girl had lifted up her skirt and was examining a mole way up her thighs. With a little caustic pencil she was trying to burn it away. I saw that she was not wearing panties, just a black satin dress which clung to her. The telephone would ring and then one of the girls would be called and go off to work.

• From Vision Quest (1979)

  I talked about how, even if you define yourself as a Christian and believe in eternal life, you’ve got to realize your time on earth is incredibly short. And I explained further that along with this has to go the realization that we not only die alone, but that, really, we live alone, too. That no matter how we love our families and friends, we can’t breathe for each other when our alveoli clog up with cigarette smoke and car exhaust, that we can’t pee for each other when our kidneys stop working, and that we can’t really comfort each other once we know these things. This is the real reason Thomas Wolfe couldn’t go home again and why old Don Genaro won’t ever reach Ixtlan and most of all why we’ve got to love the people who deserve it as fiercely as we love our own lives. And then Balldozer says, “Oh, you’re writing about growing up.” I passed over the remark and went on. But now the bastard’s got me wondering. XXISunday night is sure a weird night for a dance. But it’s New Year’s Eve and that’s when the dance is traditionally held. I feel as though I should be doing leftover homework. I think I’d like to see Christmas and New Year’s made Wednesday every year. Carla notes, however, that there’s a sense of orderliness in beginning a new week and a new year on the same day. Although she denies responsibility, I’m blaming Carla for some embarrassment I suffered this afternoon. Actually, it was the fault of general fatigue and my often intractable libido, but it’s more fun to blame Carla. I was really, really tired last night. I puzzled over Balldozer’s comment until I fell asleep. I vaguely remember him waking me in the school parking lot and Carla driving me home. I remember flopping into bed and Katzenburger licking my face, or maybe it was Carla taking advantage of me. Anyway, I was dog tired. I got up around nine and ran three miles and came home and did a workout in the laundry room. I started my laundry-room workouts again because without school and work I was afraid I wouldn’t burn enough energy to keep my weight down. I start the school year with my laundry-room workouts and only give them up when I feel really in good shape. I take my tape player in and put on a special workout tape. I keep the tape player in a plastic bag so the moisture doesn’t get to it. I dry a load of laundry so the room’s good and hot and I wear my rubber sweat suit under my cotton one. I’ve got ten songs on my tape. I skip rope through one song, stop the tape, do a hundred pushups, then a hundred sits, then turn the next song on and do it till the tape is over.

• From Vision Quest (1979)

  It makes me feel like the bad guy. Down the street Cindy’s Mazda pulls up in front of the house. Willa leaps out into the fresh snow and disappears. Cindy hauls her out and shakes her off. Dad hasn’t shoveled yet. The little kid laughs like crazy and hollers for more. I fling her into the softest-looking mounds and hoist her back out until she begins to turn blue. It doesn’t take long. Then the three of us head in for New Year’s dinner. * * * This afternoon I ate what I believe to be the last spinach of my life. I weighed 147 after an ugly green shit, so I think I can safely look forward to a can of Nutrament for breakfast. I thought I’d go see Jesus Christ Superstar for a little inspiration tonight, but I finally decided against it. I ran another three miles and did a laundry-room workout instead. I got off on a great fantasy about doctoring in a space settlement. One of Jupiter’s moons was just like the earth around 1800 and I got to see the land before all the people came. I inoculated the Indians against all the diseases we probably brought them. Then I took a shower and Carla got naked with me and we looked at ourselves in the bathroom mirror like we used to do pretty often after we came back from our first camping trip. It’s a little ritual we still do, but not as regularly as before. I identify my different muscles, then flex them one by one as best I can. It’s how I studied for anatomy tests. I start with the thick cords in my neck, the sternocleidomastoids; then I hit the high spots all the way down to my gastrocnemius muscles. I don’t have real big calves but they’re pretty well defined. In fact, bodywise, I’m every bit as good-looking as Shute. We put on our Pachelbel record and looked at each other and poked different places and laughed a lot. It’s kind of hard to spot some of Carla’s muscles, so I have to feel around for them. She thinks I should be able to flex my cock. I grunt and strain, but she always has to lend a hand. I’ve finished typing almost the last of my senior thesis. I only have the conclusion left. Maybe I can write it tomorrow night when the match is over and my nervousness is gone. It shouldn’t be more than a couple paragraphs. I’m thinking hard about what Balldozer said about it all being nothing more than the process of growing up. Maybe that’s what my conclusion should be. But if Balldozer’s right, I bet damn few people ever really grow up. I’m so nervous I couldn’t even make love. I probably could have, but I sure wouldn’t have been very good.

