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.

Page 137 of 501 · 20 per page

• From Middlesex (2002)

  By day, no words; by night, hundreds. Every evening at quitting time my exhausted grandfather would come out of the factory and tramp across to an adjacent building housing the Ford English School. He sat in a desk with his workbook open in front of him. The desk felt as though it were vibrating across the floor at the Line's 1.2 miles per hour. He looked up at the English alphabet in a frieze on the class- room walls. In rows around him, men sat over identical workbooks. Hair stiff from dried sweat, eyes red from metal dust, hands raw, they recited with the obedience of choirboys: "Employees should use plenty of soap and water in the home. "Nothing makes for right living so much as cleanliness. "Do not spit on the floor of the home. "Do not allow any flies in the house. "The most advanced people are the cleanest." Sometimes the English lessons continued on the job. One week, after a lecture by the foreman on increasing productivity, Lefty speeded up his work, grinding a bearing every twelve seconds instead of fourteen. Returning from the lavatory later, he found the word "RAT" written on the side of his lathe. The belt was cut. By the time he found a new belt in the equipment bin, a horn sounded. The Line had stopped. "What the hell's the matter with you?" the foreman shouted at him. "Every time we shut down the line, we lose money. If it happens again, you're out. Understand?" "Yes, sir." 97 "Okay! Let her go!" And the Line started up again. After the foreman had gone, O'Malley looked both ways and leaned over to whisper, "Don't try to be a speed king. You understand? We all have to work faster that way."

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "Daddeee," saidGaia, embarrassed. "Betterto haveflatfeetthan tobeknocked offyourfeetforever," said Lefty. "That'sright,"agreedGeorgia Vasilakis. "You'relucky they wouldn't takeMilton.Idon'tthink it'sanykind ofdishonor atall.I don't know whatI'ddoifIhad tosend asonoff to war." Everyso often during thisconversation, Desdemonahad patted Gaia Vasilakison theknee andsaid,"Miltie heiscoming. Soon." She had been sayingitsinceher guestsarrived. Shehadbeen sayingit everySunday forthepastmonthand a half,and notonly to Gaia Vasilakis.Shehad said itto Jeanie Diamond, whose parentshad broughther lastSunday, andshehadsaid ittoVickyLogathetis, who'dcome theweekbeforethat. Desdemonahadjustturnedforty-three and,inthe mannerof womenofher generation, shewaspractically anoldwoman.Gray hadinfiltratedher hair. She'dbeguntowearrimlessgold eyeglasses that magnifiedher eyes, making herlookevenmoreperpetually dis- mayedthanshealready was. Hertendency to worry (whichthe swingmusicupstairshadaggravatedoflate)hadbrought backher heartpalpitations.Theywere a dailyoccurrencewithhernow. Withinthesurroundofthisworrying,however,Desdemonare- mained abundleofactivity,always cooking,cleaning,doting onher childrenand thechildren ofothers,alwaysshriekingatthetopofher lungs, fullofnoiseandlife. Despite mygrandmother's correctivelenses,theworldremained outoffocus. Desdemona didn'tunderstandwhatthe fighting wasall about.At Smyrnathe Japanese had beentheonlycountiy to send ships torescue refugees. My grandmothermaintainedalifelongsense ofgratitude. Whenpeople broughtup thesneakattackonPearlHar- bor,she said,"Don'ttell meabout anislandinthe middle ofthe ocean. This countryisn't big enoughthey have to havealltheislands, too?"The Statueof Liberty's genderchanged nothing.Itwasthe samehere as everywhere: menand theirwars. Fortunately,Milton had been turneddownby the Army.Instead ofgoingoffto war he was going to nightschool and helpingoutat thebar during theday. Theonly uniform he wore wasthat ofthe BoyScouts,wherehewas atroop leader. Every so oftenhetook his scouts camping upnorth. After fivemore minutes, when Milton stillhadnotmaterialized, Desdemona excused herselfand climbed the stairs.Shestopped out- 171 side Milton's bedroom, frowning atthemusiccoming frominside. Then, without knocking,sheentered. Infront ofthewindow,clarineterect, Miltonplayedon,oblivi- ous. His hipsswayedinan indecent fashion andhis lips glistened as brightiyas hishair.Desdemonamarched acrosstheroom and slammedthewindowshut. "Come, Miltie,"shecommanded. "Gaiaisdownstairs." "I'm practicing." "Practicelater." Shewas squintingout thewindow at theO'Toole Boardinghouseacrosstheyard.Atthethird-floorwindow she thought she saw a headduckdown, butshecouldn'tbesure. "Whyyoualways play by thewindow?" "I gethot." Desdemonawasalarmed."Howyoumeanhot?" "Fromplaying." Shesnorted."Come.Gaiabroughtyou cookies." For sometimenowmygrandmotherhadsuspectedthegrowing intimacybetweenMiltonandTessie.ShenotedtheattentionMilton paid to Tessie whenever Tessie came overfor dinnerwithSourmelina. Growingup,ZoehadalwaysbeenTessie'sbestfriendandplaymate. ButnowitwasMiltonwhomTessiesatintheporchswingwith. Desdemona hadasked Zoe, "Whyyouno go outwithTessieno more?"AndZoe, inaslightlybittertone,hadreplied,"She'sbusy." Thiswaswhatbrought on thereturnofmygrandmother'sheart palpitations.Aftereverything shehad donetoatoneforher crime,af- tershehadturned hermarriageintoan arcticwasteland andallowed a surgeon totieherfallopiantubes,consanguinitywasn'tfinished withher.Andso,horrified, my grandmotherhadresumedanactivity atwhichshehadtried herhand oncebefore,withdecidedlymixed results.Desdemona wasmatchmaking again. From Sundayto Sunday, asinthehouse inBithynios, aparade of marriageablegirls camethroughthefront doorofHurlbut. Theonly difference wasthatin this casetheyweren'tthe sametwo girlsmulti- plied overandover. In Detroit,Desdemona hadalarge poolto choose from.There weregirls withsqueaky voicesorsoftaltos, plump girlsandthin ones,babyish girlswho woreheartlocketsand girls whowere old beforetheirtimeandworkedas secretaries inin- surance firms. There wasSophieGeorgopoulos, whowalkedfunny 172 ever since stepping onhotcoalsduringa campingtrip,and therewas Mathilda Livanos, supremely boredinthewayof beautifulgirls, who'd shown nointerest inMiltonandhadn'tevenwashed herhair. Week afterweek, aidedorcoercedbytheirparents, theycame,and week afterweek MiltonStephanidesexcused himselftogouptohis bedroom andplay hisclarinetoutthewindow Now,with Desdemonaridingherdbehind,hecamedowntosee Gaia Vasilakis. Shewassittingbetweenherparentsontheoverstuffed sea-foam-green sofa,a large girlherself, wearing awhite crinoline dress with a ruffledhem and puffedsleeves. Hershortwhite socks had ruffles,too.They reminded Miltonofthelacecoveroverthe bathroomtrashcan. "Boy,those are alot ofbadges," Gus Vasilakissaid. "Milton needed onemore badge andhecouldhavebeenanEagle Scout," Leftysaid. "Whichoneisthat?" "Swimming,"saidMilton."Ican'tswimforbeans." "I'mnot a very goodswimmereither,"Gaiasaid,smiling. "Have a cookie,Miltie,"Desdemonaurged. Miltonlooked downatthetinandtookacookie. "Gaiamadethem,"Desdemonasaid."How you like it?" Milton chewed,meditatively.After a moment,he heldup the Boy Scoutsalute."I cannottellalie,"hesaid."Thiscookieislousy." Isthere anything asincredibleasthe love storyofyourownparents? Anything ashardtograsp as thefactthatthose twoover-the-hillplay- ers, permanendy onthedisabledlist,wereonceinthestartinglineup? It's impossible to imaginemy father, whoinmyexperiencewas aroused mainly bytheloweringofinterestrates, suffering the acute, adolescent passions oftheflesh.Miltonlyingonhis bed, dreaming about my mother inthesameway Iwould laterdreamabouttheOb- scure Object.Milton writinglovelettersandeven,afterreadingMar- veil's "To HisCoyMistress" at nightschool, \o\tpoems.Miltonmixing Elizabethan metaphysicswiththerhyming styles ofEdgarBergen: You're justasamazing, Tessie Zizmo assomenewmechanicalgizmo a GEexecmight givea pal you'reaWorld'sFair kind of gal... 173

• From Middlesex (2002)

