Disappointment

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 47 of 189 · 20 per page

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  Brother Terrell bragged that country-music star George Jones had approached him after service one night and requested prayer. Another night, bluegrass legend Lester Flatt, a personal hero of his, came to the tent and asked for prayer. Brother Terrell prayed for Flatt several times over the years, usually by phone, but the musician kept getting sick. After hearing Flatt was back in the hospital, sicker than ever, he called my mother in tears. God healed people all the time in his services, he said, so why wouldn’t God heal Lester Flatt? And more important, why hadn’t God healed Randall?I stood by the table in the breakfast nook and listened as my mother consoled him over the phone. Of course God heard his prayers. Of course he hadn’t done anything wrong. The devil was using Lester’s and especially Randall’s sickness to make him doubt himself. Randall continued to vacillate between health and illness. One minute he was shouting the victory and the next he was getting yet another blood transfusion. The scripture about God visiting the sins of the fathers on the children came to mind. I wondered if Mama or Brother Terrell ever thought of it.Mama ended her pep talks to Brother Terrell with a reminder that he was God’s chosen vessel. It was a vocation for which he was increasingly well paid. Our garage held two new Mercedes and a Lincoln Continental. The driveway at the back of our house was filled with his-and-hers Thunderbirds, a new pickup, and a station wagon. My mother wouldn’t drive the fancier cars, so once a week, we went from car to car, turning them on and letting them idle in place to keep the batteries from running down. These were our personal automobiles. There was also a fleet of corporate vehicles that included more Mercedes, a few Cadillacs, a couple of run-of-the-mill Ford LTDs, a luxury bus, a prop plane, and a six-passenger jet. Brother Terrell drove up to the house one day towing a horse trailer with a movie-star horse inside. He had admired the horse on The Virginian , his favorite TV Western, and when it came up for sale, well, didn’t the Bible say God grants the desires of our hearts? A movie-star horse couldn’t live on an ordinary farm, so Brother Terrell bought a fancy horse farm in Tennessee. He bought other properties as well, including a ranch close to Brownwood, Texas; a house with acreage in Palestine, Texas; and a two-hundred-and-sixty-acre farm outside Lampasas, Texas.I asked my mother on occasion where all the money came from, and she replied in a haughty, you-shouldn’t-ask-that-kind-of-thing voice that everything we had was paid for with love offerings, money people gave Brother Terrell for his personal use. Besides, Brother Terrell traveled so much, he needed reliable, comfortable transportation. And he had grown up poor as dirt and had given up so much for the gospel; he deserved a few nice things.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Which brings me to the second part of our upward mobility. Shortly after the riots, like many other white Detroiters, my parents began looking for a house in the suburbs. The suburb they had their sights on was the affluent lakefront district of the auto magnates: Grosse Pointe. It was much harder than they ever expected. In the Cadillac, scouting the five Grosse Pointes (the Park, the City, the Farms, the Woods, the Shores), my parents saw for sale signs on many lawns. But when they stopped in at the realty offices and filled out applications, they found that the houses suddenly went off the mar- ket, or were sold, or doubled in price. After two months of searching, Milton was down to his last real estate agent, a Miss Jane Marsh of Great Lakes Realty. He had her— and some growing suspicions. "This property is rather eccentric," Miss Marsh is telling Milton one September afternoon as she leads him up the driveway. "It takes a buyer with a little vision." She opens the front door and leads him inside. "But it does have quite a pedigree. It was designed by Hud- son Clark." She waits for recognition. "Of the Prairie School?" Milton nods, dubiously. He swivels his head, looking over the place. He hadn't much cared for the picture Miss Marsh had shown him over at the office. Too boxy-looking. Too modern. 254 "I'm not sure my wife would go for this kind of thing, Miss Marsh." "I'm afraid we don't have anything more traditional to show at the moment." She leads him along a spare white hallway and down a small flight of open stairs. And now, as they step into the sunken living room, Miss Marsh's head begins to swivel, too. Smiling a polite smile that reveals a rabbity expanse of upper gum, she examines Milton's com- plexion, his hair, his shoes. She glances at his real estate application again. "Stephanides. What kind of name is that?" "It's Greek." "Greek. How interesting." More upper gum flashes as Miss Marsh makes a notation on her pad. Then she resumes the tour: "Sunken living room. Greenhouse adjoining the dining area. And, as you can see, the house is well sup- plied with windows." "It pretty much is a window, Miss Marsh." Milton moves closer to the glass and examines the backyard. Meanwhile, a few feet behind, Miss Marsh examines Milton. "May I ask what business you're in, Mr. Stephanides?" "The restaurant business." Another mark of pen on pad. "Can I tell you what churches we have in the area? What denomination are you?" "I don't go in for that sort of thing. My wife takes the kids to the Greek church." "She's a Grecian, too?"

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  he turns the music back up. Facts are simple and facts are straight Facts are lazy and facts are late Facts all come with points of view Facts don’t do what I want them to “Here she comes,” a voice shouts. You keep walking, thinking briefly about the Missing Person, the one who’s come and gone for good. Out into the sunlight of Fifth Avenue and the Plaza, a gargantuan white chateau rising in the middle of the island like a New Money dream of the Old World. When you first came to the city you spent a night here with Amanda. You had friends to stay with, but you wanted to spend that first night at the Plaza. Getting out of the taxi next to the famous fountain, you seemed to be arriving at the premiere of the movie which was to be your life. A doorman greeted you at the steps. A string quartet played in the Palm Court. Your tenth-floor room was tiny and overlooked an airshaft; though you could not see the city out the window, you believed that it was spread out at your feet. The limousines around the entrances seemed like carriages, and you felt that someday one would wait for you. Today they put you in mind of carrion birds, and you cannot believe your dreams were so shallow. You are the stuff of which consumer profiles—American Dream: Educated Middle-Class Model—are made. When you’re staying at the Plaza with your beautiful wife, doesn’t it make sense to order the best Scotch that money can buy before you go to the theater in your private limousine? You stayed there once before, with your parents and your brothers, when your father was in between corporate postings. You and Michael rode the elevators up and down all day. The next day you were going to embark for England on the Queen Elizabeth. You told Michael that they didn’t have silverware in England, that people had to eat with their hands. Michael started to cry. He didn’t want to go to England, didn’t want to eat with his hands. You told him not to worry. You would sneak some silverware into the country. Prowling the halls, you stole silverware from the room-service trays and stashed it in your suitcases. Michael wanted to know if they had glasses. You packed some just in case. At customs in Liverpool Michael began to cry again. You had

• From What Are Biblical Values? (2019)