• From Vision Quest (1979)

  Mr. Borison says we live in a time of anomie.” Borison teaches sociology. “Swain’s got some norms,” replies Otto. “I saw ’em yesterday in the shower.” “Think of it this way, Nort,” I console. “You’ve got a lot of abnorms.” “You guys are a comfort,” he replies. “Got anything to eat?” He droops in Saint Bernard style. “You didn’t bring anything?” I’m astounded. “Cake and turkey sandwiches,” Nort replies. “But nothin’ I can eat before the match. I’d never make weight. I think I’m on some kind of Nutrament high. I drank a can on the way to school and I feel a little spacy.” “You look like shit,” interjects Otto. Norty’s blood sugar is probably low. I reach for my honey bottle. “Open up,” I say. I squeeze a thick golden line of honey onto his tongue. “Ummmmm, good.” Nort smiles. He turns around and crawls back toward the rear. Otto and I look at each other. “Hypoglycemic,” I say. “Poor fucker’s got no norms,” Otto replies. The bus driver pumps the brakes. We slide just a little at first, then straighten out and slow down. Out the window on our side red-and-blue lights flash and twirl. A pickup with a big camper is stuck up to the hubs in the entrance to a little roadside park. A state trooper and a couple wrecker guys stand around. Nobody seems to be hurt or anything. An old couple sit in the cab of the pickup. The bus driver pours it on again. “Guy must have tried to pull in there for a snooze,” I observe. “Must have thought he was driving a snow vehicle.” “Fuck,” says Otto. He shivers. “Every time we take a road trip we see an accident or something.” I know what Otto’s thinking about, but I don’t respond. He turns and watches Idaho go by outside the window and I close my eyes. We were really into violence and meanness our sophomore year. Me and Otto and Kuch. We had to be to make varsity on a state championship team. Few of the older guys liked us because we were so insane. Running guys into the walls in wrestle-offs if we couldn’t do anything else to shake them loose. Screaming and dancing and never stopping brutalizing ourselves and anybody else we got our hands on. We each won our first match, against Marcus Whitman, and we were about psyched to our crania for the next ones, which were against Grand Coulee and Chief Joseph in a triangular meet at Chief Joseph in Wenatchee. We were doubly psyched because it was our first road trip. We had to leave real early to make Wenatchee by noon. Everybody was asleep by the time we turned up the ramp for 90 West. Everybody except Otto and Kuch and me. Spokane looked really neat from Sunset Hill.

• From Shunned (2018)

  Two pieces of the white floor tiling were displaced, and tubes of grout and caulking were open and resting on a folded newspaper. She was wearing rubber gloves. “Just give me a minute,” she said. “These tiles came loose, and I want to let them set while we visit.” I was grateful for the distraction, which allowed me to settle in. I wasn’t sure what would happen here between us, but I knew she would have some choice words for me about getting a divorce and taking a sabbatical from The Truth. Lory’s role in this drama was to talk some sense into me. I looked up to Lory and was proud she was my sister, and I never doubted her love for me. But growing up, six years apart in age, we always seemed to be moving to a slightly different beat. We never sat for hours in our pajamas, brushing each other’s hair, talking about boys, giggling, sharing our darkest fears and shimmering hopes. I always sensed she had drawn an unspoken emotional line that I didn’t dare breach, so I never felt a sustained closeness to her. Regardless, Lory was one of the most intelligent people I knew, the kind of person you could see becoming a revolutionary brain surgeon or physicist. Instead, when she got out of high school in the early ’70s, she immediately started pioneering and supported herself with part-time housekeeping jobs. After all, Armageddon was coming and all prophecies pointed to these being the Last Days of the worldly system. Her mental acuity became focused on the Scriptures, and she spent hours studying theocratic literature and researching topics in the encyclopedic Aid to Bible Understanding and other Watchtower Society tomes. Now, as my sister and I walked into her kitchen, I saw that she’d set out two sets of teacups and shot glasses, and a full bottle of Crown Royal Black. Steam was languishing over a teakettle on the stove. A small plate held tea biscuits and my favorite chocolate-covered toffee. “It looks like you’ve prepared for all contingencies,” I said. “Booze, caffeine, chocolate, and sugar.” “That’s right,” Lory said. She wasn’t the sort to fuss over me, and I was surprised and touched that she would have taken the time to make these preparations. It lessened the knot I felt in my belly. No. That is exactly what she wants—for you to relax. You’re dealing with a smart cookie here. Keep your wits about you. I took a deep breath. She surprised me by pouring whiskey into both shot glasses. My sister had never had a taste or physical tolerance for alcohol. “Would you like some tea?” she asked, and I said I would. She pulled a tray from the cupboard, lined it with a cloth napkin, and started placing the cups, glasses, and treats on it. “I thought we’d talk in the sunroom,” she said, pouring hot water over tea bags.

• From Shunned (2018)