  making things up. Sherationalized herlying bytellingherself that thiswasherlastyear of freedom.Bynext summershe'd beapriest's wife,livingsomewhereinGreece.Tomitigate herdishonesty, she de- flected allhonorfromherself,filling herletterswith praiseforZoe. "She works sixdaysaweekbutonSundays getsupbright andearly totakeMrs.Tsontakistochurch—poor thing'sninety-three andcan barely walk.That'sZoe.Alwaysthinking ofothers." Meanwhile,DesdemonaandMiltonwere writing to each other,too. Before goingofftowar,myfatherhadpromised hismotherthathe'd finallybecomeliterateinGreek. Now,fromCalifornia,lying onhis bunkintheevenings,sosorehecouldbarely move,Miltoncon- sulted a Greek-Englishdictionary to piece togetherreportsonhis navylife.Nomatterhowhardheconcentrated,however, bythetime hislettersarrived at HurlbutStreetsomethinghad beenlostintrans- lation. "Whatkind ofpaperthisis?"Desdemonaaskedherhusband, holdingupaletterthatresembledSwisscheese.Likemice,military censorshadnibbled at Milton'slettersbefore Desdemonagottodi- gestthem.Theybitoffanymentionoftheword"invasion," any ref- erence to"San Diego" or"Coronado." They chewed through whole paragraphsdescribingthenavalbase,thedestroyersandsubmarines docked at thepier.Sincethecensors'Greek was evenworsethanMil- ton's,theyoftenmademistakes,loppingoffendearments,x'sando's. Despitethe gaps inMilton'smissives(syntacticalandphysical), mygrandmotherregistered the danger of hissituation.Inhisbadly pennedsigmasanddeltasshespiedtheshakinghandofherson's growinganxiety. Over hisgrammaticalmistakesshedetectedthenote offearinhis voice.The stationery itself frightenedherbecauseital- readylooked blowntobits. SeamanStephanides,however,wasdoing hisbesttopreventin- jury.On a Wednesday morning, hereportedto thebaselibraryto takethe admittance examforthe U.S. Naval Academy.Overthenext fivehours,everytimehelookedupfrom histest paper, he sawhis shipmates doing calisthenicsinthehot sun.He couldn'thelpsmil- ing. Whilehisbuddieswerebakingout there, Miltonwassittingun- der aceilingfan,workingouta mathematical proof. While they were forced torunup and downthe sandygridiron, Miltonwasreadinga paragraph by someone named Carlyleand answering thequestions 190 that followed. And tonight,whentheywouldbe gettingcreamed against the rocks,he would be snuginhisbunk,fast asleep. By the timethe earlymonthsof1945rolledin, everyonewas looking for exemptions from duty.Mymother hidfromcharitable worksby goingtothe movies. My father ducked maneuversbytak- ing a test. But whenitcametoexemptions,mygrandmothersought onefrom nothingless thanheavenitself. One Sunday inMarch,shearrived at AssumptionbeforetheDi- vine Liturgyhad started.Goinginto a niche,sheapproachedtheicon of St. Christopherandproposed a deal."Please, St. Christopher," Desdemonakissed herfingertipsandtouchedthemtothesaint's forehead, "ifyoukeep Miltie safeinthewar,Iwillmakehimpromise togoback toBithyniosandfixthechurch."Shelookedupat St. Christopher, themartyrofAsiaMinor. "If theTurksdestroyedit, Miltiewillbuilditagain.Ifitonlyneedspainting,he'llpaint." St. Christopherwasagiant.Heheldastaffandfordedarushingriver. OnhisbackwastheChristChild,theheaviestbabyinhistorybe- causehehadtheworldinhishands.Whatbettersaintto protect her ownson,inperilonthe sea? Intheshadowy,lamplitspace,Desde- monaprayed.Shemovedherlips,spellingouttheconditions."I wouldalsolike, ifpossible, St. Christopher, ifMiltiehecould beex- cusedfromthe training.Hetellsmeitisvery dangerous.He's writ- ing tomein Greeknow,too,St. Christopher.Nottoogoodbut okay.Ialsomake himpromisetoput inthechurchnewpews.Also, if youlike,some carpets."Shelapsed intosilence,closinghereyelids. Shecrossed herselfnumeroustimes,waiting for ananswer.Thenher spine suddenlystraightened.Sheopenedhereyes,nodded,smiled. She kissedher fingertipsandtouched them to the saint's picture,and shehurried home towrite Miltonthegoodnews. "Yeah, sure," myfathersaidwhenhegotthe letter. "St. Christopher totherescue." Heslippedthe letterintohisGreek-Englishdictionary and carried bothtotheincinerator behindtheQuonsethut.(That wasthe end ofmy father'sGreeklessons.Thoughhecontinuedto speak Greek tohisparents, Miltonnever succeeded inwritingit, and ashe got older he begantoforgetwhateventhesimplestwords meant. Inthe endhe couldn't say muchmorethanChapterEleven or me, which was almost nothing at all.) Milton's sarcasm was understandable under thecircumstances. 191 Onlythe daybefore,his CO. hadgiven Miltonanew assignment in the upcominginvasion.The news,likeallbadnews,hadn't registered at first.ItwasasiftheC.O.'swords,theactualsyllables headdressed to Milton,had beenscrambledbytheboysoverin Intelligence. Mil- tonhadsalutedandwalked out. He'd continueddowntothe beach stillunaffected,the badnewsactingwith a kind of discretion, allow- inghimtheselastfewpeaceful,deluded moments.Hewatched the sunset.Headmired a neutralSwitzerland ofseals out ontherocks. He took offhis bootstofeelthesandagainsthisfeet, as iftheworld wereaplacehewasonlybeginningtolivein insteadofsomewhere he would soonbeleaving.Butthenthefissures appeared. Asplit in thetopofhisskull,throughwhichthe bad news hissinglypoured; a groove inhis knees,whichbuckled,andsuddenlyMiltoncouldn't keepitoutanylonger. Thirty-eightseconds.That wasthenews. "Stephanides,we'reswitching youover tosignalman.Report to BuildingBat0700hourstomorrowmorning.Dismissed."Thatwas whattheCO.hadsaid.Onlythat.Anditwasnosurprise,really.As theinvasion neared,therehadbeena suddenrashofinjuries tosig- nalmen.Signalmenhad been choppingofffingersdoingKPduty. Signalmenhad beenshootingthemselvesin thefeetwhilecleaning theirguns.Inthenighttimedrills,signalmenlustily flungthemselves ontotherocks. Thirty-eightseconds wasthe lifeexpectancy of a signalman.When thelandingtookplace, Seaman Stephanideswould standin the front oftheboat.He wouldoperateasortof lantern, flashingsignalsin Morsecode.Thislantern wouldbe bright, clearlyvisibletoenemy positionsonshore. That was whathewas thinkingaboutashestood onthe beachwith hisbootsoff.Hewas thinkingthathe wouldnever takeoverhisfather's bar.Hewas thinkingthat hewould never see Tessieagain.Instead, afewweeks fromnow,he wouldstandupina boat, exposedto hostile fire,holdinga bright light.Foralittlewhile, atleast. Not includedintheNewsoftheWorld:a shot ofmyfather'sAKA transport shipleavingCoronadonavalbase, headingwest.AttheEs- quire Theater,holdingherfeetoffthesticky floor,Tessie Zizmo watches aswhitearrowsarc acrossthePacific.The U.S. Naval Twelfth Fleet forges aheadonits invasion of the Pacific, the announcersays. Final 192

• From Middlesex (2002)

  At firstshethoughtsomeonehadcomeinto theroom. Butwhen she turned,noonewasthere. "MYFATHERWASALPHONSO, ANEBONY-HUED MAN OF THETRIBEOFSHABAZZ.MY MOTHER'SNAME WAS BABYGEE.SHE WAS A CAUCASIAN,ADEVIL." Awhat? Desdemonacouldn't quite hear.Ordetermine theloca- tionofthevoice.Itseemedtobecomingfrom thefloornow."my FATHERMETHER IN THEHILLS OFEASTASIA.HE SAW POTENTIAL INHER.HE LED HERINTHERIGHTEOUS WAYSUNTILSHEBECAMEAHOLYMUSLIM." Itwasn'twhat thevoicewas sayingthatintrigued Desdemona— shedidn't catchwhatitwas saying.It was the soundofthevoice, a deepbassthatsetherbreastbonehumming.Shelet go ofthe dancing silk.Shelowered her kerchiefed headto listen.And whenthevoice started upagain,shesearchedthroughboltsofsilkforitssource. "WHYDIDMYFATHERMARRYACAUCASIANDEVIL?BE- CAUSE HEKNEWTHAT HIS SONWAS DESTINED TO SPREADTHEWORDTOTHELOSTPORTIONOFTHE tribeofshabazz." Three, four,fivebolts, and thereitwas: a heatinggrate.Andthevoicewasloudernow."therefore,he FELTTHATI,HISSON,SHOULDHAVEASKINCOLOR THAT WOULDALLOWMETO DEALWITHBOTHWHITE ANDBLACKPEOPLE JUSTLY AND RIGHTEOUSLY. SO I AMHERE, A MULATTO,LIKEMUSABEFOREME,WHO BROUGHTTHECOMMANDMENTSTO THE JEWS." FromthedepthsofthebuildingtheProphet's voicerose.Itbegan in theauditorium threefloors below.Itfiltered downthrough the trapdoor inthe stage outofwhich,atthe oldtobacconistconven- tions,the Rondegagirl used topop,clad innothingbutacigarrib- bon.The voice reverberatedin thecrawlspace thatledtothewings, whereupon itenteredaheatingventand circulated aroundthebuild- ing, growingdistorted andechoey, untilitrushed horiyoutthegrate atwhichDesdemona nowcrouched, "my education,as WELLASTHE ROYALBLOOD THATRUNS INMYVEINS, MIGHTHAVE LEDMETOSEEK A POSITIONOFPOWER. BUTI HEARD MY UNCLEWEEPING, BROTHERS.I HEARD MY UNCLEIN AMERICAWEEPING." She couldmake out a faintaccentnow.She waited formore,but 152 therewas only silence. Furnace smellblewintoherface. Shebent lower, listening.But thenext voicesheheardwasSister Wanda'son the landing: "Yoo-hoo! Des!Weready for you." Andshe tore herselfaway. My grandmotherwas theonlywhitepersonwhoeverheard W D.Fard sermonize, andsheunderstood less thanhalfofwhathe said.Itwasa result oftheheating vent'sbadacoustics, herownim- perfect English,and thefactthatshekept liftingherhead tohearif anyonewas coming. Desdemonaknewthatitwasforbiddenforher to listen to Fard's lectures.Thelastthingshewantedwastojeopar- dizehernewjob.But there was nootherplaceforhertogo. Everyday,at oneo'clock,thegratebegantorumble.Atfirstshe heardthe noiseofpeoplecomingintothe auditorium. Thiswasfol- lowedby chanting.Sherolledextraboltsofsilkinfrontofthegrate tomufflethesound.Shemovedherchairto thefar corneroftheSilk Room.Butnothing helped. "PERHAPS YOURECALL,INOURLAST LECTURE,HOW I TOLD YOU ABOUTTHEDEPORTATIONOFTHEMOON?" "No,Idon't,"saidDesdemona. "SIXTYTRILLIONYEARSAGO AGOD-SCIENTISTDUG AHOLETHROUGHTHEEARTH,FILLEDIT WITHDYNA- MITEAND BLEWTHEEARTHIN TWO. THESMALLER OF THESE TWO PIECESBECAMETHEMOON. DOYOU RE- CALL THAT?" My grandmotherclamped herhandsoverher ears; onher face wasalookof refusal.Butthroughher lipsaquestionslipped out: "Somebodyblew uptheearth?Who?" "TODAY I WANTTOTELLYOU ABOUTANOTHER GOD-SCIENTIST. ANEVILSCIENTIST. BYTHENAMEOF YACUB." Andnow herfingersspreadapart, lettingthevoicereachher ears ... "YACUB LIVED EIGHTY-FOUR HUNDREDYEARSAGO INTHE PRESENT TWENTY-FIVE-THOUSAND-YEAR-CYCLE OF HISTORY. HEWASPOSSESSED, THISYACUB,OF AN UNUSUALLY LARGECRANIUM. ASMARTMAN. ABRIL- LIANT MAN. ONEOFTHE PREEMINENT SCHOLARS OF THE NATION OFISLAM. THIS WASAMANWHO DISCOV- 153 EREDTHE SECRETSOFMAGNETISM WHEN HE WAS ONLY SIX YEARSOLD.HEWASPLAYING WITH TWO PIECESOFSTEELANDHEHELD THEMTOGETHER ANDDISCOVEREDTHATSCIENTIFIC FORMULA: MAG- NETISM." Like a magnet itself,thevoiceworkedonDesdemona. Nowit waspullingherhandsdowntohersides.Itwas makingherleanfor- wardinherchair ... "BUTYACUBWASN'TCONTENT WITHMAGNETISM. WITHHISLARGECRANIUMHEHAD OTHERGREAT IDEAS.AND SOONE DAY YACUBTHOUGHTTOHIMSELF THATIFHECOULDCREATEARACEOFPEOPLECOM- PLETELYDIFFERENTFROMTHEORIGINALPEOPLE- GENETICALLY DIFFERENT—THATRACECOULDCOMETO DOMINATETHEBLACKNATIONTHROUGHTRICKNOL- OGY." .. .Andwhenleaningwasn'tenough,shemovedcloser.Walking acrosstheroom,movingsilkboltsaside,shekneltdownbeforethe grate, as Fardcontinuedhisexplanation:"everyblackmanis MADE OFTWO GERMS: ABLACK GERMAND A BROWN GERM.AND SO YACUBCONVINCEDFIFTY-NINE THOU- SAND NINE HUNDRED AND NINETY-NINEMUSLIMSTO EMIGRATE TOTHEISLANDOFPELAN. THEISLANDOF PELAN IS IN THE AEGEAN. YOU WILLFINDITTODAYON EUROPEANMAPS,UNDERAFALSE NAME.TOTHISIS- LANDYACUBBROUGHTHIS FIFTY-NINETHOUSAND NINE HUNDREDAND NINETY-NINEMUSLIMS.AND THEREHECOMMENCEDHISGRAFTING." Shecouldhear other thingsnow.Fard'sfootsteps ashepacedthe stage. The squeakingofchairs as hislisteners bent forward,hanging onhis every word. "INHISLABORATORIESONPELAN, YACUBKEPTALL ORIGINALBLACK PEOPLE FROM REPRODUCING. IFA BLACK WOMAN GAVEBIRTHTO A CHILD,THAT CHILD WAS KILLED.YACUB ONLYLET BROWN BABIESLIVE.HE ONLYLET BROWN-SKINNEDPEOPLE MATE." "Terrible,"Desdemona said,up onthethird floor."Terrible,this Yacub person." 154