  But as Stephen Colbert aptly commented: “If he just read a little bit further into Romans 13 he would have found: ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself. Love does no harm to a neighbor. Therefore, love is the fulfillment of the law’ ” (13:10).1 Which of these verses should take precedence? For Christians, at least, this question is answered expli-c-itly by Jesus. The greatest commandments are those that demand love of God and love of one’s neighbor.2 Paul, in the passage that Sessions and then Colbert cited, makes this clear: “The commandments . . . are summed up in this word, ‘love your neighbor as yourself.’ ”3 But the Hebrew Bible, too, has clear priorities. Concern for the poor and hungry is not contingent on their work ethic, and concern for the alien is not contingent on their legal status. Widows, orphans, and aliens are repeatedly singled out as those who need special care. Individual verses must be weighed in context. Not every statement in the Bible can be taken uncritically as “God’s position.” The most acute problem confronting anyone who speaks of biblical values, however, is undoubtedly the Bible’s apparent endorsement of positions that now seem reprehensible. The defenders of slavery in the nineteenth century who argued that the Bible never condemns it were unquestionably right. The story of the conquest and utter destruction of Canaan, even though it may be fantasy rather than history, lends ready support to the use of violence as a means of settling disputes. The strictures of 1 Timothy that a woman should learn in silence and that she must not teach or have authority over a man are no longer socially acceptable. It is all too easy for the atheistic scientist Richard Dawkins to argue that the Bible promotes “a system of morals which any civilized modern person, whether religious or not, would find—I can put it no more gently—obnoxious.”4 Dawkins, like many critics of the Bible, may be one-sided in his critique, but his arguments are not without foundation. Disagreement is not simply a matter of judging the Bible by modern standards. As Nicholas Wolterstorff has written, à propos of the slaughter of the Canaanites: The problem is not that we have absorbed modern enlightened views about ethical and theological matters and are, as such, morally offended by the picture of genocidal slaughter in Israel’s conquest of the land as reported in the book of Joshua, and religiously offended by the picture in Deuteronomy of God as enjoining such slaughter. Our problem is rather that we have been formed in our understanding of God by the biblical acclamations of God as just and loving and shaped in our ethical thinking by God’s command to do justice and love mercy.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Wearing embroidered palikari vest, puffy-sleeved poukamiso, and pleated foustanella skirt, my grandfather bestrides the gangway. He pauses a moment to look out at the audience, but the bright lights blind him. He can't see my grandmother looking back, bursting with her secret. GERMANY taps him on the back. "Macht schnell Ex- cuse me. Go fasdy." In the front row, Henry Ford nods with approval, enjoying the show. Mrs. Ford tries to whisper in his ear, but he waves her off. His blue seagull's eyes dart from face to face as the English instructors ap- pear onstage next. They carry long spoons, which they insert into the pot. The lights turn red and flicker as the instructors stir. Steam rises over the stage. Inside the cauldron, men are packed together, throwing off immi- grant costumes, putting on suits. Limbs are tangling up, feet step- ping on feet. Lefty says, "Pardon me, excuse me," feeling thoroughly American as he pulls on his blue wool trousers and jacket. In his mouth: thirty-two teeth brushed in the American manner. His under- arms: liberally sprinkled with American deodorant. And now spoons are descending from above, men are churning around and around . . . ... as two men, short and tall, stand in the wings, holding a piece of paper . . . . and out in the audience my grandmother has a stunned look . . on her face . . . . and the melting pot boils over. Red lights brighten. The or- . . 104 chestra launches into "Yankee Doodle." One by one, the Ford English School graduates rise from the cauldron. Dressed in blue and gray suits, they climb out, waving American flags, to thunderous ap- plause. The curtain had barely come down before the men from the Socio- logical Department approached. "I pass the final exam," my grandfather told them. "Ninety- three percent! And today I open savings account." "That sounds fine," the tall one said. "But unfortunately, it's too late," said the short one. He took a slip from his pocket, a color well known in Detroit: pink. "We did some checking on your landlord. This so-called Jimmy Zizmo. He's got a police record." "I don't know anything," my grandfather said. "I'm sure is a mis- take. He is a nice man. Works hard." "I'm sorry, Mr. Stephanides. But you can understand that Mr. Ford can't have workers maintaining such associations. You don't need to come down to the plant on Monday." As my grandfather struggled to absorb this news, the short one leaned in. "I hope you learn a lesson from this. Mixing with the wrong crowd can sink you. You seem like a nice guy, Mr. Stepha- nides. You really do. We wish you the best of luck in the future." A few minutes later, Lefty came out to meet his wife. He was sur- prised when, in front of everyone, she hugged him, refusing to let go. "You liked the pageant?"

• From Middlesex (2002)

  A few weeks later, Milton had had the business appraised and was met with a shock: the Zebra Room was worth less than when Lefty had acquired it in 1933. Milton had waited too long to sell it. The getting out was no longer good. And so the Zebra Room remained on the corner of Pingree and Dexter, the swing music on the jukebox growing increasingly out of date, the celebrities and sports figures on the walls more and more unrecognizable. On Saturdays, my grandfather often took me for a ride in the car. We drove out to Belle Isle to look for deer and then stopped in for lunch at the family restaurant. At the diner we sat in a booth while Milton waited on us, pretending we were customers. He took Lefty's order and winked. "And whafll the Mrs. have?" 228 "I'm not the Mrs.!" "You're not?" I ordered my usual of a cheeseburger, milk shake, and lemon meringue pie for dessert. Opening the cash register, Milton gave me a stack of quarters to use in the jukebox. While I chose songs, I looked out the front window for my neighborhood friend. Most Sat- urdays he was installed on the corner, surrounded by other young men. Sometimes he stood on a broken chair or a cinder block while he orated. Always his arm was in the air, waving and gesticulating. But if he happened to see me, his raised fist would open up, and he would wave. His name was Marius Wyxzewixard Challouehliczilczese Grimes. I was not allowed to speak to him. Milton considered Marius to be a troublemaker, a view in which many Zebra Room patrons, white and black both, concurred. I liked him, though. He called me "Little Queen of the Nile." He said I looked like Cleopatra. "Cleopatra was Greek," he said. "Did you know that?" "No." "Yeah, she was. She was a Ptolemy. Big family back then. They were Greek Egyptians. I've got a little Egyptian blood in me, too. You and me are probably related." If he was standing on his broken chair, waiting for a crowd to form, he would talk to me. But if other people were there he would be too busy. Marius Wyxzewixard Challouehliczilczese Grimes had been named after an Ethiopian nationalist, a contemporary of Fard Muhammad, in fact, back in the thirties. Marius had been an asth- matic child. He'd spent most of his childhood inside, reading the eclectic books in his mother's library. As a teenager he'd been beaten up a lot (he wore glasses, Marius did, and had a habit of mouth- breathing). But by the time I got to know him, Marius W C. Grimes was coming into his manhood. He worked at a record store and was going to U. of D. Law School, nights. There was something happen- ing in the country, in the black neighborhoods especially, that was

• From Middlesex (2002)