  The skyscrapers seemed hunched in a protective stance, a hopeless effort to shield themselves from inclement weather. This day held more potential than I’d originally anticipated. In the twelve years since I’d left Portland, I had owned my choices and their consequences. I’d made peace with the past. But it’s easy to fool oneself. Those claims were about to be tested. Could I stay openhearted, remaining both kind to my family and true to myself? As I steered into the old neighborhood, my anxiety increased, clammy hands clutching the steering wheel. It occurred to me there might be an organized plot among my relatives to gang up and try to talk some sense into me. Maybe Lory and Mom would pull me aside and talk about my getting reinstated. Maybe Lory was coming to judge for herself how far I’d slipped from the path. Was it too much to hope she just wanted to spend time with me? The rain stopped, but a forlorn mood hung over the neighborhood. Most of the old houses still stood on Mapleleaf Street. Some were pristine and well cared for. Others were dark and frowsy. Here and there, larger lots had been divided into twos and threes by developers, who’d built new houses that shared a common driveway. It felt erratic, with no rhyme or reason. I turned into my parents’ driveway. They had one of the pristine houses. Gone were the two maple trees that dominated the yard of my childhood, but the row of rhododendrons still flanked the flower bed closest to the foundation. A retaining wall had been built to the side of the driveway. The place had the barren look of a long winter. I turned off the ignition and adjusted the rearview mirror to take a final look at myself. I took a deep breath. Inside my head, I heard Bette Davis saying, Fasten your seat belts—it’s going to be a bumpy night . Chapter 22 [image "Images" file=Image00000.jpg] I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. —John Lennon and Paul McCartney D ad greeted me at the door before I had a chance to knock. One hand rested on his belly; the other was extended wide to greet me. He had the scruffy, unshaven look of the convalescing, dressed in jeans, worn leather slippers, long-sleeved T-shirt, and vest. “Hi, Lindy.” He smiled as I stepped inside. We came together naturally in an unabashed full-body hug that was an enormous comfort to me. After pulling away, he looked me up and down. “You look good,” he said with a bashful grin. Mom walked around the corner from the kitchen to greet me. “Hi, Mom,” I said, and we embraced. Right away, I was filled with concern for her. She was so thin, I felt as if I could pick her up and toss her in the air like a small child. Stress had always melted the pounds off my mother.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  Certainly Melanchthon thought that something had changed in Luther by 1525, and he did not like it. The ascetic was becoming a sensualist. A month after Luther’s wedding, Melanchthon wrote to a friend that “the nuns used all their arts to draw him to them,” so that perhaps “the frequent commerce with the nuns had softened and inflamed him, despite all his noble nature and the greatness of his soul.”20 But Luther’s feelings were initially more mixed. On the eve of his wedding, in June 1525, he published a provocative letter to Albrecht of Mainz admonishing him to marry his concubine. If Albrecht should ask, he wrote to Rühel, why the man who was advocating marriage for everyone else had not gotten married yet himself, he should be told that “I still feared, that I was not capable enough for it.” But now he was determined to marry before he died, even if it just be “an engaged marriage of Joseph”—that is, an unconsummated engagement of an old man and a young woman.21 Such words hardly sound like the sexual bravado that had begun to color his letters to Spalatin, the “sluggish lover who does not dare to become the husband of even one woman,” perhaps because Spalatin was, like him, a bachelor, while Rühel, to whom he wrote about Albrecht, was married. For Luther, now aged forty-one, sex may have been a daunting prospect, given that Katharina was fifteen years younger than him. Sixteenth-century weddings were not for the faint-hearted. Wedding feasts were ribald occasions, and the couple would be bedded down together in front of the guests, with a cover placed over them; later, the revelers would “sing them on” as they spent the night together. As was customary in Saxony, Luther and Katharina’s marriage was consummated before the wedding, in the first half of June, and the celebrations—“leading her home”—took place two or three weeks later. If the marriage was not or could not be consummated it could be annulled: According to late medieval understandings of the sacrament of marriage, it consisted in the free exchange of a marriage promise between the couple plus their physical union. Sexual intercourse made a promise of marriage fully binding, or to put it another way, what we would call an “engagement” became a fully binding marriage if the couple had sex.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  “The next evening, when I was in bed he came over to me and said, smiling, ‘If you say you love me, and you don’t really want to leave me, then will you let me try something that may help us enjoy each other?’ “I was so desperate and so jealous that I promised I would do anything he asked of me. “Then my husband undressed himself and I saw that his penis was covered by a contraption made of rubber and covered with small rubber spikes. It made his penis enormous. It frightened me. But I let him take me this way. It hurt at first, although the spikes were made of rubber, but when I saw that he was enjoying it, I let him continue. All my concern now was whether this pleasure would make him faithful to me. He swore to me that it would, that he no longer wanted his Chinese women. But I would lie awake at night listening for the sounds in his room. “Once or twice I am sure I heard them, but I did not have the courage to make certain. I became obsessed with the idea that my sex was growing larger and that I would give him less pleasure. Finally I reached such a state of anxiety that I grew ill, began to lose my beauty. I decided to run away from him. I went to Shanghai and stayed in a hotel. I had wired my parents for money so I could sail for home. “At the hotel I met an American writer, a tall man, heavy, tremendously dynamic, who treated me as if I were a man, a companion. We went out together. He slapped my back when he was happy. We drank and explored Shanghai. “Once he got drunk in my room and we began to wrestle together like two men. He spared me no tricks. We lay in all kinds of poses, twisting each other around. He got me on the floor with my legs around his neck, then on the bed with my head thrown back touching the floor. I thought my back would break. I loved his strength and weight. I could smell his body as we pressed against each other. We panted. I struck my head against the leg of a chair. We wrestled for such a long time. “When I was with my husband I had been made to feel ashamed of my height, strength. This man called it all out and enjoyed it. I felt free. He said, ‘You are like a tigress. I love that.’ “When we ended our wrestling we were both exhausted. We fell on the bed. My slacks were torn, the belt was broken. My shirt was hanging out. We laughed together. He took another drink. I lay back panting. Then he buried his head under my shirt and began kissing my belly and pulling down my slacks.