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  they were horses on the same racetrack, released from the gates at the same moment. And that was just for your run-of-the-mill queer. Now imagine that you were trans! You would have to go through at least two puberties! By age thirty, the financial ads said, you should have saved two years’ income for retirement. But at age thirty, the trans girls Reese knew held most of their investment portfolios in the form of old MAC lipstick shades they’d worn once; they spent workdays sending each other animated gifs and occasionally got trolled online by actual thirteen-year-olds. Reese’s own temporal anxiety congealed in the form of a dining room table. At one of her first jobs in New York, an attractive woman name Angela had taken an interest in Reese. Angela had been waitressing and bartending for most of her twenties, scraping by while trying to make it in photography. Reese liked Angela’s photos: textured black- and-whites taken from jarring vantages. Over the course of the year that Reese worked with her, Angela began to date an upwardly mobile mechanical engineer named Chuck, who had cofounded a firm that secured a lucrative contract to weatherproof the city’s new electronic parking meters, which through a previous design flaw, shorted out in the wet weather. By the end of the year Angela had moved into Chuck’s brick townhouse in Jersey City. Soon after, she invited Reese to dinner. Reese arrived to an upsettingly well-appointed interior. Greeting Angela in the living room—softly illuminated by recessed lights—she considered pretending that she hadn’t actually brought wine, so as to avoid them seeing the twelve-dollar bodega brand. Immediately, Chuck apologized for the mess—of which Reese saw none but a box and some tools by a closed door. They had bought new faucets for the downstairs bathroom, Chuck said, and he had been overconfident that he could install them before Reese arrived. “What happened to the old faucet?” Reese asked. “Tt was hideous,” Angela interjected. Reese nodded stupidly. She guessed that Angela was her first-ever friend to replace a faucet that wasn’t broken. “I’m sure the new ones are gorgeous.” Chuck sorted through the pile of tools, unsheathed a faucet from plastic wrap, and held it up for Reese to admire. It looked to Reese like any other faucet. Perhaps a bit more square. “It’s Italian,” Chuck informed her. “T can tell,” Reese replied, unsure if she had spoken ironically or fawningly.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  “I have a date,” he explained. “This is an emergency.” He paused to catch his breath. “Do you know”—breath—“how to iron?” I walked over to the pink shirt. It was wrinkled like an old woman who’d spent her youth sunbathing. If only the Colonel didn’t ball up his every belonging and stuff it into random dresser drawers. “I think you just turn it on and press it against the shirt, right?” I said. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know we had an iron.” “We don’t. It’s Takumi’s. But Takumi doesn’t know how to iron, either. And when I asked Alaska, she started yelling, ‘You’re not going to impose the patriarchal paradigm on me .’ Oh, God, I need to smoke. I need to smoke, but I can’t reek when I see Sara’s parents. Okay, screw it. We’re going to smoke in the bathroom with the shower on. The shower has steam. Steam gets rid of wrinkles, right? “By the way,” he said as I followed him into the bathroom, “if you want to smoke inside during the day, just turn on the shower. The smoke follows the steam up the vents.” Though this made no scientific sense, it seemed to work. The shower’s shortage of water pressure and low showerhead made it all but useless for showering, but it worked great as a smoke screen. Sadly, it made a poor iron. The Colonel tried ironing the shirt once more (“I’m just gonna push really hard and see if that helps”) and finally put it on wrinkled. He matched the shirt with a blue tie decorated with horizontal lines of little pink flamingos. “The one thing my lousy father taught me,” the Colonel said as his hands nimbly threaded the tie into a perfect knot, “was how to tie a tie. Which is odd, since I can’t imagine when he ever had to wear one.” Just then, Sara knocked on the door. I’d seen her once or twice before, but the Colonel never introduced me to her and didn’t have a chance to that night. “Oh. My God. Can’t you at least press your shirt?” she asked, even though the Colonel was standing in front of the ironing board. “We’re going out with my parents .” Sara looked awfully nice in her blue summer dress. Her long, pale blond hair was pulled up into a twist, with a strand of hair falling down each side of her face. She looked like a movie star—a bitchy one. “Look, I did my best. We don’t all have maids to do our ironing.” “Chip, that chip on your shoulder makes you look even shorter.” “Christ, can’t we get out the door without fighting?” “I’m just saying. It’s the opera . It’s a big deal to my parents. Whatever.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Despitethe ColdWar secrecy,bitsofinformation leakedouttous kids. The deepeningthreat toourfinancesmade itself knowninthe form of a jagged wrinkle, like a lightning bolt,thatflashedabovethe bridgeof mymother'snose wheneverI askedforsomethingexpen- sive inatoy store.Meat beganappearingless oftenonourdinner table. Milton rationed electricity.If ChapterElevenleft a lightonfor more thana minute,he returned to total darkness.Andto a voicein the darkness: "WhatdidI tellyouaboutkilowatts!" Forawhilewe lived with a singlelightbulb, whichMiltoncarriedfrom roomto room. "ThiswayIcankeeptrack ofhowmuchpower we'reusing," he said,screwingthebulbinto thediningroomfixture so that we couldsitdowntodinner."Ican't seemyfood,"Tessiecomplained. "Whatdoyoumean?"saidMilton."Thisiswhat they call ambiance? Afterdessert,Miltontookahandkerchiefoutofhis back pocket, un- screwedthehot lightbulb, and,tossingitlikeanunambitiousjuggler, conveyeditinto theliving room.Wewaitedindarknessashefum- bled through the house,knocking intofurniture.Finallytherewasa brownoutinthedistanceandMiltoncheerilycalledout,"Ready!" He keptupa bravefront.Hehoseddownthesidewalkoutside thedinerand kept thewindowsspodess.Hecontinuedtogreetcus- tomerswith a hearty"How's everything?"or a "Yahsou,patrioteF But theZebra Room'sswingmusic andold-timebaseballplayerscouldn't stoptime.It wasnolonger 1940but1967.Specifically,thenightof Sunday, July23, 1967.And therewassomethinglumpyunder my father'spillow. Beholdmyparents' bedroom:furnishedentirelyinEarlyAmeri- can reproductions,itoffers them connection (at discountprices) withthe country's foundingmyths. Notice,forinstance,theveneer headboard of thebed, made from"pure cherrywood," as Miltonlikes tosay, justlikethelittletree George Washingtonchoppeddown.Di- rect your attentionto the wallpaperwith itsRevolutionaryWarmo- tif.A repeatingpattern showing thefamoustrioof drummerboy,fife player, and lameold man. Throughout myearliestyearsonearth those bloodied figures marched aroundmy parents'bedroom,here disappearing behinda "Monticello" dresser,there emergingfrom be- hind a "MountVernon" mirror,or sometimeshavingno place togo at alland beingcut in halfbya closet. Forty-three years old now,my parents, onthishistoricnight, lie sound asleep.Milton's snores makethe bed rattle;also,thewall con- 235 nectingto myroom,whereI'm asleepmyselfin a grownup bed.And somethingelse is rattling beneathMilton'spillow, apotentially dan- geroussituationconsideringwhatthe objectis.Undermy father's pillowisthe.45automatichebrought backfromthewar. Chekhov'sfirstruleof playwritinggoessomethinglike this:"If there's agun on thewallinactone,scene one,youmustfirethegun by actthree,scenetwo."Ican'thelpthinking aboutthatstorytelling precept as Icontemplatethe gunbeneath my father'spillow. Thereit is.Ican'ttakeitawaynowthatI'vementioned it.(Itreallywasthere thatnight.)Andtherearebullets inthegunandthesafetyisoff ... Detroit,inthestiflingsummerof 1967, isbracingforraceriots. Wattshadexploded two summers earlier.Riotshadbroken out in Newarkrecentiy.Inresponsetothenational turmoil,the all-white Detroitpolice forcehasbeenraidingafter-hoursbarsinthecity's blackneighborhoods.Theideaistomakepreemptivestrikesagainst possibleflashpoints. Usually,thepoliceparktheirpaddywagonsin backalleysandherd thepatrons into the vehicleswithoutanyone seeing.Buttonight,forreasonsthatwillneverbeexplained,three policevehiclesarrive attheEconomy Printing Co.at 9125Twelfth Street—threeblocksfromPingree—andparkatthecurb.Youmight thinkthiswouldn't matteratfiveinthe morning, but youwould be wrong.Becausein 1967, Detroit'sTwelfthStreetisopenallnight. Forinstance, asthe police arrive, there are girlslinedalongthe street,girlsinminiskirts,thigh-highs,andhaltertops. (The sea wrack Milton hoses from thesidewalkevery morningincludesthedeadjel- lyfish ofprophylacticsandtheoccasional hermitcrabofalosthigh heel.) Thegirlsstand at thecurbs as carscruiseby. Key-limeCadil- lacs,fire-red Toronados,wide-mouthed, trollingLincolns,allin per- fectshape. Chromeglints.Hubcapsshine.Nota singlerustspot anywhere. (Whichis somethingthatalways amazesMiltonabout black people,thecontradictionbetweenthe perfection oftheirauto- mobiles andthedisrepairoftheirhouses.).. .But nowthegleaming carsare slowing. Windows arerollingdown andgirls arebendingto chatwith thedrivers.Therearecallsbackand forth, theliftingofal- readyminuscule skirts, and sometimesaflash ofbreast oranobscene gesture, the girls workingit, laughing,high enoughby5 a.m.tobe numbto the rawness betweentheirlegsandthe residuesofmen no amount ofperfume can get ridof.Itisn'teasy tokeep yourself clean 236