  I wasn't entirely unprepared for this. I'd spent a month the previ- ous summer at Camp Ponshewaing, near Port Huron. During the slow march of summer days I was aware, as one is aware of a drum steadily beating across a lake, of something unspooling itself in the bodies of my campmates. Girls were growing modest. They turned their backs to dress. Some had surnames stitched onto not only shorts and socks but training bras, too. Mosdy, it was a personal mat- ter that no one spoke about. But now and then there were dramatic manifestations. One afternoon during swimming hour, the tin door of the changing room clanged open and shut. The sound caromed off the trunks of pine trees, carrying past the meager beach out over the water, where I floated on an inner tube, reading Love Story. (Swim- ming hour was the only time I could get any reading done, and though the camp counselors tried to motivate me to practice my freestyle, I persevered every day in reading the new bestseller I'd found on my mother's night table.) Now I looked up. Along a dusty brown path in the pine needles, Jenny Simonson was advancing in a red, white, and blue swimsuit. All nature grew hushed at the sight. Birds fell silent. Lake swans unfurled tremendous necks to get a glimpse. Even a chainsaw in the distance cut its engine. I beheld the magnificence of Jenny S. The golden, late afternoon light intensified 282 around her. Her patriotic swimsuit swelled in ways no one else's did. Muscles flexed in her long thighs. She ran to the end of the dock and plunged into the lake, where a throng of naiads (her friends from Cedar Rapids) swam over to meet her. Lowering my book, I looked down at my own body. There it was, as usual: the flat chest, the nothing hips, the forked, mosquito-bitten legs. Lake water and sun were making my skin peel. My fingers had gotten all wrinkly. Thanks to Dr. Phil's decrepitude and Tessie's prudishness, I ar- rived at puberty not knowing much about what to expect. Dr. Philo- bosian still had an office near Women's Hospital, though the hospital itself had been closed down by then. His practice had changed con- siderably. There were a few remaining elderly patients who, having survived so long under his care, were afraid to change doctors. The rest were welfare families. Nurse Rosalee ran the office. She and Dr. Phil had been married a year after they met delivering me. Now she did the scheduling and administered shots. Her Appalachian child- hood had acquainted her with government assistance, and she was a whiz with the Medicaid forms.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  I didn't like the stands. To me they were a steep come-down from the romantic days of the Zebra Room. Where were the knickknacks, the jukebox, the glowing shelf of pies, the deep maroon booths? Where were the regulars? I couldn't understand how these hot dog stands could make so much more money than the diner ever had. But make money they did. After the first, touch-and-go year, my father's chain of hot dog restaurants began to make him a comfortably wealthy man. Aside from securing good locations, there was another element to my father's success. A gimmick or, in today's parlance, a "branding." Ball Park franks plumped when you cooked them, but Hercules Hot Dogs did something better. They came out of the package looking like normal, udder-pink wieners, but as they got hot, an amazing transformation took place. Sizzling on the grill, the hot dogs bulged in the middle, grew fatter, and, yes^ flexed. This was Chapter Eleven's contribution. One night, my then seventeen-year-old brother had gone down into the kitchen to make himself a late-night snack. He found some hot dogs in the refrigera- tor. Not wanting to wait for water to boil, he got out a frying pan. Next he decided to cut the hot dogs in half. "I wanted to increase the surface area," he explained to me later. Rather than slicing the hot dogs lengthwise, Chapter Eleven tried various combinations to amuse himself. He made notches here and slits there and then he put all die hot dogs in a pan and watched what happened. Not much, that first night. But a few of my brother's incisions re- sulted in the hot dogs assuming funny shapes. After that, it became a 276 kind of game with him. He grew adept at manipulating the shapes of cooking hot dogs and, for fun, developed an entire line of gag frank- furters. There was the hot dog that stood on end when heated, re- sembling the Tower of Pisa. In honor of the moon landing, there was the Apollo 11, whose skin gradually stretched until, bursting, the wiener appeared to blast off into the air. Chapter Eleven made hot dogs that danced to Sammy Davis's rendition of "Boj angles" and others that formed letters, L and S, though he never accomplished a decent Z. (For his friends he had hot dogs do other things. Laughter emanated from the kitchen late at night. You heard Chapter Eleven: "I call this the Harry Reems," and then the other boys shouting: "No way, Stephanides!" And while we're on the subject, was I the only one who was shocked by tiiose old Ball Park ads with their shots of red franks swelling and lengthening? Where were the censors? Did anyone notice the expressions on mothers' faces when those ads played, or the way, right afterward, they often discussed what kind of

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "I don't have a fever," said Tessie. "This isn't about a fever. You use it to find out what your base temperature is. It's more accurate and precise than a regular fever- type thermometer." "Next time bring me a necklace." But Milton persisted: "Your body temperature's changing all the time, Tess. You may not notice, but it is. You're in constant flux, temperature-wise. Say, for instance"— a little cough—"you happen to be ovulating. Then your temperature goes up. Six tenths of a degree, in most case scenarios. Now," my father went on, gaining steam, not noticing that his wife was frowning, "if we were to implement the system we talked about the other day— just for instance, say— what you'd do is, firsts establish your base temperature. It might not be ninety-eight point six. Everybody's a little different. That's another thing I learned from Uncle Pete. Anyway, once you established your base temperature, then you'd look for that six-tenths-degree rise. And 10 that's when, if we were to go through with this, that's when we'd know to, you know, mix the cocktail." My mother said nothing. She only put the thermometer into the box, closed it, and handed it back to her husband. "Okay," he said. "Fine. Suit yourself. We may get another boy. Number two. If that's the way you want it, that's the way it'll be." "I'm not so sure we're going to have anything at the moment," replied my mother. Meanwhile, in the greenroom to the world, I waited. Not even a gleam in my father's eye yet (he was staring gloomily at the ther- mometer case in his lap). Now my mother gets up from the so-called love seat. She heads for the stairway, holding a hand to her forehead, and the likelihood of my ever coming to be seems more and more re- mote. Now my father gets up to make his rounds, turning out lights, locking doors. As he climbs the stairway, there's hope for me again. The timing of the thing had to be just so in order for me to become the person I am. Delay the act by an hour and you change the gene selection. My conception was still weeks away, but already my par- ents had begun their slow collision into each other. In our upstairs

• From Middlesex (2002)