• From Satyricon (1)

  CHAPTER THE ONE HUNDRED AND SECOND. “Why would it not be better to take refuge in boldness,” I asked, “slide down a rope into the ship’s boat, cut the painter, and leave the rest to luck’? And furthermore, I would not involve Eumolpus in this adventure, for what is the good of getting an innocent man into troubles with which he has no concern? I shall be well content if chance helps us into the boat.” “Not a bad scheme,” Eumolpus agreed, “if it could only be carried out: but who could help seeing you when you start? Especially the man at the helm, who stands watch all night long and observes even the motions of the stars. But it could be done in spite of that, when he dozed off for a second, that is, if you chose some other part of the ship from which to start: as it is, it must be the stern, you must even slip down the rudder itself, for that is where the painter that holds the boat in tow is made fast. And there is still something else, Encolpius. I am surprised that it has not occurred to you that one sailor is on watch, lying in the boat, night and day. You couldn’t get rid of that watchman except by cutting his throat or throwing him overboard by force. Consult your own courage as to whether that can be done or not. And as far as my coming with you is concerned, I shirk no danger which holds out any hopes of success, but to throw away life without a reason, as if it were a thing of no moment, is something which I do not believe that even you would sanction--see what you think of this: I will wrap you up in two hide baggage covers, tie you up with thongs, and stow you among my clothing, as baggage, leaving the ends somewhat open, of course, so you can breathe and get your food. Then I will raise a hue and cry because my slaves have thrown themselves into the sea, fearing worse punishment; and when the ship makes port, I will carry you out as baggage without exciting the slightest suspicion!” “Oh! So you would bundle us up like we were solid,” I sneered; “our bellies wouldn’t make trouble for us, of course, and we’ll never sneeze nor snore! And all because a similar trick turned out successfully before! Think the matter over! Being tied up could be endured for one day, but suppose it might have to be for longer? What if we should be becalmed? What if we were struck by a storm from the wrong quarter of the heavens? What could we do then? Even clothes will cut through at the wrinkles when they are tied up too long, and paper in bundles will lose its shape. Do you imagine that we, who are young and unused to hardship, could endure the filthy rags and lashings necessary to such an operation, as statues do? No! That’s settled! Some other road to safety must be found! I have thought up a scheme, see what you think of it! Eumolpus is a man of letters. He will have ink about him, of course. With this remedy, then, let’s change our complexions, from hair to toe-nails! Then, in the guise of Ethiopian slaves, we shall be ready at hand to wait upon you, light-hearted as having escaped the torturer, and, with our altered complexions, we can impose upon our enemies!” “Yes, indeed,” sneered Giton, “and be sure and circumcise us, too, so we will be taken for Jews, pierce our ears so we will look like Arabs, chalk our faces so that Gaul will take us for her own sons; as if color alone could change one’s figure! As if many other details did not require consideration if a passable imposture is to result! Even granting that the stained face can keep its color for some time, suppose that not a drop of water should spot the skin, suppose that the garment did not stick to the ink, as it often does, where no gum is used, tell me! We can’t make our lips so hideously thick, can we? We can’t kink our hair with a curling-iron, can we? We can’t harrow our foreheads with scars, can we? We can’t force our legs out into the form of a bow or walk with our ankle-bones on the ground, can we? Can we trim our beards after the foreign style? No! Artificial color dirties the body without changing it. Listen to the plan which I have thought out in my desperation; let’s tie our garments around our heads and throw ourselves into the deep!”

• From Shunned (2018)

  Dad called to tell me the date and time of the memorial service. Bob and I had one week to make our travel plans, but those arrangements were small potatoes compared with the questions running through my head. My first trip to Portland had been an antidote for years of anxiety; I’d been treated with respect, and no one had preached at me. But a crowded memorial service promised a new set of dynamics. I started a mental list of relatives and Witnesses who might be there. Could I stay openhearted through this second round? My dominant concern was whether or not Randy would talk to me. It had been twelve years since our parting conversation in the mall parking lot. But if Lory could find a way to speak to me, maybe Randy could, too. A few days before our departure, my mother telephoned. She wanted to be sure our travel arrangements were in place, but I sensed she had more than logistics on her mind. “We’d like to invite you and Bob over for dinner after the memorial service,” she said. “I hope you haven’t made other plans.” Other plans? Was she suggesting we might go out and paint the town after this solemn occasion, or was she just trying to be gracious and give us a social “out”? I’d just spent a thousand dollars on airfare. What else was there to do but show up fully? “We’d love to come,” I said. “It would be nice for Bob to see the house I grew up in.” “Now, Lindy, I want to prepare you,” she said, in a careful-on-the-playground tone. “A lot of friends from the congregation will be at the service, and several of them are dropping food by afterward so I don’t have to cook.” I was pacing between my kitchen and my dining room. “That’s exactly the kind of thing I’d expect from the friends, Mom.” “Several of them have asked about you, and many of them are looking forward to seeing you. But, Lindy”—there was a long pause—“I must warn you, dear, there will be some people who won’t talk to you. They want to, of course, but their Christian conscience won’t allow it. You need to be prepared for that.” I stopped pacing. She had confirmed what my intuition told me to expect: some people would welcome my presence; others would cling to the rules. To them, the Scriptures were clear: “If anyone comes to you and does not bring this teaching, never receive him into your home or say a greeting to him. For he that says a greeting to him is a sharer in his wicked works.” Mom and Dad had somehow found a workable middle ground that allowed them to invite us to their home, but for others there was no acceptable compromise, only patriarchal edicts and time-worn separation. “Thanks for the warning, Mom, but I expected that,” I said.