• From Middlesex (2002)

  chalkboard andsixty-plus years? WhatIdidnexthadnoconnection, I believe, withmychromosomal status.Itdidnotresultfromthe high-testosterone plasma levels inmyblood. Ididwhatanyloving, loyal daughterwouldhave donewho hadbeenraised onadietof Hercules movies.Inthatinstant, Idecided tofindmyfather, tosave him, ifnecessary, or at least to tellhimtocome home. Crossing myselfinthe Orthodox fashion,I stoledownthe attic stairs, closingthedoorbehind me.In mybedroomI putonsneakers andmy AmeliaEarhartaviator's cap. Withoutwakinganyone Ilet myselfout thefrontdoor,ran tomybicycle parkedatthesideof the house, andpedaledaway.After twoblocks,I caughtsightofthetank: ithadstoppedataredlight.The soldiersinsidewere busylooking at maps,tryingtofindthebestroute totheriots.Theydidn't noticethe littlegirlintheaviator'scapstealing uponabananabike.It wasstill darkout.Thebirdswerebeginningtosing. Summersmellsof lawn andmulchfilledtheair,andsuddenlyIlostmy nerve.ThecloserI gottothetank,thebiggeritlooked.Iwasfrightenedand wantedto run back home. Butthelightchangedandthetanklurchedforward. Standing up on mypedals,Ispedafterit. Across town,in the lightiessZebraRoom,myfather was trying to stayawake. Barricaded behindthecashregister,holdingtherevolver in onehandand a hamsandwichin theother,Miltonlooked outthe frontwindow tosee whatwas happeninginthestreet.Overthelast twosleepless nightsthecircles underMilton'seyeshaddarkened steadilywith eachcup ofcoffeehe drank.Hiseyelidshung at half mast, buthis browwas damp withtheperspirationofanxietyand vigilance. Hisstomachhurt.He neededtogotothebathroominthe worst way butdidn'tdare. Outside, theywereat it again:thesnipers.Itwasalmost5 a.m. Each night, the sinking sun,likea ringonawindowshade,pulled night down overthe neighborhood. Fromwhereverthesnipersdis- appeared toduringthe hotday, they returned.Theytookuptheir positions. From the windowsof condemned hotels,fromfireescapes and balconies, from behindcars jackedup infrontyards,theyex- tended the barrelsof their assorted guns.Ifyou lookedclosely,if you were brave or reckless enoughto stick yourheadout thewindow this time of night, you couldseeby the moon—that other pullring, go- 243 ing up—hundredsofglintingguns,pointed downinto thestreet, throughwhichthesoldierswerenowadvancing. The onlylightinsidethe dinercamefrom theredglow ofthe jukebox.It stoodto oneside ofthefrontdoor, aDisco-Matic made ofchrome,plastic,andcoloredglass.There wasasmallwindow throughwhichyoucouldwatchthe roboticchanging ofrecords. Throughacirculatorysystemalongthe jukebox'sedgestrailsofdark bluebubblesrose.Bubblesrepresenting theeffervescenceofAmeri- canlife,ofour postwar optimism, ofourfizzy,imperial, carbonated drinks.BubblesfullofthehotairofAmerican democracy,boiling up fromthestackedvinylplattersinside."MamaDon'tAllowIt" by BunnyBeriganmaybe,or"Stardust" by Tommy Dorseyandhisor- chestra.Butnottonight.TonightMiltonhadthejukeboxoff so that he couldhearifanyone was trying to break in. Thecluttered walls ofthe restaurant tooknonoticeoftherioting outside.AlKalinestillbeamedfromhisframe.PaulBunyanand BabetheBlueOxcontinuedontheirtrekbelowthedailyspecial. Themenuboarditselfstilloffered eggs, hashbrowns,sevenkindsof pie.Sofarnothinghadhappened.Somewhatmiraculously.Squat- tingatthefrontwindowyesterday,Miltonhad seenlootersbreak intoeverystoredowntheblock.Theylootedthe Jewish market,tak- ing everything butthe matzoh andthe yahrzeitcandles.Withasharp senseofstyle,theystripped Joel Moskowitz'sshoe store ofits higher- pricedandmorefashionablemodels, leavingonlysomeorthopedic offeringsand a fewFlorsheims.Allthatwasleftin Dyer'sAppliance, as far as Miltoncouldtell, wasarack ofvacuumbags.What would theylootiftheylootedthediner?Wouldtheytake thestainedglass window,whichMiltonhimselfhadtaken?Would theyshowinterest inthephoto of TyCobbsnarlingashe slid,spikes first,intosecond base? Maybethey'dripthezebraskinsoffthe barstools.They liked anythingAfrican,didn'tthey?Wasn'tthatthe newvogue,orthe old vogue thatwas newagain?Hell, they couldhave thegoddamned ze- braskins.He'dputthemout front asa peace offering. ButnowMiltonheardsomething. Thedoorknob, wasit?He lis- tened.Forthelastfewhourshe'dbeen hearing things.Hiseyes had beenplayingtrickson him, too.He crouched behindthe counter, squinting intothedarkness. His ears echoedthe way seashells do. He heard thedistantgunfire andthesquawking sirens.He heardthe 244

• From Middlesex (2002)

  T-shirtand Indian headband, wesawwhat RebeccaUrbanusdidn't. While herupperhalfperformed, her bottom halfupstagedher.The stain grew, anditwasred. Campcounselors wereunsure howto re- act. Rebeccasang, arms outflung. Sherevolvedon herchair before her theater-in-the-round: us, staring, perplexedandhorrified. Cer- tain "advanced"girlsunderstood. Others, like me,thought:knife wound, bear attack.Rightthen Rebecca Urbanus sawus looking. She looked downherself. Andscreamed. Andfled thestage. I returnedfromcamp brownerandleaner, pinnedwith a single badge (ironically,fororienteering). Butthat otherbadge,which CarolHorning displayed soproudlythe firstdayofschool, Iwasstill without.I feltambivalent aboutthis.Ontheonehand, ifRebecca Urbanus's mishapwas any indication, itmight be safer tostaythe wayIwas. Whatifsomethingsimilar happenedtome?Iwent throughmyclosetandthrewoutanythingwhite.I stoppedsinging altogether.Youcouldn'tcontrolit.Youneverknew.Itcouldhappen anytime. Except,with me, itdidn't.Gradually,asmostoftheothergirlsin mygradebegan to undergotheirowntransformations,Ibeganto worryless about possibleaccidentsand more about beingleft be- hind,leftout. Iaminmathclass, sometime duringthewinterofsixthgrade. MissGrotowski, our youngish teacher,iswritinganequationonthe blackboard. Behind her,at wooden-toppeddesks, studentsfollow hercalculations,ordoze, orkickeach otherfrombehind. A gray win- terMichigan day. The grass outside resemblespewter.Overhead,flu- orescentlights attempt to dispel theseason'sdimness.A pictureof the greatmathematician Ramanujan (whomwegirlsat first tookto beMiss Grotowski's foreign boyfriend) hangsonthewall.Theairis stuffy inthe way onlyairat school canbe stuffy. And behindour teacher's back, inourdesks,we areflying through time. Thirty kids, in sixneat rows, beingborne along ata speedwe can'tperceive. As Miss Grotowski sketchesequationson the board, my classmates all aroundme beginto change. Jane Blunt's thighs, for instance, seem to geta littlebit longereveryweek.Her sweater swells in front. Then oneday Beverly Maas, who sitsright next tome, raises her hand andIsee darknessup hersleeve:apatch oflight brownhair. When did it appear? Yesterday?Theday before? 285 The equations get longer andlongerthroughout theyear,more com- plicated,andmaybe it's all thenumbers, or the multiplication tables; wearelearningtoquantifylarge sumsas, by newmath, bodiesarrive atunexpectedanswers.PeterQuail's voiceistwooctaves lowerthan lastmonth andhedoesn'tnotice.Whynot? He'sflyingtoofast.Boys aregettingpeach fuzz onupperlips. Foreheadsandnosesarebreak- ingout.Mostspectacularlyofall, girlsarebecomingwomen. Not mentallyoremotionallyeven,butphysically. Natureismakingits preparations.Deadlinesencodedinthe speciesaremet. OnlyCalliope,inthesecondrow,ismotionless,her deskstalled somehow, so thatshe'stheonlyone whotakesinthetrueextentof themetamorphoses around her.Whilesolvingproofssheisawareof TriciaLamb'spurseonthefloornext toherdesk,ofthetamponshe glimpsedinsideitthatmorning—whichyou use how,exactly?—and whomcansheask?Stillpretty,Calliope soon findsherself theshort- estgirlintheroom.Shedropshereraser.Noboybringsitback.In theChristmas pageant she iscastnotasMaryas in pastyearsbutas anelf...Butthere'sstillhope,isn'tthere?. . .becausethedesksare flying, dayafterday;arrangedin their squadron,thestudents bank androarthroughtime,sothatCallielooksupfromherink-stained paperoneafternoonandseesitis spring,flowersbudding,forsythia inbloom,elmsgreening; at recessgirlsandboysholdhands,kissing sometimes behindtrees,and Calliopefeels gypped, cheated."Re- memberme?"she says, tonature."I'mwaiting.I'm still here." AswasDesdemona.ByAprilof 1972, her applicationtojoinher husbandinheaven was stillworkingits way thougha vast,celestial bureaucracy. ThoughDesdemonawas perfectiyhealthywhenshe got intobed,theweeks,months,andfinally yearsofinactivity,coupled withherownremarkablewillpowertodoawaywith herself,brought herthe rewardof aPhysician's Handbookofailments. Duringher bedridden yearsDesdemona hadfluid inherlungs; lumbago;bursi- tis; a spellofeclampsiathatmanifested itself a half-century laterthan etiologicallynormalandthen justas mysteriouslyvanished,to Des- demona'sregret;aseverecaseofshinglesthat madeher ribsandback the colorand textureofripestrawberriesand stunglikea cattleprod; nineteen colds;a weekofpurelyfigurative "walking" pneumonia; ul- cers; psychosomaticcataractswhichclouded her visiononthe an- 286