  And behind our teacher's back, in our desks, we are flying through time. Thirty kids, in six neat rows, being borne along at a speed we can't perceive. As Miss Grotowski sketches equations on the board, my classmates all around me begin to change. Jane Blunt's thighs, for instance, seem to get a little bit longer every week. Her sweater swells in front. Then one day Beverly Maas, who sits right next to me, raises her hand and I see darkness up her sleeve: a patch of light brown hair. When did it appear? Yesterday? The day before? 285 The equations get longer and longer throughout the year, more com- plicated, and maybe it's all the numbers, or the multiplication tables; we are learning to quantify large sums as, by new math, bodies arrive at unexpected answers. Peter Quail's voice is two octaves lower than last month and he doesn't notice. Why not? He's flying too fast. Boys are getting peach fuzz on upper lips. Foreheads and noses are break- ing out. Most spectacularly of all, girls are becoming women. Not mentally or emotionally even, but physically. Nature is making its preparations. Deadlines encoded in the species are met. Only Calliope, in the second row, is motionless, her desk stalled somehow, so that she's the only one who takes in the true extent of the metamorphoses around her. While solving proofs she is aware of Tricia Lamb's purse on the floor next to her desk, of the tampon she glimpsed inside it that morning— which you use how, exactly?— and whom can she ask? Still pretty, Calliope soon finds herself the short- est girl in the room. She drops her eraser. No boy brings it back. In the Christmas pageant she is cast not as Mary as in past years but as an elf . . . But there's still hope, isn't there? . . because the desks are . flying, day after day; arranged in their squadron, the students bank and roar through time, so that Callie looks up from her ink-stained paper one afternoon and sees it is spring, flowers budding, forsythia in bloom, elms greening; at recess girls and boys hold hands, kissing sometimes behind trees, and Calliope feels gypped, cheated. "Re- member me?" she says, to nature. "I'm waiting. I'm still here." As was Desdemona. By April of 1972, her application to join her husband in heaven was still working its way though a vast, celestial bureaucracy. Though Desdemona was perfectiy healthy when she got into bed, the weeks, months, and finally years of inactivity, coupled with her own remarkable willpower to do away with herself, brought her the reward of a Physician's Handbook of ailments. During her bedridden years Desdemona had fluid in her lungs; lumbago; bursi- tis; a spell of eclampsia that manifested itself a half-century later than

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Splay-legged in the chair, my mother tried to smile. She didn't want a boy. She had one already. In fact, she was so certain I was go- ing to be a girl that she'd picked out only one name for me: Calliope. But when my grandmother shouted in Greek, "A boy!" the cry went around the room, and out into the hall, and across the hall into the living room where the men were arguing politics. And my mother, hearing it repeated so many times, began to believe it might be true. As soon as the cry reached my father, however, he marched into the kitchen to tell his mother that, this time at least, her spoon was wrong. "And how you know so much?" Desdemona asked him. To which he replied what many Americans of his generation would have: "It's science, Ma." Ever since they had decided to have another child— the diner was do- ing well and Chapter Eleven was long out of diapers— Milton and Tessie had been in agreement that they wanted a daughter. Chapter Eleven had just turned five years old. He'd recently found a dead bird in the yard, bringing it into the house to show his mother. He liked shooting things, hammering things, smashing things, and wrestling with his father. In such a masculine household, Tessie had begun to feel like the odd woman out and saw herself in ten years' time impris- oned in a world of hubcaps and hernias. My mother pictured a daughter as a counterinsurgent: a fellow lover of lapdogs, a seconder of proposals to attend the Ice Capades. In the spring of 1959, when discussions of my fertilization got under way, my mother couldn't foresee that women would soon be burning their brassieres by the thousand. Hers were padded, stiff, fire-retardant. As much as Tessie loved her son, she knew there were certain things she'd be able to share only with a daughter. On his morning drive to work, my father had been seeing visions of an irresistibly sweet, dark-eyed little girl. She sat on the seat beside him— mostly during stoplights— directing questions at his patient, all-knowing ear. "What do you call that thing, Daddy?" "That? That's the Cadillac seal." "What's the Cadillac seal?" "Well, a long time ago,