• From Shunned (2018)

  Throughout that day, I had slipped into a recurring fantasy in which they embraced me and accepted my plan, no questions asked, and consoled me as only parents can, nodding their heads and frowning as I poured out my heart and told them how unhappy I’d become. In this imagined scenario, I started to cry, Mom rocked me gently and told me to shush, and Dad said, “Everything will be all right.” They saw my despair and didn’t try to dissuade me. They encouraged any change that would bring me relief. My car tires crunched onto the gravel of my parents’ driveway. The garage door was open, and Dad was inside, car hood up, pouring Pennzoil into the Ford. “Hello, Lindy,” he said, as Ross and I walked past him, toward the back door of the house. “Hey, Ross.” “Hi, Dad,” we replied in unison. He was casual and happy, wiping his hands on a shop rag, not suspecting a thing. At that moment, I wanted to abort the whole mission, just forget it all and talk about the weather or our plans for the summer, anything but what was really going on. Ross and I had agreed I would take the lead. “I’m right behind you,” Dad said. “Your mom’s just inside.” Ross opened the back door and stepped into the dining room. “Hello, Ruth,” he shouted to announce our presence. I entered behind him and walked to the fridge. He immediately took a seat at the dining table, his usual spot, the place to the left of my dad’s. “Hi, kids,” Mom called up from the basement. “Make yourselves at home. I’m hanging clothes from the dryer.” Out of habit, I stood gazing into the open fridge, wanting something to do besides wait. But I wasn’t hungry. I felt neither full nor empty, and oddly disconnected, as if I’d never need to eat again, floating through life, nourishment unnecessary. “Do you want anything?” I asked Ross. “Nope,” he said. He was even-tempered, but I could tell he was nervous by the quick way he sat down. He was ready to call the meeting to order, deliver the news, and get out of there. Who could blame him? I felt the same way. There was a consoling camaraderie in being there together. We were both facing the firing squad. Mom emerged from the basement through the door at the top of the stairs, near one end of the kitchen. She was still in the clothes she’d worn to work—a wool navy skirt, blouse, and button-down vest—but had traded her high heels for house slippers. “Such a nice surprise to see you,” she said. “Dad didn’t say what was bringing you this way on a Monday night.” “Oh, this and that,” I said, turning to look at her as she walked to the sink and washed her hands. I closed the fridge. Dad came in from the garage, washed his hands, and stood next to Mom.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  “The next evening, when I was in bed he came over to me and said, smiling, ‘If you say you love me, and you don’t really want to leave me, then will you let me try something that may help us enjoy each other?’ “I was so desperate and so jealous that I promised I would do anything he asked of me. “Then my husband undressed himself and I saw that his penis was covered by a contraption made of rubber and covered with small rubber spikes. It made his penis enormous. It frightened me. But I let him take me this way. It hurt at first, although the spikes were made of rubber, but when I saw that he was enjoying it, I let him continue. All my concern now was whether this pleasure would make him faithful to me. He swore to me that it would, that he no longer wanted his Chinese women. But I would lie awake at night listening for the sounds in his room. “Once or twice I am sure I heard them, but I did not have the courage to make certain. I became obsessed with the idea that my sex was growing larger and that I would give him less pleasure. Finally I reached such a state of anxiety that I grew ill, began to lose my beauty. I decided to run away from him. I went to Shanghai and stayed in a hotel. I had wired my parents for money so I could sail for home. “At the hotel I met an American writer, a tall man, heavy, tremendously dynamic, who treated me as if I were a man, a companion. We went out together. He slapped my back when he was happy. We drank and explored Shanghai. “Once he got drunk in my room and we began to wrestle together like two men. He spared me no tricks. We lay in all kinds of poses, twisting each other around. He got me on the floor with my legs around his neck, then on the bed with my head thrown back touching the floor. I thought my back would break. I loved his strength and weight. I could smell his body as we pressed against each other. We panted. I struck my head against the leg of a chair. We wrestled for such a long time. “When I was with my husband I had been made to feel ashamed of my height, strength. This man called it all out and enjoyed it. I felt free. He said, ‘You are like a tigress. I love that.’ “When we ended our wrestling we were both exhausted. We fell on the bed. My slacks were torn, the belt was broken. My shirt was hanging out. We laughed together. He took another drink. I lay back panting. Then he buried his head under my shirt and began kissing my belly and pulling down my slacks.