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "I'm meeting my friend. He's got all the details and stuff." "It's nice to have friends," Presto said. He turned and winked at me. I didn't know how to interpret this wink. I kept quiet, staring forward at the road ahead. On the buffet-like front seat between us were many supplies, soft drink bottles and bags of chips and cookies. Presto offered me what- ever I wanted. I was too hungry to refuse, and took a few cookies, trying not to wolf them down. "I'll tell you," Presto said, "the older I get, the younger college kids look. If you asked me, I'd say you were still in high school. What year you in?" "Freshman." Again Presto's face broke into the candy- apple grin. "I wish I were in your shoes. College is the best time of life. I hope you're ready for all the girls." A chuckle accompanied this, to which I was obliged to add one of my own. "I had a lot of girlfriends in college, Cal," Presto said. "I worked for the college radio station. I used to get all kinds of free records. And if I liked a girl, I used to dedicate songs to her." He gave me a sample of his style, crooning low: "This one goes out to Jen- nifer, queen of Anthro 101. I'd love to study your culture, baby." Presto's jowly head bowed and his eyebrows rose in modest recognition of his vocal gifts. "Let me give you a little advice about women, Cal. Voice. Voice is a big turn-on for women. Never dis- count voice." Presto's was indeed deep, dimorphically masculine. The fat of his throat increased its resonance as he explained, "Take my ex- wife, for example. When we first met, I could say anything to her and she'd go bananas. We'd be fucking and I'd say 'English muffin'— and she'd come." When I didn't reply, Presto said, "I'm not offending you, am I? You're not one of those Mormon kids on your mission, are you? In that suit of yours?" "No." "Good. You had me worried for a minute. Let's hear your voice again," Presto said. "Come on, give me your best shot." "What do you want me to say?" 460 " "Say 'English muffin.' "English muffin." "I don't work in radio anymore, Cal. I am not a professional broadcaster. But my humble opinion is that you are not DJ material. What you've got is a thin tenor. If you want to get laid, you'd better learn to sing." He laughed, grinning at me. His eyes showed no mer- riment, however, but were hard, examining me closely. He drove one-handed, eating potato chips with the other. "Your voice has an unusual quality, actually. It's hard to place." It seemed best to keep quiet. "How old are you, Cal?" "I just told you." "No, you didn't."

• From Middlesex (2002)

  (forty-two seconds), and weldthe piecestogether (one minuteand ten seconds). Wierzbickireamsa bearingandStephanides grinds a bearingand O'Malley attaches a bearingtoa camshaft.The camshaft: flies around thefactory untila manunhooksit,attachesittothe en- gine block, growing eccentric nowwithfanblades,pipes,andspark plugs. Andthen the engineis finished.Amansends it dropping down ontoa chassis rollingoutto meetit, as threeotherworkersre- moveacar body fromtheoven,its blackfinishbakedto a shinein which theycansee theirown faces,andthey recognize themselves, momentarily, beforethey dropthebodyontothechassisrollingout to meetit.A manjumpsinto thefrontseat(threeseconds),turnsthe ignition(twoseconds), anddrivesthe automobile away Byday, nowords;by night,hundreds.Everyeveningat quitting time myexhausted grandfatherwouldcomeoutof thefactoryandtramp acrosstoan adjacentbuildinghousingtheFord English School.He sat in a deskwithhisworkbookopeninfrontofhim.Thedeskfeltas thoughitwerevibratingacrosstheflooratthe Line's 1.2 miles per hour.HelookedupattheEnglishalphabetina frieze ontheclass- roomwalls.Inrowsaroundhim,mensatoveridenticalworkbooks. Hairstifffromdried sweat,eyes redfrommetal dust,handsraw,they recitedwiththeobedience of choirboys: "Employeesshould use plentyofsoapandwaterin thehome. "Nothingmakesforrightlivingsomuch as cleanliness. "Donotspitonthefloorofthehome. "Donotallow anyfliesinthehouse. "The most advancedpeoplearethecleanest." Sometimes theEnglish lessons continued onthejob. Oneweek, afteralecture bytheforemanonincreasing productivity,Lefty speeded uphis work,grindingabearingevery twelvesecondsinstead offourteen. Returning from thelavatory later,he foundthe word "RAT" written onthesideofhislathe.The beltwas cut.By thetime he found anew beltintheequipmentbin, a horn sounded.The Line had stopped. "What thehell's the matter withyou?" the foreman shoutedat him. "Every time weshutdowntheline, we lose money. Ifit happens again, you're out.Understand?" "Yes, sir." 97 "Okay! Let her go!" And the Linestarted upagain.Afterthe foremanhad gone, O'Malley lookedboth waysandleanedover towhisper,"Don't tryto be a speedking.Youunderstand? We allhavetoworkfaster that way." Desdemonastayedhomeandcooked. Withoutsilkworms totendor mulberry treestopick, without neighborsto gossipwithorgoats to milk,mygrandmotherfilledhertimewithfood. WhileLeftyground bearingsnonstop,Desdemonabuiltpastitsio, moussakaandgalacto- boureko. Shecoatedthekitchentablewithflourand, usinga bleachedbroomstick,rolledoutpaper-thinsheets ofdough.The sheetscame offherassemblyline, oneafteranother.Theyfilledthe kitchen.Theycoveredthelivingroom,whereshe'dlaid bedsheets over thefurniture.Desdemonawent upanddowntheline,adding walnuts,butter,honey,spinach,cheese,addingmorelayersof dough,thenmorebutter,beforeforging theassembledconcoctions intheoven.AttheRouge,workerscollapsedfromheatandfatigue, whileonHurlbutmygrandmotherdidadoubleshift.Shegot up in the morningto fix breakfastandpacka lunch forherhusband,then marinated a legoflambwithwineandgarlic.Intheafternoonshe madeher ownsausages, spicedwithfennel,andhungthemoverthe heating pipesinthebasement.Atthreeo'clockshe starteddinner, andonlywhenitwascookingdidshetakeabreak,sittingatthe kitchentable to consult her dream book onthemeaningofherprevi- ous night's dreams.Nofewerthanthreepots simmeredonthestove atalltimes.Occasionally, Jimmy Zizmobrought home a fewofhis business associates,hulkingmenwiththick, ham-likeheadsstuffed into theirfedoras. Desdemonaservedthem mealsatallhoursofthe day.Thentheywereoffagain,intothecity. Desdemonacleanedup. Theonlythingsherefusedtodowasthe shopping.American storesconfusedher. She foundtheproduce depressing.Evenmany years later,seeinga Kroger's Mcintoshinour suburbankitchen,she wouldhold it up toridicule, saying, "Thisis nothing.Thiswefedto goats." To step intoalocal marketwas tomiss thesavorofthe peaches,figs, andwinter chestnutsof Bursa. Already,inher first months in America,Desdemona was suffering "the homesickness that has no cure."So,afterworking at theplant and attendingEn- PS glish class, Lefty wasthe onetopickup thelamband vegetables,the spices andhoney. Andso theylived ...one month... three ... five.Theysuffered through their first Michiganwinter. A January night,justpast1a.m. Desdemona Stephanidesasleep, wearingherhatedYWCAhat against thewind blowing throughthe thinwalls.Aradiatorsighing, clanking.By candlelight, Leftyfinishes hishomework,notebook proppedon knees, pencilinhand. Andfromthewall:rustiing.He looksupto seea pairofredeyes shiningoutfromaholeinthebase- board.He writesR-A-Tbefore throwinghispencilatthevermin. Desdemona sleepson.He brushesherhair.Hesays,inEnglish, "Hello, sweetheart."Thenew countryanditslanguagehavehelped topush thepastalittle furtherbehind.Thesleepingformnexttohim isless andlesshis sistereverynightandmoreandmorehiswife.The statuteof limitationsticksitselfout,daybyday,allmemoryofthe crimebeing washedaway.(Butwhathumansforget,cellsremember. Thebody,that elephant .. .) Springarrived,1923.Mygrandfather,accustomedtothemulti- fariousconjugationsofancientGreekverbs,hadfoundEnglish,for allitsincoherence, a relativelysimpletonguetomaster.Oncehehad swallowedagoodportionoftheEnglishvocabulary,hebeganto tastethefamiliaringredients,theGreekseasoningintheroots,pre- fixes,andsuffixes. ApageantwasplannedtocelebratetheFordEn- glishSchoolgraduation. Asatopstudent,Lefty wasasked to take part. "Whatkindofpageant?"Desdemona asked. "I can'ttellyou.It's a surprise.But youhavetosewmesome clothes." "Whatkind?" "Likefrom thepatridha!' Itwas aWednesdayevening.Lefty andZizmowereinthesala when suddenly Lina cameintolisten to"The RonnieRonnette Hour." Zizmo gaveher a disapproving look, but sheescaped behind her headphones. "She thinks she'soneofthese Atnerikanidbes"ZizmosaidtoLefty. "Look. See?She evencrossesherlegs." "Thisis America," Leftysaid. "We're2l\Amerikanidhesnow." "This isnot America,"Zizmo countered."Thisismyhouse. We 99

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Feeling confident, Milton adjusted the heat, which was a little too high. He turned on the radio. He let a little more space get between the Gremlin and the Eldorado. When he looked up again, the Grem- lin was making another right. Thirty seconds later, when Milton turned the same corner, he saw the sweeping expanse of the Ambas- sador Bridge. And his confidence crumbled. This was not just like al- ways. Tonight, his brother-in-law the priest, who spent his life in the fairy tale world of the Church, dressed up like Liberace, had figured things out for once. As soon as Milton saw the bridge strung like a giant, glittering harp over the river, panic seized his soul. With hor- ror Milton understood Father Mike's plan. As Chapter Eleven had intended when he threatened to dodge the draft, Father Mike was heading for Canada! Like Jimmy Zizmo the bootlegger, he was head- ing for the lawless, liberal hideaway to the north! He was planning to take the money out of the country. And he was no longer going slow. Yes, despite its thimble-sized engine that sounded like a sewing machine, the Gremlin was managing to accelerate. Leaving the no- man's-land around Grand Trunk Station, it had now entered the bright, Customs-controlled, high-traffic area of the United States- Canada border. Tall, carbon-gas streetiights irradiated the Gremlin, whose bright green color now looked even more acid than ever. Putting distance between itself and the Eldorado (like the Joker's car getting away from the Batmobile), the Gremlin joined the trucks and cars converging around the entrance to the great suspension bridge. Milton stepped on it. The huge engine of the Cadillac roared; white smoke spumed from the tailpipe. At this point the two cars had be- come exactly what cars are supposed to be; they were extensions of their owners. The Gremlin was small and nimble, as Father Mike 506 was; it disappeared and reappeared in traffic much as he did behind the icon screen at church. The Eldorado, substantial and boat-like— as was Milton— proved difficult to maneuver in the late-night bridge traffic. There were huge semis. There were passenger cars heading for