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  After the disaster that was our “date,” I felt it best not to speak to Lara under any circumstances, lest I suffer a concussion and/or an attack of puking, even though she’d told me in precalc the next day that it was “no beeg deal.” And I saw Alaska only in class and could never talk to her, because she came to every class late and left the moment the bell rang, before I could even cap my pen and close my notebook. On the fifth evening of the rain, I walked into the cafeteria fully prepared to go back to my room and eat a reheated bufriedo for dinner if Alaska and/or Takumi weren’t eating (I knew full well the Colonel was in Room 43, dining on milk ’n’ vodka). But I stayed, because I saw Alaska sitting alone, her back to a rain-streaked window. I grabbed a heaping plate of fried okra and sat down next to her. “God, it’s like it’ll never end,” I said, referring to the rain. “Indeed,” she said. Her wet hair hung from her head and mostly covered her face. I ate some. She ate some. “How’ve you been?” I finally asked. “I’m really not up for answering any questions that start with how, when, where, why, or what .” “What’s wrong?” I asked. “That’s a what . I’m not doing what ’s right now. All right, I should go.” She pursed her lips and exhaled slowly, like the way the Colonel blew out smoke. “What—” Then I stopped myself and reworded. “Did I do something?” I asked. She gathered her tray and stood up before answering. “Of course not, sweetie.” Her “sweetie” felt condescending, not romantic, like a boy enduring his first biblical rainstorm couldn’t possibly understand her problems—whatever they were. It took a sincere effort not to roll my eyes at her, though she wouldn’t have even noticed as she walked out of the cafeteria with her hair dripping over her face. seventy-six days before “I FEEL BETTER,” the Colonel told me on the ninth day of the rainstorm as he sat down next to me in religion class. “I had an epiphany. Do you remember that night when she came to the room and was a complete and total bitch?” “Yeah. The opera. The flamingo tie.” “Right.” “What about it?” I asked. The Colonel pulled out a spiral notebook, the top half of which was soaking wet, and slowly pulled the pages apart until he found his place. “That was the epiphany. She’s a complete and total bitch.” Hyde hobbled in, leaning heavily on a black cane. As he made his way toward his chair, he drily noted, “My trick knee is warning me that we might have some rain. So prepare yourselves.” He stood in front of his chair, leaned back cautiously, grabbed it with both hands, and collapsed into the chair with a series of quick, shallow breaths—like a woman in labor.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  n my official capacity as assistant cultural attache, but on an unoffi- cial errand, I attended the Warhol opening at the Neue National- galerie. Within the famous Mies van der Rohe building, I passed by the famous silk-screened faces of the famous pop artist. The Neue Nationalgalerie is a wonderful art museum except for one thing: there's nowhere to hang the art. I didn't care much. I stared out the glass walls at Berlin and felt stupid. Did I think there would be artists at an art opening? There were only patrons, journalists, critics, and socialites. After accepting a glass of wine from a passing waiter, I sat down in one of the leather and chrome chairs that line the perimeter. The chairs are by Mies, too. You see knockoffs everywhere but these are original, worn-out by now, the black leather browning at the edges. I lit a cigar and smoked, trying to make myself feel better. The crowd chattered, circulating among the Maos and Marilyns. The high ceiling made the acoustics muddy. Thin men with shaved heads darted by. Gray-haired women draped in natural shawls showed their yellow teeth. Out the windows, the Staatsbibliotek was visible across the way. The new Potsdamer Platz looked like a mall in Vancouver. In the distance construction lights illuminated the skele- tons of cranes. Traffic surged in the street below. I took a drag on my cigar, squinting, and caught sight of my reflection in the glass. I said before I look like a Musketeer. But I also tend to resemble 497 (especially in mirrors late at night) a faun. The arched eyebrows, the wicked grin, the flames in the eyes. The cigar jutting up from be- tween my teeth didn't help. A hand tapped me on the back. "Cigar faddist," said a woman's voice. In Mies's black glass I recognized Julie Kikuchi. "Hey, this is Europe," I countered, smiling. "Cigars aren't a fad here." "I was into cigars way back in college." "Oh yeah," I challenged her. "Smoke one, then." She sat down in the chair next to mine and held out her hand. I took another cigar from my jacket and handed it to her along with the cigar cutter and matches. Julie held the cigar under her nose and sniffed. She rolled it between her fingers to test its moistness. Clip- ping off the end, she put it in her mouth, struck a match, and got it going, puffing serially. "Mies van der Rohe smoked cigars," I said, by way of promotion. "Have you ever seen a picture of Mies van der Rohe?" said Julie. "Point taken." We sat side by side, not speaking, only smoking, facing the inte- rior of the museum. Julie's right knee was jiggling. After a while I swiveled around so I was facing her. She turned her face toward me.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  We learned during the trial that Brother Terrell had fathered a child with Sarah, the woman he had taken home after a tent service more than twenty years earlier. Pam murmured during the trial something about hoping there were no more children hidden under a bush somewhere. Her dad was found guilty of criminal income-tax evasion and sentenced to three ten-year sentences, to run concurrently. It wasn’t until my mother tried to see Brother Terrell in prison that she realized he had finally worked everything out. He had put my sisters on the visitors list as his daughters. The preacher woman was listed as his wife. My mother’s name was not on the list. There is a small tree—I picture it as a skinny, overgrown bush—in the yard of the prison where Brother Terrell served his time. He told my sisters that when he finished his work as a prison janitor, he went to the tree to read his Bible and pray. Since praying and pacing were synonymous for Brother Terrell, he walked around the tree and called out to his God, sometimes in silence and at other times aloud. Did he beg forgiveness and ask for a second chance? Did he call down the wrath of Jehovah upon his enemies? Knowing Brother Terrell, I would bet he did both.My sister Carol met a man who served as chaplain of the prison after her daddy left.He told her that her father had become something of a legend. Five years after his release, the longtime prisoners still talked about the tent preacher, and when they were troubled, many of them visited what had become known as the Prayin’ Tree. Chapter Twenty-oneAFTER SEVERAL FALSE STARTS AND STOPS, I FOUND A PATH THAT LED away from the tent and the Terrellites. I went to college and studied philosophy, literature, and journalism. For a long time I felt like a cardboard cutout of a person, flat and one-dimensional, propped up with a plastic stand, nothing behind me. I watched the students, teachers, employers, friends, and colleagues around me and picked up cues on how to be in the world: Look them in the eye, firm up the handshake, file down the emotion, read good books, wear good shoes, dark colors, the best haircut you can afford. Fake it till you make it. Gradually, the years between me and the tent stacked up until they formed a wall of experience that separated me from my former self. Upon meeting my relatives who remained in the ministry, my husband and friends commented, “I don’t know what to think. They’re so different from you.” The elevenand-a-half-year-old girl who sold her soul to the devil in exchange for the world—the very thing everyone under the tent warned against—had gotten exactly that: the world, in all its messy glory.When casual acquaintances asked where I grew up, or where I came from, as we say in Texas, there was a long and uncomfortable pause.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  waisted skirt, her high-collaredtunic.Sheshookoffher kerchief and unbraided her hair sothat itfelloverherbare shoulders.The corset was made of white silk.Assheputiton,Desdemona feltasthough she were spinning herowncocoon,awaitingmetamorphosis. But when shelookedinthe mirror again,she caughtherself. It was no use.She wouldnevergetmarried.Lefty wouldcome back tonight havingchosena bride, andthenhewouldbringher home to live withthem. Desdemonawouldstaywhereshe was,clicking her beads andgrowingevenolderthanshealreadyfelt.A doghowled. Someoneinthe villagekickedover a bundle ofsticksand cursed. Andmy grandmodierweptsilentiybecauseshewasgoing tospend therest ofherdays countingworries thatneverwentaway ... .. .While in the meantimeLucilleKafkalis wasstandingexacdy asshe'd beentold,halfinandhalfoutofthelight,wearing awhite hat sashedwithglasscherries,amantillaoverbareshoulders, a brightgreen,decollete dress,andhighheels, inwhichshedidn't move forfearoffalling.Herfatmotherwaddledin,grinning and shouting,"Herehecomes!Evenoneminutehecouldn'tstaywith Victoria!"... ... Alreadyhecouldsmellthevinegar.Leftyhad just enteredthe lowdoorwayoftheKafkalishouse.Lucille'sfatherwelcomedhim, thensaid,"We'llleaveyoutwo alone. Toget acquainted."Theparents left.Itwasdimintheroom.Leftyturned...anddroppedanother corsage. What Desdemonahadn'tanticipated:herbrother,too,hadpored over the pagesofLingerieParisienne.Infact,he'd doneitfromthe time he turnedtwelvetothetimeheturnedfourteen, when hedis- covered thereal loot:tenpostcard-sized photographs,hiddeninan old suitcase, showing"Sermin,Girlofthe PleasureDome,"inwhich a bored, pear-shapedtwenty- five-year-old assumeda variety of posi- tions onthe tasseledpillowsofastagedseraglio. Findingherinthe toiletries pocket was likerubbing a genie'slamp.Up sheswirledina plume of shining dust:wearingnothingbuta pair ofArabianNights slippers and asasharoundherwaist(flash); lying languidly ona tiger skin, fondling ascimitar(flash);andbathing, lattice-lit,at a marble hammam. Those tensepia-tonedphotographs were whathadstarted Lefty's fascination withthecity.Buthehad never entirelyforgotten hisfirstloves in LingerieParisienne.Hecould summontheminhis 36 imaginationat will. When hehad seenVictoria Pappaslookinglike page 8, whathad struckLefty most acutely wasthedistancebetween herandhisboyhood ideal. Hetried toimaginehimselfmarried to Victoria,living withher, butevery imagethat cametomindhada gapingemptiness atthe center,thelack oftheperson he loved more andknewbetterthan anyother. Andso he had fledfromVictoria Pappastocomedownthe street andfindLucilleKafkalis, justasdis- appointingly,failingtolive upto page22... ... Andnowithappens. Desdemona, weeping,takesoffthe corset,folds it backup,and returnsittothehope chest.Shethrows herselfonthebed,Lefty's bed,tocontinuecrying.Thepillow smells ofhis limepomade andshebreathesit in,sobbing... ... until,drugged byweeping'sopiates,shefalls asleep.She dreamsthedreamshe'sbeenhavinglately.Inthedreameverything's theway it usedtobe.SheandLeftyarechildrenagain(exceptthey haveadultbodies). They'relying in the samebed (except nowit's theirparents'bed). Theyshifttheirlimbsinsleep(anditfeels ex- tremelynice,howtheyshift,andthebediswet)...atwhichpoint Desdemonawakesup,as usual.Her face is hot.Her stomach feels funny, waydeep down,andshecan almostnamethefeelingnow ... ...As Isithereinmy Aeronchair,thinkingE.O.Wilson thoughts. Wasit loveor reproduction? Chanceordestiny?Crimeor nature at work?Maybe thegene containedanoverride,ensuringits expression,which wouldexplain Desdemona's tearsandLefty'staste inprostitutes;not fondness, not emotionalsympathy;only the need forthisnewthing to enterthe world andhencetheheart'srigged game. ButIcan't explainit, any morethanDesdemona orLefty could have,any more than each oneofus, fallinginlove,canseparate thehormonalfrom what feels divine, andmaybe Icling to theGod business out ofsome altruism hard-wiredto preservethespecies;I can't say.Itryto go back in my mindtoa timebefore genetics, be- foreeveryone was inthe habit of sayingabout everything,"It'sinthe genes." Atime before our present freedom,andso muchfreer!Des- demona hadno idea what was happening. She didn'tenvisionherin- sides asa vast computer code, allIs and Os,an infinityofsequences, anyone ofwhich might containa bug. Nowwe knowwecarrythis map ofourselves around. Evenas we stand onthestreetcorner, it dictates our destiny. It brings onto our faces thesamewrinkles and 37