• From Shunned (2018)

  I lobbed a round ball across the carpet and watched Leo trace it with his eyes. “Has anyone ever gone this long without making a sale?” I asked. “It’s been six months.” “I’m not sure,” she said. “No one can figure out why it’s taking you so long.” This question consumed my private thoughts. It had never been this hard or taken me this long to make my mark at work. Was Jehovah punishing me? “Join the party,” I said. “As far as I can tell, I’m doing everything I can, following all the classic sales techniques. I’ve got several banks so close. But they keep dragging their feet.” “We’re all rooting for you, and we know Catherine’s behind you. That’s the biggest thing you have going for you right now.” God, I don’t want to let Catherine down. “Richard can’t be happy,” Cindy added. “Has he said anything to you?” “I plan to beat him to the punch,” I said. “I’ve spent too many sleepless nights worrying about what Richard thinks of me or relying on Catherine to be my mouthpiece. I gave Catherine a heads-up and approached Richard about having a meeting to review everything I have in the pipeline.” “That took guts.” She stared at me in disbelief. “He seemed pleasantly surprised by my request. I’m going to walk him through all the deals I’m working on and what I think it will take to close each one. I want him to come out on a few appointments with me, get him involved, show executive support, and see if we can’t close a sale or two.” “When is this happening?” Cindy asked, an intrigued smile on her face. “Next week.” [image "Images" file=Image00000.jpg] One dreary afternoon, I scrambled some eggs and sat at the dining table to eat and thumb through an audio catalog. I wanted to find a new program to listen to during my two-hour workday commute. In the “Spiritual Growth” section, the approachable smile of one of the speakers, Marianne Williamson, caught my eye. She had done a series of lectures based on something called a Course in Miracles and was described as a dynamic and uplifting spiritual teacher who’d helped transform the lives of millions. The description of the Course was intriguing: a thought system based on love, instead of fear, in which forgiveness of self and others could free you from judgment, guilt, and anger. The teachings combined spiritual psychology, Christianity, and Eastern philosophy, which I’d always found fascinating but had always been discouraged from exploring. My long-ingrained suspicions of Christendom lingered, so it was inconceivable for me to attend another church. I was leery about replacing one set of religious dogma for another. But listening to a self-study guide on tape was doable. If I heard anything that seemed too weird or found myself overcome with a feeling of betrayal, the eject button was right there.

• From Shunned (2018)

  “What is the purpose of it?” “To protect the congregation and, hopefully, to create motivation for repentance down the road.” “Ah, I see. Guilt as the great motivator.” “Something like that.” Geoff took my hands in his and leaned toward me. “I’m glad you shared this with me. Now I see why you were acting so weird back there. You can count on me to jump behind a store display at a moment’s notice.” I was astonished by the emotional terrain I had covered in just a few hours: the joy we shared over dinner; delight at finding the CD; dread at seeing familiar faces; sorrow while explaining my fears; then relief, comfort, and exhaustion. “Can I ask one more question before we go inside?” Geoff still held my hands but leaned back. “Sure.” “Where does this leave Ross? Can he start dating again, too?” “No,” I said, frowning at the reminder. “As long as he sticks to the religion, he’s bound by those rules. Until I die or commit adultery, he’s not free. And until I admit to the adultery, he’s stuck being single. Talk about guilt.” “Poor guy,” Geoff said, reaching for the car door. “This is why I avoid religion: too many rules that mess with people’s lives.” “Amen.” [image "Images" file=Image00000.jpg] While Geoff and I continued our breezy camaraderie and lighthearted romance, my former boss John, who had recently been transferred to another division, discreetly approached me about a job working for him in his new department, organizing a massive training initiative. I already missed working with him and was flattered. I decided I didn’t have anything to lose by agreeing to have a few confidential, exploratory conversations with members of his new staff. One day, as I drove west over the Burnside Bridge after lunching with two members of John’s group, I had an epiphany. If I was going to investigate other jobs, why not expand the search even further, to include other companies and other cities? Other cities? Yes, why not? What would it be like to get a fresh start in Seattle, San Diego, or Chicago, all places I adored? Any job change would require an adjustment. Portland was beginning to feel small and stifling. Everywhere I went, I ran the risk of an awkward moment, bumping into someone from the community. Whether I was alone or with another person, such encounters were not welcome. Then there was the proximity of my family and their relentless watching and unfulfilled expectations. The thought of distance made me smile. In for a penny, in for a pound. Why not move? PART TWO Chicago, 1994Chapter 9 [image "Images" file=Image00000.jpg] The world is conspiring in your favor. —Anonymous I t was just past midnight as we walked our bikes out of the parking lot, toward the crowd gathering at Grant Park. Despite the late hour, a hot Lake Michigan breeze swirled around my bare arms and legs.

• From Shunned (2018)