• From Middlesex (2002)

  were still awaiting their holiday season.Kissingerwas still shuttling between Parisand Washington tomaintainhissex appeal. Inactual- ity,the ParisPeace Accordswouldbesignedthe following January and the last American troops wouldpull out ofVietnam inMarch. Butas Ipeeked inatmy brother's inertbody,nooneknewthatyet. I was aware onlyof what a strange thingitwastobemale.Society dis- criminated against women, noquestion.But what aboutthe discrim- ination ofbeing senttowar? Whichsexwas reallythoughtto be expendable?I felt a sympathyand protectivenessformybrother I'd neverfeltbefore. Ithoughtof Chapter Eleveninanarmyuniform, squattinginthe jungle.I imaginedhimwounded on a stretcher,and Istartedtocry. Thevoiceon theradiodroned on:"Februarytwenty- first—one hundredandforty-one. February twenty-second—seventy- four. Februarytwenty-third—two hundredandsix." I waiteduntilMarch 20, Chapter Eleven'sbirthday.Whenthe voiceannouncedhisdraft number— it wastwohundredandninety, he wouldnevergotowar—Iburstinto hisroom.ChapterEleven leaptoutofbed.Welookedateach otherand—almostunheardof betweenus—wehugged. Thenextfall,mybrotherleftnotforCanadabutforAnnArbor. Onceagain,aswhenChapterEleven'segghaddropped,Iwasleft alone.Aloneathometonotemyfather'sgrowingangeratthe nightiynews, hisfrustrationatthe"half-assed"waytheAmericans werewagingthe war(napalmnotwithstanding)andhisincreasing sympathyforPresident Nixon.Alone,also,todetect a feelingofuse- lessness thatbegantoplaguemy mother.WithChapterElevenoutof thehouse andmegrowing up,Tessiefoundherselfwithtoomuch timeonher hands.Shebeganto fillherdayswithclassesatthe War Memorial Community Center.She learneddecoupage.She wove planthangers. Ourhouse began tofillupwithher craftprojects. There were painted basketsand beadedcurtains, paperweightswith various objects suspendedinthem, driedflowers, coloredgrainsand beans.She wentantiquing andhung anold washboardonthewall. She tookyoga, too. It wasthe combination ofMilton's disgustat theantiwarmove- ment and Tessie's senseofuselessness thatledthemtobeginreading theentire one-hundred-and-fifteen-volume setoftheGreatBooks se- ries. Uncle Petehadbeen toutingthese books for a longtime, not to mention quotingfrom themliberally toscorepointsinSunday de- 301 bates. And now, withsomuchlearning intheair—Chapter Eleven majoring in engineering,Imyself takingfirst-yearLatinwith Miss Silber, who wore sunglasses inclass—Milton and Tessie decidedit was time toroundout their education.The GreatBooksarrived in ten boxes stampedwiththeircontents. Aristotle,Plato,andSocrates in one; Cicero,MarcusAurelius,andVirgil inanother.Asweshelved thebooks inthebuilt-in stacksonMiddlesex,wereadthe names, manyfamiliar(Shakespeare),othersnot (Boethius).Canon-bashing wasn't invogue yet, andbesides,the GreatBooksbeganwithnames notunlikeourown(Thucydides),sowe felt included. "Here'sa goodone," saidMilton,holding up Milton. Theonlythingthatdis- appointedhimwas that the series didn'tcontain a book byAyn Rand.Nevertheless,thateveningafterdinner, Miltonbeganreading aloudtoTessie. Theywentchronologically,startingwithvolumeoneandwork- ing their way toward onehundred and fifteen. WhileIdidmyhome- workinthekitchenIheardMilton'sresonant,drill-likevoice saying, "Socrates:'There seemtobe two causesof thedeterioration ofthe arts'Adeimantus:'Whatarethey?'Socrates:'Wealth,Isaid,and poverty.' " WhenthePlatogot tobe hardgoing,Milton suggested skippingaheadto Machiavelli. Afterafewdaysof that, Tessieasked forThomasHardy, but anhourlaterMiltonputthebookdown, unimpressed."Too manyheaths,"he complained."Heaththisand heaththat."ThentheyreadTheOldManandtheSeabyErnestHem- ingway,whichtheyenjoyed, and thentheygavetheprojectup. Ibringup myparents' failed assaultontheGreatBooksfor a rea- son. Throughoutmyformativeyears,theset remainedonourlibrary shelves, weightyandregal-lookingwithitsgold spines. Evenback thentheGreat Bookswere working onme, silently urgingmeto pursuethemost futilehuman dreamofall, thedreamofwritinga bookworthyofjoiningtheirnumber, a one hundredandsixteenth Great Book withanotherlongGreekname onthecover:Ste- phanides. Thatwas whenIwasyoungandfull ofgranddreams. Now I've given upanyhope oflastingfameor literaryperfection.Idon't care ifI writeagreat book anymore, but justone which,whateverits flaws, willleave arecord of my impossiblelife. The lifewhich, as I shelvedbooks, wasfinally revealingitself.Be- cause here isCalliope, opening another carton. Here sheistakingout 302

• From Middlesex (2002)

  destination: Japan. One arrow startsout in Australia,moving through New Guinea toward thePhilippines.Another arrowshootsout from the Solomon Islandsandanotherfromthe Marianas.Tessiehas never heard of theseplaces before. Butnowthe arrowscontinueon,ad- vancing toward otherislandsshe'sneverheardof—Iwo Jima, Oki- nawa—each flagged withtheRisingSun.Thearrows convergefrom three directionson Japan, whichisjusta bunchofislandsitself.As Tessie is gettingthegeographystraight,the newsreelbreaksinto filmed footage.A handcranks analarm bell;sailorsjumpoutof bunks, double-time itupstairways,assumingbattlestations.And thentherehe is—Milton—runningacrossthedeckoftheship!Tessie recognizes hisskinnychest,hisraccooneyes.Sheforgetsaboutthe floorandputs herfeetdown.Inthenewsreelthedestroyer'sgunsfire without soundand,halfaworldaway,amiddieeleganceofanold- fashionedcinema, TessieZizmo feelsthe recoils.Thetheateris about half-full,mostiywithyoung women like her.They,too,aresnacking oncandiesfor emotionalreasons; they,too, aresearchingthegrainy newsreelforthefacesoffiances.TheairsmellsofTootsiePopsand perfume and ofthe cigarette the usher is smokinginthelobby.Most ofthe timethewaris an abstractevent,happeningsomewhereelse. Onlyhere,forfourorfiveminutes,squeezed betweenthe cartoon andthefeature,doesitbecomeconcrete.Maybe theblurringofiden- tity,themobrelease,hasaneffect onTessie,inspiringthekindofhys- teria Sinatra does.Whateverthe reason,inthebedroomlightofthe movietheaterTessie Zizmo allowsherselftorememberthingsshe's beentryingtoforget: aclarinet nosingitswayup herbareleglike an invading forceitself,tracinganarrowto herownislandempire, an empirewhich, sherealizesatthat moment,sheisgivinguptothe wrong man. Whilethe flickeringbeamofthemovieprojectorslants through thedarknessoverherhead, Tessieadmits to herselfthat she doesn'twant tomarryMichael Antoniou.Shedoesn'twanttobe a priest'swife or moveto Greece. As she gazes at Miltoninthenews- reel, her eyesfillwithtears andshesaysoutloud,"Therewas nowhere Icould gothat wouldn'tbeyou." Andwhile people shushher,thesailorinthe newsreel approaches thecamera— andTessie realizesthatitisn'tMilton.Itdoesn'tmatter, however. She has seenwhatshe has seen. Shegetsuptoleave. OnHurlbut Street thatsameafternoon, Desdemonawas lying in bed. She hadbeen thereforthelastthreedays,eversincethemail- 193 manhad delivered anotherletter fromMilton.The letter wasn't in Greek butEnglishandLefty hadtotranslate: Dearfolks, Thisis thelastletterI'll beabletosend you.(Sorryfor not writinginthe nativetongue,ma, butI'm a little busyatthe moment.)The brasswon'tletme saymuch aboutwhat'sgoing on,butIjustwanted todropyouthisnote totellyounot to worryabout me.I'mheaded toa safe place.Keepthebar in goodshape,Pop.Thiswarll beoversome dayandIwantin on thefamilybusiness.TellZo tostayoutofmyroom. Love andlaughs, Milt Unliketheprevious letters,thisonearrivedintact. Notasingle holeanywhere.Atfirst thishadcheeredDesdemonauntilshereal- ized whatitimplied.There wasnoneed forsecrecy anymore.Thein- vasionwasalreadyunder way. At thatpoint,Desdemonastood up fromthekitchentable and, with a lookoftriumphant desolation,madeagravepronouncement: "Godhasbroughtthejudgmentdownon us thatwedeserve," she said. She wentintothelivingroom,whereshestraightened a sofa cushion inpassing,andclimbed the stairs to thebedroom.There she undressedand putonhernightgown,even thoughitwas onlytenin themorning.And then,forthefirsttimesince beingpregnant with Zoeandthelast timebeforeclimbingin forevertwenty-five years later,mygrandmother took to her bed. Forthreedaysshehad stayed there,gettingup only togotothe bathroom.Mygrandfatherhad tried invainto coaxher out.When heleftforworkthethird morning,hehad broughtupsomefood,a dishof white beansin tomatosauceandbread. Themealwasstilllyinguntouchedonthe bedsidetablewhen therecame a knockatthefrontdoor.Desdemona didnot getup to answer itbutonly pulled apillow over her face.Despitethismuf- fling, sheheardthe knocking continue.A littlelater,the frontdoor opened, andfinally footsteps madetheirwayup thestairsand into her room. 194 "AuntDes?" Tessiesaid. Desdemonadid not move. "I've got something to tell you"Tessiecontinued."Iwantedyou tobe thefirst toknow." Thefigure inthebedremainedmotionless. Still,thealertnessthat had seized Desdemona'sbody toldTessiethat shewasawake andlis- tening. Tessietook abreathand announced,"I'mgoing to calloffthe wedding." Therewasa silence.SlowlyDesdemona pulledthepillowoffher face.She reachedforherglasseson thebedsidetable,putthemon, andsatup inbed."Youdon'twant tomarryMikey?" "No." "MikeyisagoodGreekboy." "Iknowheis.ButIdon'tlovehim.Ilove Milton." TessieexpectedDesdemonatoreactwithshockoroutrage, but to her surprise mygrandmotherbarelyseemed to registertheconfes- sion. "You don'tknowthis,butMiltonaskedmetomarryhim a while ago. Isaidno. NowI'mgoingtowritehimandsayyes." Desdemona gavealittleshrug."Youcanwritewhat you want, honeymou. Miltiehewon'tgetit." "It'snotillegal oranything. First cousinscanmarryeven.We're only secondcousins. Miltonwent andlooked upallthestatutes." Once againDesdemonashrugged.Drained by worry,abandoned by St. Christopher, shestopped fightinganeventualitythathadnever beenfatedin thefirstplace."IfyouandMiltiewanttogetmarried, youhave my blessing,"shesaid. Then,havinggivenherbenediction, shesettled backinto herpillows andclosedher eyesto thepainofliv- ing. "And may Godgrantthat youneverhaveachildwhodiesinthe ocean." In myfamily, thefuneralmeats havealwaysfurnishedthewed- dingtables. Mygrandmotheragreedtomarrymy grandfather be- cause she neverthoughtshe'd livetoseethewedding.Andmy grandmother blessedmy parents'marriage,after vigorouslyplotting against it, only because she didn'tthinkMiltonwouldsurvivetothe endof the week. At sea, my fatherdidn't thinksoeither. Standing atthebowofthe transport ship,hestaredoutoverthe waterathisfast-approaching 195