• From Middlesex (2002)

  In sneakershe passed beneath thetwelve damplynewspapered birdcagessuspendedfrom the rafters. With abravefaceheimmersed himselfinthesourodor of the parakeets, and inmygrandparents' own particular aroma,a mixture of mothballs andhashish.Henego- tiated his waypastmy grandfather's book-piled deskandhiscollec- tion ofrebetikarecords. Finally, bumpinginto theleather ottoman andthe circularcoffee table madeof brass,he foundmygrandpar- ents'bed and,under it,thesilkworm box. Carved fromolivewood, alittle biggerthan ashoebox,ithad a tinlid perforated bytinyairholesandinset withthe iconofanunrec- ognizablesaint.The saint'sfacehad beenrubbedoff, but thefingers ofhis righthandwereraised toblessashort, purple,terrificallyself- confident-lookingmulberry tree.Aftergazingawhile at this vivid botanicalpresence,ChapterEleven pulledtheboxfromunderthe bedand openedit.Insidewerethetwo weddingcrownsmadefrom ropeand, coiledlike snakes, the two longbraidsofhair, eachtied withacrumbling blackribbon.Hepokedoneofthebraidswithhis index finger. Just thenaparakeetsquawked,makingmybrother jump,andheclosed thebox,tucked itunderhisarm,andcarriedit downstairsto Desdemona. Shewasstill waitinginthe doorway.Takingthesilkwormboxout ofhishands,she turnedback intothekitchen.At thispointChapter Elevenwasgranteda view ofthe room,whereallthewomennow fellsilent.Theymoved asidetolet Desdemonapassand there,inthe middleofthe linoleum,was my mother.Tessie Stephanideswaslean- ing backina kitchen chair, pinned beneaththeimmense, drum-tight globe ofher pregnant belly. Shehada happy,helpless expressionon herface, which was flushed and hot.Desdemonasetthe silkworm boxonthekitchen table and opened thelid.Shereached under the wedding crownsand the hair braidstocomeup with something Chapter Eleven hadn't seen: a silver spoon.Shetied a pieceof string tothe spoon's handle. Then, stoopingforward, she dangled the spoonover my mother's swollen belly.And, by extension, overme. Upuntilnow Desdemona had hadaperfect record: twenty-three correct guesses. She'd known thatTessie was going tobe Tessie. She'd predictedthe sex of my brotherandof all the babies ofher friends at church. The only childrenwhose genders she hadn'tdi- vined were her own, because it was badluck fora mother toplumb the mysteries ofherown womb.Fearlessly, however, sheplumbed my mother's. Aftersomeinitialhesitation,the spoonswungnorth to south, which meantthatIwasgoingto beaboy. Splay-legged inthechair,mymother triedtosmile. Shedidn't wanta boy.Shehadone already. Infact,shewassocertain Iwas go- ingtobea girlthatshe'dpickedoutonlyonename forme: Calliope. But whenmygrandmothershoutedinGreek,"A boy!"thecrywent aroundtheroom,andout intothehall,and acrossthehall intothe livingroomwherethemenwerearguingpolitics.And mymother, hearing itrepeatedsomanytimes,began tobelieveitmightbetrue. As soon as thecryreachedmyfather,however, he marched into thekitchentotellhis motherthat,this timeatleast,herspoonwas wrong."Andhowyouknowsomuch?"Desdemona askedhim.To whichherepliedwhatmanyAmericansofhisgenerationwould have: "It'sscience,Ma." Eversincetheyhaddecidedtohaveanotherchild—thediner wasdo- ingwellandChapterElevenwaslongoutofdiapers—Miltonand Tessie had beeninagreementthattheywantedadaughter.Chapter Elevenhadjustturnedfiveyearsold.He'drecentlyfoundadeadbird in theyard,bringingitintothehousetoshowhis mother.Heliked shootingthings,hammeringthings,smashingthings,andwrestling withhisfather. Insuchamasculinehousehold,Tessie hadbegunto feelliketheodd womanoutandsaw herselfintenyears'timeimpris- onedina worldofhubcapsandhernias.My motherpictureda daughterasacounterinsurgent: a fellowloveroflapdogs,a seconder ofproposalsto attendtheIceCapades.Inthe springof 1959, when discussionsof myfertilizationgotunderway,my mothercouldn't foreseethatwomen wouldsoonbe burningtheir brassieres by the thousand.Herswere padded, stiff, fire-retardant.Asmuchas Tessie loved her son,she knewtherewerecertain thingsshe'dbeable to shareonly witha daughter. Onhis morning drive towork,my fatherhad beenseeing visions ofanirresistiblysweet, dark-eyedlittle girl.Shesat ontheseat beside him—mostlyduringstoplights— directing questionsathis patient, all-knowingear. "What doyou call thatthing, Daddy?" "That? That's the Cadillacseal." "What's theCadillacseal?" "Well,along timeago,

• From Middlesex (2002)