  Thoughts about my job were knocking around my mind like pinballs. That week I had interviewed eight candidates for our training staff and had narrowed the choices down to two people. We were in the middle of a rapid national expansion. Could I convince my boss to hire both, or would I have to choose between the two? The meeting moved on to what the brothers and sisters would say at the doors, should we find a listening ear. The Watchtower Society provided weekly suggested talking points. This week’s topic was international peace and security, something people have longed for throughout time. We would acknowledge the complete failure of all human governments and man-made organizations to bring true and lasting peace. We would then point out—using our Bibles—that only Jehovah God could make it happen, empowering his reigning son, Christ Jesus, to bring a New System to our Earth. There were many prophecies pointing to now as the Last Days of this wicked world. Our preaching was a fulfillment of prophecy and an act of love for the people in our communities. Before God set up his righteous government on Earth, those not willing to bow to his divine sovereignty would be destroyed at Armageddon, the righteous theocratic battle that would precede the millennium. It was our Christian duty to warn our neighbors before it was too late. After about twenty minutes, Todd concluded the meeting with a prayer. We all stood and bowed our heads as he gave thanks to Jehovah, requested forgiveness for our sins, and asked that we be guided to the humble and openhearted people in the community. “We are honored to be used by you, Dear God, to help separate the sheep from the goats. And please, Father, protect us from Satan, who walks about like a roaring lion, seeking to devour someone. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.” We organized into our car groups. Enthusiastic about working with Todd, Ross had a twinkle in his eye. “I folded some tracts for you.” He kissed me on the forehead and slipped the pamphlets into my book bag, next to my Bible and The Watch-tower and Awake! magazines. Usually I carried other Bible study aids, but that morning I hadn’t taken the time to gather them. I was the last person to slip into Hannah’s ten-year-old Toyota Corolla. I was grateful for the familiarity of the crew, sisters with whom I had been in service innumerable times before. Vivian Schiller was in the front passenger seat, Chloe and I in the back. Vivian was discussing our wonderful “sweater weather” and then turned a motherly glance my way. “Linda, you’re quiet this morning.” “Just a bit tired is all,” I said. “I should have taken the morning off, but Ross and I made a family goal to get eight hours each this month in the field service.” “We missed you Thursday night,” Vivian continued.

• From Shunned (2018)

  I’d soon develop whole new distinctions for the term “cold.” Temperatures dropped below freezing for days on end, joined by sharp and angry winds. At times I’d find myself huddled in a cluster of fellow pedestrians, struggling to stand upright at a crosswalk. Meanwhile, pressures from work were mounting. I’d been there five months and, despite relentless effort, hadn’t signed one bank to our services. I’d had greater expectations for myself, and so, it turned out, did Catherine’s boss, Richard Wallace. Richard was the executive vice president overseeing our division, an old-school banker from the pin-striped-suit era, rumored to be just a few years away from retirement. Richard presided over the pricing committee and had seen me present regularly. He knew I was working, but where were those signed contracts? At my job interview he’d asked me why he should pay for my relocation from one state to another, when I lacked experience in the bankcard industry. “Because I do have experience in sales and banking,” I’d replied. “And I’m a natural salesperson; my trustworthy nature puts bankers at ease.” It sounded good at the time but now had the ring of overconfidence. Every month Richard sat in his gilded corner office, reading the sales report. Every month he wandered back to the sales department, past my cubicle, into Catherine’s office, closing the door behind him. He was distressed to see zeros by my name and needed regular assurance that I was working out okay. This I learned when Catherine took me out to lunch and told me as much. She’d come up through the ranks and had done my job for several years. Chicago’s community bank network is fairly close knit, and she knew many of the people I was calling on and clearly understood all the dynamics that went into these bigger deals. Her support was unwavering. “If Richard ever talks to you directly about this, don’t let him get to you,” she said. “You’re doing all the right things, so just keep at it.” My ego took a beating every time the monthly sales report came out. It listed the salespeople in order of most sales year-to-date, and my name had been at the bottom five months in a row. Several coworkers were new hires, just like me, and they were tallying up the wins, making my lack even more conspicuous. These coworkers had been hired to sell to a direct client base, and Catherine reminded me that always yields faster results. She was convinced that I should stay focused on the bank network, which she likened to hunting elephants: it may take a while, but when you get one down, it’s big. Despite her assurances, my confidence suffered. Banks are infamous for their hierarchical structure, which fosters an overemphasis on titles. I came in with the same assistant vice president title I’d earned in Portland.

• From Vision Quest (1979)