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "steer for a minute." I leaned over to take hold of the wheel, closer to Bob Presto than I wanted to be, while he struggled with the caps and shook out pills. "My liver's all fucked up. Because of this hepatitis I picked up in Thailand. Fucking country almost killed me." He held up a blue pill. "This is the one for the liver. I've got a blood thinner, too. And one for blood pressure. My blood's all fucked up. I'm not supposed to eat so much." In this way we drove all day, reaching San Francisco in the evening. When I saw the city, pink and white, a wedding cake arrayed on hills, a new anxiety took hold of me. All the way across the coun- try I had absorbed myself in reaching my destination. Now I was there and I didn't know what I would do or how I would survive. "I'll drop you wherever you want," Presto said. "You got an ad- dress where you're staying, Cal? Your friend's place?" "Anywhere's fine." "I'll take you up to the Haight. That'll be a good place for you to get your bearings." We drove into the city and finally Bob Presto pulled his car over and I opened my door. "Thanks for the ride," I said. "Sure, sure," said Presto. He held out his hand. "And by the way, it's Palo Alto." "What?" 462 "Stanford's in Palo Alto. You should get that straight if you want anyone to believe you're in college." He waited for me to speak. Then in a surprisingly tender voice, a professional trick, too, no doubt, but not without effect, Presto asked, "Listen, guy, you got any place to stay?" "Don't worry about me." "Can I ask you something, Cal? What are you, anyway?" Without answering I got out of the car and opened the back door to get my suitcase. Presto turned around in his seat, a difficult ma- neuver for him. His voice remained soft, deep, fatherly. "Come on. I'm in the business. I might be able to help you out. You a tranny?" "I'm going now." "Don't get offended. I know all about pre-op and post-op and all that stuff." "I don't know what you're talking about." I pulled my suitcase off the seat. "Hey, not so fast. Here. At least take my number. I could use a kid like you. Whatever you are. You need some money, don't you? You need an easy way to make some good money, you give your old friend Bob Presto a call." I took the number to get rid of him. Then I turned and walked off as though I knew where I was going. "Watch out in the park at night," Presto called after me in his booming voice. "Lot of lowlifes in there." My mother used to say that the umbilical cord attaching her to her children had never been completely cut. As soon as Dr. Philobosian

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  Let’s pray.” Lanky young men in ill-fitting suits sidled up next to the steps, longing to hear him prophesy, “Thus saith the Lord, God has surely chosen you for a great work.” Women, old and young, yearned toward him; surely it was the Holy Ghost that pulled them toward him. He often said he couldn’t sleep at night, that he felt the needs of the people pulling at him like quicksand.At the bottom step he reached out to shake someone’s hand and collapsed. Someone screamed. Exorcisms took a lot out of Brother Terrell, but this was the first time he had fainted. My mom looked over the half wall at the back of the platform and continued to play the organ. Men in suits poured through the gate, down the ladder.“Step back, please. Give us some room here.”They closed over him. “We need to get him outta here. Move back, now, y’all hear? Please.”The knot of people loosened and as it did, two men rose with Brother Terrell hoisted between them, their arms wrapped around his waist, his arms propped up on their shoulders, hands dangling from his wrist. They carried him out from under the tent. Betty Ann, Pam, Laverne, Gary, and I followed the men and Brother Terrell into the night to the tiny trailer parked behind the auditorium. Randall was already at the door, his hand on the long silver handle. One of the preachers spoke to him and he moved aside. In they went, pulling the door closed behind them. The latch clicked into place. We stood there staring at the handle.Randall looked at his mother. “We got a right to know.” He pushed the handle down and tugged on the door. Nothing. He knocked and a preacher, a stranger, appeared in the darkened crack.“He needs to rest, son. Y’all go on home. Someone will be there in a little bit to let you know how he’s doing.”“I need to see my daddy. Mama needs to see him.”“He needs rest.”“We ain’t leaving till we see him.”“Who is it?” It was Brother Terrell’s voice. Betty Ann breathed a sigh of relief.The preacher mumbled something about Randall over his shoulder.“Let ’em in.”Two preachers walked out and Betty Ann, Pam, and Randall stepped up into the Airstream. I felt conspicuous waiting around in the dark outside the trailer. The Terrells always said members of the evangelistic team were like family. I realized at that moment that being like family was a long way from actually being family. Mama, Gary, and I were insiders, but the Terrells were the inner circle itself and we hovered just outside their circumference. Members of the congregation approached us and asked about Brother Terrell. Laverne’s eyebrows came together and she dropped her head and shook it slowly from side to side. After a few minutes the door opened and Randall’s belly came through the opening. His mother and Pam followed. They were crying.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  range ofeffectivetreatmentsfor casesofthiskind. Butbefore I'm readytobegintreatmentthereare anumberofquestions Ihaveto answer." Mymotherandfatherweresitting onlyafootapartduring this speech,buteachheardsomethingdifferent. Miltonheardthewords thatwerethere.Heheard"treatment"and "effective."Tessie,onthe otherhand,heardthewordsthatweren't there.Thedoctorhadn't saidmyname,forinstance.Hehadn'tsaid "Calliope"or"Callie."He hadn'tsaid"daughter,"either.He didn'tuseanypronounsatall. "I'llneedtorunfurthertests,"Lucewascontinuing."I'll needto perform a completepsychologicalassessment. OnceI have theneces- sary information,then we candiscussin detailthepropercourseof treatment." Miltonwas alreadynodding."Whatkindof time linearewe talk- ingabout, Doctor?" Lucejuttedout a thoughtfullowerlip."Iwanttoredothelab tests,justtobe sure.Thoseresults willbeback tomorrow.The psy- chologicalevaluationwilltakelonger.I'llneedtosee your childevery day for at least aweek, maybetwo.Alsoitwould be helpfulifyou couldgivemeanychildhoodphotographsorfamilymoviesyou mighthave." MiltonturnedtoTessie."Whendoes Calliestartschool?" Tessiedidn'thearhim.ShewasdistractedbyLuce's phrase:"your child." "Whatkindofinformationareyoutryingtoget, Doctor?"Tessie asked. "The bloodtestswilltellus hormonelevels.Thepsychologicalas- sessmentisroutineincaseslikethis." "Youthinkit'ssomekindofhormone thing?"Miltonasked."A hormoneimbalance?" "We'll know afterI've hadtimetodo whatIneedto do,"said Luce. Milton stood upandshookhands withthedoctor. Theconsulta- tion wasover. Keep inmind: neitherMiltonnorTessie hadseenme undressed for years. How were theytoknow? And not knowing, howcouldthey imagine? The informationavailable to themwas allsecondary stuff— 414 my husky voice,my flatchest— but thesethingswerefar fromper- suasive.A hormonal thing.It couldhavebeenno moreseriousthan that.Somy fatherbelieved,orwanted tobelieve,and sohetriedto convinceTessie. Ihadmy own resistance. "Whydoeshehavetodoapsychologi- cal evaluation?"I asked."It'snotlike I'm crazy." "The doctorsaiditwasroutine." "But why?" Withthis questionI had hit uponthe cruxof thematter.My motherhassince toldmethatsheintuitedtherealreasonfor thepsy- chologicalassessment,butchosenottodwellonit.Or,rather,didn't choose.LetMiltonchooseforher.Miltonpreferredtotreatthe problem pragmatically.There wasnosenseinworryingaboutapsy- chological assessmentthatcould onlyconfirmwhatwasobvious: that Iwas a normal,well-adjustedgirl."Heprobablybillstheinsur- anceextraforthepsychologicalstuff,"Miltonsaid."Sorry,Cal, but you'llhavetoputupwithit.Maybehecancureyourneuroses.Got anyneuroses?No^syour time tolet'emout."Heputhisarms around me, squeezedhard,androughlykissed the sideof my head. Milton wasso convincedthateverythingwasgoing tobeokay thatonTuesdaymorningheflewdowntoFloridaonbusiness."No sense coolingmyheelsinthishotel,"hetoldus. "You justwanttogetout ofthis pit," I said. "I'llmake ituptoyou.Why don'tyouandyourmothergoout for a fancy dinnertonight.Anyplaceyouwant.We'resaving a couple bucksonthis room,soyougalscan splurge.Whydon't youtake Cal- lie toDelmonico's, Tess." "What'sDelmonico's?"I asked. "It's asteakjoint." "I wantlobster. Andbaked Alaska,"Isaid. "Baked Alaska!Maybetheyhavethat,too." Milton left, andmymother andItriedtospendhismoney. We went shopping at Bloomingdale's.Wehadhighteaatthe Plaza. We never made ittoDelmonico's, preferring a moderatelypricedItalian restaurant neartheLochmoor,wherewe feltmorecomfortable. We ate there everynight,doingour best topretendwewereonareal trip, a vacation. Tessie drankmorewinethanusualandgottipsy,and when shewent tothe bathroom Idrank herwinemyself. 415 Normallythe most expressivething about mymother'sface was thegap betweenherfrontteeth. Whenshewaslistening to me, Tessie'stongueoften pressedagainst thatdivot,that gate.Thiswas thesignal ofherattention. My mother alwayspaidgreat attention to whateverIsaid.AndifItoldhersomething funny,thenhertongue droppedaway,herhead fell back,hermouth openedwide,andthere wereherfrontteeth,rivenandascendant. Everynightatthe Italian restaurantItried to make thishappen. Inthemornings,Tessietookmetothe Clinicformyappoint- ments. "What areyourhobbies,Callie?" "Hobbies?" "Isthereanythingyouespeciallylike todo?" "I'mnot really a hobby- type person." "Whataboutsports?Doyoulikeanysports?" "DoesPing-Pongcount?" "I'llputitdown."Lucesmiledfrombehindhis desk. Iwasonthe LeCorbusierdaybedacrosstheroom, lounging onthecowhide. "Whataboutboys?" "Whataboutthem?" "Isthere a boy at schoolyoulike?" "I guess you'venever beento myschool,Doctor." Hecheckedhisfile."Oh,it's a girls'school, isn'tit?" "Yup." "Are yousexuallyattractedtogirls?"Luce saidthisquickly.Itwas likeatapfromarubberhammer.ButIstifledmy reflex. Heputdownhispenandknithisfingers together.Heleanedfor- wardandspokesoftly. "Iwantyouto knowthatthisisall between us, Callie. I'mnotgoingtotellyourparents anythingthatyou tell mehere." Iwastorn.Luceinhisleatherchair,withhis longishhairandan- kleboots,wasthekindof adulta kidmight open up to.Hewasas oldasmyfather butinleaguewith theyounger generation.Ilonged to tellhimaboutthe Object.I longedtotellsomebody, anybody.My feelingsforherwere stillsostrong theyrushedup mythroat.But I held themback, wary. I didn'tbelievethiswas allprivate. "Your mother saysyou have a close relationshipwitha friend of 416