  That same January 8, my grandfather suffered the first of his thir- teen strokes. Awakened by my parents rushing off to the hospital, he'd gotten out of bed and gone downstairs to make himself a cup of coffee. An hour later, Desdemona found him lying on the kitchen floor. Though his mental faculties remained intact, that morning, as I let out my first cry at Women's Hospital, my papou lost the ability to speak. According to Desdemona, my grandfather collapsed right af- ter overturning his coffee cup to read his fortune in the grounds. When he heard the news of my sex, Uncle Pete refused to accept any congratulations. There was no magic involved. "Besides," he joked, "Milt did all the work." Desdemona became grim. Her American- born son had been proven right and, with this fresh defeat, the old country, in which she still tried to live despite its being four thousand miles and thirty-eight years away, receded one more notch. My ar- rival marked the end of her baby-guessing and the start of her hus- 17 band's long decline. Though the silkworm box reappeared now and then, the spoon was no longer among its treasures. I was extracted, spanked, and hosed off, in that order. They wrapped me in a blanket and put me on display among six other in- fants, four boys, two girls, all of them, unlike me, correcdy tagged. This can't be true but I remember it: sparks slowly filling a dark screen. Someone had switched on my eyes. 18 mflTCHmflHinG hen this story goes out into the world, I may become die most famous hermaphrodite in history. There have been others be- fore me. Alexina Barbin attended a girls' boarding school in France before becoming Abel. She left behind an autobiography, which Michel Foucault discovered in the archives of the French De- partment of Public Hygiene. (Her memoirs, which end shortly before her suicide, make unsatisfactory reading, and it was after fin- ishing them years ago that I first got the idea to write my own.) Gott- lieb Gottlich, born in 1798, lived as Marie Rosine until the age of thirty- three. One day abdominal pains sent Marie to the doctor. The physician checked for a hernia and found undescended testicles in- stead. From then on, Marie donned men's clodies, took the name of Gottlieb, and made a fortune traveling around Europe, exhibiting himself to medical men.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  On January 8, 1967, Iturnedsevenyearsold.1967 marked the end of many thingsinDetroit, butamongthesewasmyfather's home movies. "Callie's7thB-Day" wasthelastofMilton'sSuper8s. The settingwas ourdining room,decoratedwithballoons.Onmy head sitsthe usualconicalhat. ChapterEleven, twelve yearsold,does not jointhe boysandgirlsatthetable butinsteadstandsbackagainst the wall,drinking punch. Thedifference inouragesmeantthatmy brother andIwere neverclose growing up. WhenI wasababyChap- terElevenwasa kid,whenI wasakidhewas a teenager,and bythe timeIbecamea teenagerhewas anadult.Attwelve,mybrotherliked nothing betterthantocutgolf ballsinhalftoseewhat was inside. Usually,his vivisection ofWilsonsand Spaldingsrevealedcorescon- sistingofextremely tightly bundledrubber bands.Butsometimes thereweresurprises.Infact,ifyoulookveryclosely atmybrotherin thishome movie, you willnotice astrangething:hisface,arms,shirt, andpants are coveredby thousands oftinywhitedots. Just beforemybirthday party had started,ChapterElevenhad beendowninhisbasementlaboratory,using a hacksaw ona newfan- gledTideistthatadvertised a "liquidcenter."Theball was held firmly inaviseasChapterElevensawed.Whenhereachedthecenter of theTideist, therewas a loudpoppingsoundfollowedbyapuff ofsmoke. Thecenteroftheballwasempty.ChapterElevenwas mystified.But whenhe emergedfromthebasement, we all sawthe dots.. . Backatthe party,my birthdaycakeiscomingoutwithitsseven candles.My mother'ssilentlips aretellingme to make a wish.What didIwishfor atseven?Idon't remember.InthefilmIleanforward and, Aeolian, blowthe candlesout.Inamoment,theyre-ignite.I blowthem outagain.Same thinghappens.Andthen Chapter Eleven is laughing, entertainedat last.Thatwashowourhomemovies ended, with aprankon mybirthday. Withcandlesthathadmultiple lives. The questionremains: WhywasthisMilton'slastmovie? Canit be explained by theusual peteringoutof parents'enthusiasm for documenting their childrenonfilm?Bythefactthat Milton took hundreds ofbaby photographsofChapterElevenandnomorethan twenty or soofme? Toanswerthese questions,Ineedtogobehind the camera andsee thingsthroughmy father's eyes. The reasonMilton wasdisappearing onus:aftertenyearsin busi- 227 ness, thedinerwasnolongermaking aprofit.Through thefront window(overAthenaoliveoil tins)myfatherlooked outdayafter dayatthe changes on Pingree Street.Thewhitefamily who'dlived across theway,goodcustomersonce,hadmoved out.Now the housebelongedtoacoloredmannamed Morrison.Hecameinto the dinertobuycigarettes.Heorderedcoffee, askedforamillion refills, andsmoked.Heneverordered anyfood.Hedidn't seemtohave a job.Sometimesotherpeoplemovedintohis house,ayoungwoman, maybeMorrison'sdaughter,withherkids. Thentheyweregoneand it wasjustMorrisonagain.Therewasatarp up onhis roof with bricksaroundit, to cover a hole. Just downtheblockanafter-hours placehadopened up. Its pa- tronsurinatedinthedoorwayofthedinerontheir wayhome. Streetwalkershad started working TwelfthStreet.Thedrycleaner's onthenextblockoverhadbeenheldup,thewhiteownerseverely beaten.A.A.Laurie, who rantheoptometrist's shopnextdoor,took downhiseyechartfromthewallasworkersremovedtheneon eye- glasses out front.He was moving toa new shopin Southfield. Myfatherhadconsidereddoingthesame. "That whole neighborhood'sgoingdownthe tubes," Jimmy Fioretos hadadvisedoneSundayafterdinner."Getout while theget- ting's good." And thenGusPanos,whohadhada tracheotomyand spoke through a holeinhisneck,hissinglike a bellows: "Jimmy's right... sssss . . . You shouldmoveoutto...ssss... BloomfieldHills." Uncle Petehaddisagreed,makinghis usualcaseforintegration andsupportfor President Johnson's WaronPoverty. Afew weekslater,Miltonhadhadthe businessappraisedandwas metwith ashock:theZebraRoomwas worthlessthanwhenLefty hadacquireditin1933.Miltonhadwaitedtoo longtosellit.The gettingout wasnolongergood. AndsotheZebra Room remainedonthe cornerofPingreeand Dexter,the swing musiconthejukebox growing increasingly out of date,the celebrities andsportsfiguresonthe wallsmoreand more unrecognizable.OnSaturdays,my grandfather often took mefora ride inthecar. Wedrove outtoBelleIsleto look fordeerandthen stopped infor lunchatthefamilyrestaurant.At thedinerwesatina booth while Miltonwaitedonus,pretendingwe werecustomers.He took Lefty's orderandwinked."Andwhafllthe Mrs.have?" 228

• From Middlesex (2002)