  They’re twins. They wear matching maroon jogging suits and tiny white Adidas shoes. Joretta tied their hair in about a zillion little cornrows. They get up to me and I turn around and open my hands, palms up, behind my back. They each slap my hands. Then they turn around. I slap their little hands solidly and the three of us shuck and jive across the gym floor to their daddy. Leeland flips me the ball. I shoot and miss the rim by ten yards. He laughs. I rebound for them awhile. Leeland asks me what I’m doing up here so early. I tell him I’m nervous. He laughs. “Shute’s the one oughta be nervous,” he says. “Louden’s gonna whup ’im! Louden’s gonna whup ’im!” Sharon and Rosalie yell. They do a few cheerleader motions, run around in a couple circles, then collapse in a burst of giggles. “You girls is dummies,” Leeland says in his Bill Cosby voice. He bounces the basketball all around their heads as they continue to giggle and each tries to hide under the other. “Good luck, man!” Leeland shouts after me, swishing one from the top of the key. I walk around the halls awhile. I wind up on the fourth floor and stand looking out through the darkness at the park. Then it’s five o’clock and time to weigh in. * * * We approach the scale in a double line of naked bodies. The ref stands behind the scale. Coach Ratta stands on our side and Charlie Swann, the Evergreen coach, stands on theirs. The ref sets the weight at 147. Shute gets on. The ref removes his thumb and lets the balance fall. It stops in the middle. He hold it up again. I get on. The balance falls slowly to the middle and stops dead. * * * I can’t get excited about the JV matches. I take a look out the window at the crowd and feel like throwing up. Chairs surround the mats ten rows deep and bleachers surround the chairs. Every seat and all standing room look taken. * * * Kuch’s uniform feels weird. It’s too tight. Bowden stands at the window, hollering down at Marty Ryan, who’s wrestling 154 JV. Doug’s name looks strange over the big 154 on the back of the warm-up top I’ve worn so often the past two and a half years. Beside me Kuch squats Indian fashion in his street clothes and Otto lies with his eyes closed and his feet up on the wall as usual. Nobody says anything. I lie flat on my back on the mat. I’m so nervous I’m breathing through my mouth. I fit the little ear plug in my ear and close my eyes. I feel for the second button on my tape player and push it down. Electric wind blows in my ear for a second; then a dam bursts through my head. Mist falls and I shiver with the first few drops.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  SiroccoWhenever I went down to the beach in Deya I saw two young women, one small and boyish, with short hair and a round, humorous face; the other, like a Viking, with a regal head and body. They kept to themselves during the day. Strangers always spoke to one another in Deya because there was only one food shop, and everyone met at the small post office. But the two women never spoke to anyone. The tall one was beautiful, with heavy eyebrows, thick dark hair, and light-blue eyes densely fringed. I always looked at her with wonder. Their secrecy troubled me. They were not joyous. They lived a sort of hypnotic life. They swam quietly, lay on the sand reading. Then came the sirocco from Africa. It lasts for several days. Not only is it hot and dry, but it travels in a series of whirlwinds, turning feverishly, encircling one, beating one, battering doors, breaking shutters, sending fine dust into the eyes, into the throat, drying everything and irritating the nerves. One cannot sleep, cannot walk, cannot sit still, cannot read. The mind is set whirling exactly like the wind. The wind is charged with perfumes from Africa, heavy sensual animal odors. It gives a kind of fever and turmoil of the nerves. One afternoon I had been caught by it while I still had a half-hour’s walk to my house. The two women were walking ahead of me, holding on to their skirts, which the wind tried to raise around their heads. As I passed their house they saw me struggling against the dust and blinding heat and said, “Come in and wait until it calms down.” We went in together. They lived in a Moorish tower that they had bought for very little money. The old doors did not close well, and the wind opened them over and over again. I sat with them in a big circular stone room with peasant furniture. The younger woman left us to make tea. I sat with the Viking princess, whose face was flushed by the fever of the sirocco. She said, “This wind will drive me crazy if it does not stop.” She got up several times to close the door. It was exactly as though some intruder wanted to enter the room and was each time repulsed, only to succeed again in opening the door. The woman must have felt this, for she repulsed the intrusion with anger and a growing fear. What the wind seemed to be pushing into the tower room, the Viking knew she could not keep out altogether; for she began to talk. She spoke as though she were in a confessional, in a dark Catholic confessional, with her eyes lowered, trying not to see the face of the priest, and seeking to be truthful and to remember everything.

• From The Battle for God (2000)

  Before he could begin his political mission, he must first journey from man to God, expose himself to the transforming vision of the divine, and strip himself of the egotism that impedes his self-realization. Only at the end of this long and disciplined process, could he, as it were, return to the world of affairs, preach the word of God, and implement the divine law in society. The American scholar Hamid Algar suggests that when he began to speak against the shah in 1963, Khomeini had completed the preliminary and essential “journey to God,” and felt ready to take an active role in politics. 44 Khomeini was released after spending a few days in custody, but he returned at once to the offensive. Forty days after SAVAK’s attack on the Fayziyah Madrasah, the students held the traditional mourning ceremonies for those who had been killed. Khomeini delivered a speech in which he compared the assault to Reza Shah’s violation of the shrine of Mashhad in 1935, when hundreds of protesters had died. Throughout the summer, he continued to denounce the regime, until finally, on the feast of Ashura, the anniversary of the martyrdom of Imam Husain at Kerbala (June 3, 1963), Khomeini delivered a mourning eulogy, while the people sobbed and wept, as was customary during a rawdah . The shah, Khomeini claimed, was like Yazid, the villain of Kerbala. When they had attacked the Fayziyah Madrasah last March, why had the police bothered to tear the Koran apart? If they just wanted to arrest one of the ulema , why did they kill an eighteen-year-old student, who had never done anything against the regime? The answer was that the shah wanted to destroy religion itself. He begged him to reform: Our country, our Islam are in danger. What is happening, and what is about to happen worries and saddens us. We are worried and saddened by the situation of this ruined country. We hope to God it can be reformed. 4 5 The following morning, Khomeini was arrested again, and this time the lid blew off. When they heard the news, thousands of Iranians went out onto the streets in protest in Tehran, Mashhad, Shiraz, Kashan, and Varamin. SAVAK forces were given orders to shoot to kill; tanks surrounded the mosques in Tehran to stop people from attending Friday prayers. In Tehran, Qum, and Shiraz, prominent ulema led the demonstrations, while others called for a jihad against the regime. Some put on white shrouds to show that, like Imam Husain, they were willing to die in the war against tyranny. University and madrasah students fought side by side, laymen alongside mullahs. It took SAVAK days to suppress the uprising, which revealed the immense tension and resentment that had been smoldering under the surface. When order was finally restored on June 11, hundreds of Iranians had died. 46 Khomeini himself narrowly escaped execution.