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Allies, eager to make amends for their support oftheGreek invasion, were planningtohand the cityover tothe victoriousTurks—theciti- zenslookedoutatthe French destroyers and Britishbattleships,still on hand to protect European commercial interestsinSmyrna,and their fearswerecalmed. Dr. Nishan Philobosian had setofffor theharborthatafternoon seekingjustsuchreassurance. He kissedhis wife,Toukhie,andhis daughters,RoseandAnita, goodbye; heslappedhis sons,Karekin andStepan, onthe back,pointing atthe chessboardandsayingwith mock gravity,"Don't move thosepieces." Helockedthefrontdoor behindhim, testing itwithhis shoulder,andstarted downSuyane Street,past theclosed shopsandshuttered windowsoftheArmenian Quarter.Hestopped outsideBerberian'sbakery, wondering whether Charles Berberianhad takenhisfamilyoutofthecityorwhetherthey werehidingupstairslikethePhilobosians. Forfivedaysnowthey'd beenunderself-imprisonment,Dr. Philobosianandhis sonsplaying endlessgamesofchess,RoseandAnitalooking ata copyofPhotoplay he'dpickedupforthemonarecentvisittotheAmericansuburbof Paradise,Toukhiecookingday andnight because eating was theonly thingthatrelievedtheanxiety. Thebakerydoorshowedonlyasign thatsaidopen soonand a portrait—whichmade Philobosian wince—ofKemal,the Turkishleader resoluteinastrakhancapandfur collar, hisblueeyes piercing beneaththecrossed sabers of his eye- brows. Dr. Philobosianturned away fromthefaceandmovedon,re- hearsing allthe arguments against puttingupKemal'sportrait like that.For one thing—as he'd beentelling hiswifeallweek—theEuro- peanpowerswould neverlet the Turksenterthecity.Second, ifthey did,thepresenceof the warships in theharborwouldrestrainthe Turks fromlooting. Even during themassacres of1915theArmeni- ansof Smyrnahad been safe. And finally—forhis ownfamily, at least— therewas the letterhe was onhiswayto retrievefrom hisof- fice. Soreasoning, he continued downthe hill, reachingtheEuro- pean Quarter. Here the houses grew more prosperous.Oneitherside of thestreet rose two-story villas with flowering balconiesandhigh, armored walls. Dr. Philobosian had neverbeen invitedintothesevil- las socially, but he often made house callsto attendtheLevantine girls living inside; girls of eighteen or nineteenwhoawaitedhimin the"water palaces" of the courtyards, lying languidlyondaybeds 45 amida profusionof fruittrees;girlswhosedesperateneed tofind European husbands gavethem a scandalousamountoffreedom, cause itselfforSmyrna's reputationasbeingexceptionally kindto militaryofficers,and responsiblefordiefeverblushesthegirls be- trayed onthemorningsofDr. Philobosian'svisits, aswellasforthe nature oftheircomplaints,whichran fromthe ankletwistedonthe dancefloorto moreintimatescrapeshigherup.Allofwhichthegirls showednomodestyabout, throwingopensilkpeignoirs tosay,"It's allred,Doctor.Dosomething.Ihavetobeat the Casinby eleven." These girlsallgonenow,takenoutofthecitybytheirparentsafter thefirstfightingweeksago, offinParisandLondon—wheretheSea- son was beginning—thehouses quiet as Dr.Philobosian passedby, thecrisis receding from hismindatthethoughtofallthose loosened robes.Butthenheturnedthe corner,reachingthequay,andthe emergencycameback to him. Fromoneendofthe harbor to theother,Greeksoldiers,ex- hausted,cadaverous, unclean,limped towardtheembarkationpoint atChesme,southwestofthe city,awaiting evacuation.Theirtattered uniformswereblackwithsootfromthe villagesthey'dburned in re- treat.Onlyaweekbefore, thewaterfront's elegantopen-aircafeshad beenfilledwithnavalofficersand diplomats;now the quaywasa holding pen.The firstrefugeeshadcome withcarpetsand armchairs, radios,Victrolas,lampstands, dressers,spreading themoutbefore the harbor,undertheopensky.Themore recentarrivals turnedupwith only asack or a suitcase.Amidthisconfusion, porters dartedevery- where,loadingboatswithtobacco, figs, frankincense, silk,andmo- hair.Thewarehouseswerebeing emptiedbefore theTurksarrived. Dr. Philobosian spotteda refugeepicking through chickenbones andpotato peelsin aheapof garbage.Itwasa young manin a well- tailoredbutdirtysuit.Evenfroma distance, Dr. Philobosian'smed- ical eye noticedthecutontheyoung man's handand thepallorof malnutrition. But whentherefugeelooked up, the doctorsawonlya blank for a face;hewas indistinguishable from any of the refugees swarming thequay. Nevertheless,staring into this blankness,the doctor called,"Are yousick?" "I haven'teaten forthreedays,"saidthe youngman. The doctorsighed. "Come with me." Heled the refugee down backstreets to his office. Heushered 46

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  At home, Amy had hoped to discuss their finances and time frame for a potential adoption, but instead, Reese arrived home in one of her wild, boisterous moods. Instead of preparing with a serious conversation, they ended up in the bedroom, raiding the closets to cosplay mom outfits for the orientation. Amy put on a jumpsuit and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. “Can I wear my black ankle boots? Or are the heels too much?” She turned her leg to better display the stacked heels to Reese. “Is that, like, not a wholesome mom look? Maybe I should wear sneakers? I want to be a MILF, but a subtle MILF, you know?” Reese scrutinized the heels from where she sat on the bed. “Wear your white Nike sneakers and leave the ponytail,” she told Amy. “Do, like, the sporty soccer mom.” “Yes. Soccer mom, good.” “Ym going to borrow your pearl studs, okay?” Reese asked, although she was already wearing them. Amy’s own mother had given her the studs as a mixed gesture, after first years of deep resentment that followed Amy’s coming out, during which she and Amy played a game of silent-treatment chicken. While the gift of the studs might have appeared to indicate that Amy’s mother had swerved first, Amy interpreted in them a subtext: If I must accept your womanhood, these are a strong suggestion of the kind of woman you should be. Consequently, Amy joined her in silent- treatment armistice, but refused to ever wear the studs. Reese hopped up from the bed and stood close to the mirror that hung on the closet door. “What are we going to tell them if they ask why we're there?” Reese’s nose nearly touched the nose of her reflection as she checked her brows, so Amy couldn’t see her face. “Why would they ask why we're there? It seems pretty self- explanatory.” “But if they press!” “Reese, we are allowed to find out about adopting a baby. We can even name-drop Omar’s sister.” Reese turned away from her reflection. “I know. But I feel naughty. Like we’re passing ourselves off as just a normie lez couple. The deceptive transsexual, going like: One baby, please! Nothing to see here!” “Like, what, they'll have the adoption version of trans panic?” “Yes!” “We are actual adults, Reese. We are not going to get in trouble. Now put your shoes on, sweetheart, so we won't be late.” But the same anxiety tugged at Amy. She had tried to picture to what kind of woman the voice at the adoption agency had belonged. She’d had an American accent, but Amy’s mind’s eye saw a disapproving and officious Englishwoman. Enough with these transgender shenanigans! Weve got real parents who need our time.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  “IT just have to put down some information,” the woman says. “Starting with your due date?” Reese realizes that the woman is speaking to her. That between Katrina’s business attire and Reese’s loose dress, these two lesbians have a quasi butch-femme thing going, and the femme is the one assumed to be with child. Katrina also realizes this, but rather than correct the woman, she gives Reese’s hand a squeeze and says, “When did the doctor say?” This is a little gift from Katrina, a tiny way of sharing the pregnancy. The only problem is that Reese doesn’t remember Katrina’s exact due date. “Ummm,” says Reese, stretching it out, waiting for something to come to her, or something else to happen. “Was it the fifth? December fifth?” Katrina interjects, the threat of a smirk hovering at the edges of her face. “Yes,” Reese says after a moment of hesitation, “that was it, December fifth.” “Great, December fifth,” says the woman. She approves. That gives them plenty of time to fill their registry. The idea to create a baby registry came from Maya. The week before, Katrina had a Skype call with her mother scheduled for a time when Reese happened to be over at her apartment. In a seemingly spur-of- the-moment tone, Katrina asked to introduce the two of them. Reese’s first instinct was to decline. Unfortunately, there was no graceful way to say no. Especially since Katrina attributed her mother’s new West Coast chill as instrumental in recognizing how raising a child with Reese and Ames might actually be a situation Katrina had been looking for all along, but been blinded to by her heteronormativity. That was the word Katrina had started to use —“heteronormativity’—which Reese figured must be a new arrival to Katrina’s everyday vocabulary. Katrina had learned the word, but not yet the queer cynicism that made such words impossible to say aloud without first dunking them in a bath of irony. But whatever! If heteronormativity was what allowed Reese and Maya _ to enthusiastically endorse transsexual co-parenting, then let’s all get tickets to heteronormativity! “Of course, I'll meet her,” Reese said, pushing down her reluctance. “I’d love to! She'll be our child’s grandmother. Just let me maybe touch up some makeup beforehand?” Katrina shook her head, excited. “You look great! Anyway, she doesn’t care about that.” “No, but I care,” Reese insisted. “Please. It'll give me better confidence.”