  day and everyday thereafter,inanold-fashioned one-piecewitha skirt.It had belonged toSourmelinaduringthe1950s. Ifounditin anold trunk. The statedintentwastolookfunky,but I was grateful forthe full coverage.I alsohung a beachtowelaroundmyneckor worean alligator shirt overmysuit.Thebodiceofthebathingsuit wasa plus, too.The cupswere rubberized, pointy,andbeneatha towelora shirtgave methe suggestionof abustIdidn'thave. Beyond us, pelican-bellied ladiesinswim capsfollowedkick- boardsbackand forthacross thepool.Theirbathingsuits werealot like mine. Littlekidswaded andsplashedintheshallowend. Thereis a small windowof opportunityforfreckledgirls to tan.The Object wasin it.Aswe revolvedonourtowelsthatsummer,self-basting, the Object's freckles darkened,goingfrombutterscotchtobrown. The skinbetweenthem darkened,too,knittingherfreckles togetherinto a speckled harlequinmask.Onlythetipofhernoseremained pink. Thepart inherhairflamedwithsunburn. Club sandwiches,onwave-rimmedplates,sailedout tous.Ifwe werefeelingsophisticated,weorderedtheFrenchdip. We had milk shakes,too,icecream,frenchfries.Foreverythingthe Objectsigned herfather'sname.Shetalked about Petoskey,whereherfamily hada summerhouse."We'regoing up inAugust.Maybeyoucouldcome up." "We'regoing to Turkey," Isaidunhappily. "Oh,right.Iforgot." Andthen:"Whydoyouhavetopaint a church?" "My dadmadethispromise." "How come?" Behind usmarriedcoupleswereplayingpaddletennis. Pennants flewfrom theclubhouse roof.Was thisthe placetomention St. Christopher? Myfather's war stories?Mygrandmother's supersti- tions? "Youknow what Ikeep thinking?"Isaid. "What?" "Ikeep thinkingaboutMaxine.I can'tbelieveshe's dead." "Iknow. Itdoesn't seemlikeshe'sreallydead.It'slike Idreamed it." "The only wayweknow it'strueisthatweboth dreamed it. That's what realityis.It's adreameveryonehastogether." 343 "That'sdeep" saidtheObject. Ismacked her. "Ow!" "That'swhatyou get." Bugs wereattractedbyourcoconutoil. Wekilledthemwithout mercy. TheObjectwasmakingaslow,scandalized progressthrough The LonelyLadyby HaroldRobbins.Every fewpagessheshook her head andannounced,"Thisbookissooodirty." IwasreadingOliver Twist,one oftheassignedvolumesforour summerreadinglist. Suddenlythesunwentin.Adrop of water hitmypage.Butthis wasnothing compared tothe cascadethatwas beingshakenontothe ObscureObject.Anolderboywasleaningoversideways,shakinghis wetmop ofhair. "Goddamnyou,"shesaid,"cutitout!" "What's thematter?I'mcoolingyouoff" "Quitit!" Finally,hedid.He straightened up. Hisbathingsuit had fallen downoverhisskinnyhipbones.Thisexposedananttrailofhairrun- ningdownfromhisnavel. Theanttrail was red.Butonhis headthe hairwas jetblack. "Who'sthelatest victimofyourhospitality?"theboy asked. "ThisisCallie,"saidtheObject.Thentome: "This ismybrother. Jerome." Theresemblancewasclear.Thesame palettehad gone into Jerome's face(oranges and paleblues,primarily)buttherewasa crudenessto theoverallsketch, somethingbulbousaboutthenose, the eyes on thesquintyside,pinpricksoflight. Whatthrewmeat firstwas the dark,sheenlesshair, which Isoon realized wasdyed. "Youwerethe oneintheplay,right?" "Yes." Jerome nodded. Withslitty eyes glintinghe said,"Athespian,eh? Just likeyou. Right, sis?" "My brotherhas alotofproblems,"theObjectsaid. "Hey,sinceyougalsareinto the thee-a-tah,maybeyou wantto be in my next film." Helooked at me."I'mmakinga vampire movie. You'dmakeagreat vampire." "Iwould?" "Letmesee yourteeth." 344 I didn't oblige, takingmycue fromtheObject nottobetoo friendly. "Jerome isinto monstermovies,"shesaid. "Horror films,"he corrected,stilldirectinghiswordstome."Not monster movies.My sister,asusual,belittlesmychosenmedium. Want to knowthe tide?" "No," saidthe Object. "Vampiresin Prep School.It'saboutthisvampire, playedbyrnoi, whogets sentofftoprep schoolbecausehisaffluent but terribly un- happy parentsaregoing throughadivorce.Anyway,hedoesn't get alongtoo welloutthereat boardingschool.Hedoesn'twear the right clothes.He doesn't have therighthaircut.Butthenone day af- terthiskeggerhetakesa walkacrosscampusandgetsattacked bya vampire.And—here'sthe kicker—thevampireissmoking a pipe. He'swearinga Harristweed.It'sthefuckingheadmaster,man! So thenext morning,ourherowakes up andgoesrightoutand buysa blue blazerandsomeTop-Sidersand—presto— he'sa totalprep!" "Willyoumove,you'reblockingmysun." "It's a metaphorfor the wholeboardingschoolexperience," Jerome said."Eachgeneration puts thebiteonthenext,turning themintothelivingdead." "Jerome hasbeenkickedoutoftwoboardingschools." "AndIshallhave myrevengeuponthem!" Jerome proclaimedin ahoaryvoice,shaking hisfistintheair.Thenwithoutanotherword herantothepooland jumped.Ashedid,hespunaroundsohewas facing us.There Jerome hung, skinny, sunken-chested, as white asa saltine,hisface scrunched upandone handclutchinghisnuts.He held thatpose alltheway down. I was too youngto askmyselfwhatwas behind oursudden intimacy. Inthe daysand weeksthatfollowed,Ididn'tconsiderthe Object's ownmotivations, herlove vacuum.Hermotherhadengagementsall daylong. Her fatherleftfortheoffice at sixforty-five. Jerome was a brother andtherefore useless.TheObjectdidn'tlikebeingalone. She had never learned toamuseherself.And so oneevening atherhouse, asIwas about togetonmybikeandride home,shesuggested thatI sleep over. "I don't havemytoothbrush." 345

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  one on and looked terrible. Jen had assured her that makeup would alleviate the resemblance to an eighties rocker, instead of a beautiful woman, that Amy had been shocked to find staring back at her from the store’s vanity mirror. The difference between the effect that she had always hoped would occur and the reality of what she’d seen in the store’s mirror had so disheartened her that she couldn’t bear to try on another. Maybe if the shopping euphoria returned, she’d thought, but it never did. “T have to be more careful than I was today,” Patrick said, breaking Amy’s reverie. “I can’t let anyone find out about my cross- dressing.” “Me neither,” Amy said. Patrick looked at her. “But you don’t have that much to lose. ’m going through a divorce. Anyone sees me and I could lose visitation with my daughters.” He swallowed hard. “I used to wear matching panties with my wife—sometimes other stuff. She said it was fun, it was like a sexy game. But I know she has already told her lawyer about it and I think they’re going to use it against me.” “Wow. That sucks.” Amy only half believed Patrick. Who was this woman who would let him wear panties around her? No. He had to be lying to impress her. Besides, she absolutely had as much to lose as Patrick, maybe more. Patrick was already a loser. She wasn’t. “I can’t be seen in a store like that one,” Patrick continued. “It could have real consequences.” “But wouldn’t anyone going into that store be going to it on purpose?” “Those women weren’t there on purpose!” Patrick had her there. She didn’t know what to say. This was some heavy adult shit. Custody. Divorce. Instead, she changed the subject. “So do you still want to go to your house to dress up, though?” Other than her minuscule dorm room, Amy had nowhere to wear her new outfit. She couldn’t bear the idea of donning it all only to strut the two steps that it took to cross her thinly carpeted room, back and forth, like a sad-eyed giraffe at the zoo, endlessly circling her tiny enclosure. “Yes,” Patrick said. “Don’t you?” “Mmhmm, please,” said Amy.