Grief

Passages

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

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• From Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (1982)

  Sunday morning, drizzly and cold for early June. I marched up and down with Jean and Rhea and the other women I had come with, hoping it would make a difference, still not really believing that any country I was associated with could murder these children’s parents and call it legal. And they were white, too, which made it even harder for me to believe . This time, whether or not I could eat vanilla ice cream at a soda fountain never came up. I had neither the money nor the time to find out. We picketed the white house, sang our brave little songs, handed in our petitions of mercy, and then climbed back into the buses for the long wet ride home . One week later, President Eisenhower signed into law an executive decree that said I could eat anything I wanted to anywhere in Washington, D.C., including vanilla ice cream. It didn’t mean too much to me by then . In the evenings after work, I saw Jean and Alf, who were now married, or went to meetings with Rhea. Meetings where frightened people tried to keep some speck of hope alive, despite political disagreement, while all around us was the possible threat of dying like the Rosenbergs, or at least the threat of losing jobs or being fingered for life. Downtown at political meetings and uptown at the Harlem Writers Guild, friends, acquaintances, and simple people were terrorized at the thought of having to answer, “Are you or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?” The Rosenbergs’ struggle became synonymous for me with being able to live in this country at all, with being able to survive in hostile surroundings. But my feelings of connection with most of the people I met in progressive circles, were as tenuous as those I had with my co-workers at the Health Center. I could imagine these comrades, Black and white, among whom color and racial differences could be openly examined and talked about, nonetheless one day asking me accusingly, “Are you or have you ever been a member of a homosexual relationship?” For them, being gay was “bourgeois and reactionary,” a reason for suspicion and shunning. Besides, it made you “more susceptible to the FBI.” The Rosenbergs were electrocuted on June 19, 1953—two weeks after we had picketed the white house. I walked away from the memorial rally in Union Square Park into the warm Village night, tears streaming down my face for them, for their sons, for all our wasted efforts, for myself—wondering whether there was any place in the world that was different from here, anywhere that could be safe and free, not really even sure of what being safe and free could mean. But it did not mean being lonely, disillusioned, betrayed. I felt like I was thirty years old.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  Without rehashing or explaining anything, my sister Carol said Randall was the first to welcome them into the family and had treated them as sisters from the beginning. Lisa spoke of how Randall loved to fish and how he had taken them fishing with his daughter. Laura recounted the time Randall took them to their first circus. When the family remembrances were finished, someone introduced Brother Terrell. The door at the back of the platform opened, and a small, silver-haired man with hunched shoulders stepped forward. He looked like an old man, not the fiery prophet I remembered. He wandered aimlessly about, crying into the microphone. He walked down the prayer ramp and peered into the casket. Family members cast worried looks at one another. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his suit jacket and wiped at his eyes. He tried to speak and sobbed instead. At another funeral someone would have led the grieving father away. But this was Brother Terrell, and no one was going to lead him anywhere. After a few minutes, he pulled himself together and began to speak. His speech was slow and halting as he recalled the many times death had tried to take Randall from him. He said no matter where he was in the world, he had always sensed when his son was sick. He talked about the times he had called Randall and urged him to fight the most recent death sentence the doctors had given him. He talked about calling his son from Haiti, India, and Africa and praying for him, and how Randall always got better. He paused in front of the open casket where his son lay. The crowd called out encouragement. “Help him, Jesus. Strengthen him, Lord.” He drew strength from their responses and was gradually transformed from grieving father to who he really was, who he had always been. He was the healer and prophet plucked by the hand of God from the Alabama countryside and given a worldwide ministry of faith and deliverance. He was a son of God, a voice crying out in the wilderness. Oh, hallelujah, he knew who he was, and the devil couldn’t take that away from him. His shoulders straightened and his voice grew stronger. The eulogy turned into preaching and the preaching wandered across a broad expanse of subjects. The 9/11 attack had come to him in a vision where he saw the towers fall. When he prophesied, you better believe it came to pass. The intermittent response of the crowd lengthened into a steady buzz of “amen, uh-huh, hallelujah, that’s right” running underneath and alongside every sound that issued from his mouth until his words and theirs formed one single affirmation.

• From Rocket Men: The Daring Odyssey of Apollo 8 and the Astronauts Who Made Man’s First Journey to the Moon (2018)

  the idea of returning to an idyllic life at West Point. But Borman said he couldn’t do it—his heart was in flying, and he had a Cold War to help win. He would stay with NASA. A year later, the tragic Apollo 1 fire occurred. Susan made it her mission to comfort and support her friend Pat White, the wife of one of the fallen astronauts. She visited the new widow every day, listening to her, holding her, and crying with her, trying to be strong as Pat kept repeating, “Who am I, Susan? Who am I? I’ve lost everything. It’s all gone.” At night, when Susan got home, she began to drink a bit, if only to quiet her nerves. In the past, Susan had dealt with fatalities among Frank’s colleagues the same way he did—by assuming it would never happen to him. But Ed White was different. He was a near-perfect physical specimen, even stronger than Frank, yet even he had been unable to get the spacecraft’s hatch open during the fire. Frank told her that Charles Atlas himself couldn’t have moved the hatch, but it was more than that to Susan. Ed White had been a West Point graduate, a devoted husband and father, and a committed patriot. He didn’t screw around with muscle cars or other women. Which was to say he was just like Frank. After eighteen months investigating the fire, testifying before Congress, and working on the Apollo command module redesign, Borman was offered the chance to be the commander of Apollo 8, man’s first lunar mission. The flight was full of risks and unknowns, but it was where Borman had been pointing since he first soloed a single-engine airplane over the skies of Tucson. He hadn’t known how that flight would end, either, but his instructor, Miss Bobbie, had believed he could go anywhere. Now, when he told Deke Slayton he would go to the Moon, he believed it, too. Chapter Six

• From Rocket Men: The Daring Odyssey of Apollo 8 and the Astronauts Who Made Man’s First Journey to the Moon (2018)

  party for another term as your president.” Shock waves rippled through the country. In nine months, America would have a new president. — In April 1968, Martin Luther King, Jr., went to Memphis, Tennessee, to support striking garbage workers. He led a march with black laborers, who held signs that read I AM A MAN. King, as always, intended to demonstrate peacefully, but the march turned violent. A black teenager was killed, and sixty protesters were injured. King himself had to be whisked away to safety. Days later, he told a crowd at the city’s Mason Temple Church: “Something is happening in Memphis, something is happening in our world.” He spoke of justice and fair treatment for the sanitation employees, of nonviolence, of the power of collective action. And he offered these parting words: “Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the Promised Land.” The next evening, April 4, at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, King prepared for another rally. As he stood on the balcony outside his second- floor room, he called down to the parking lot to Ben Branch, a musician, and asked him to sing a special song for him at the event that night, an old spiritual, “Take My Hand, Precious Lord,” one of King’s favorites. A moment later, a bullet tore through King’s jaw, severed his necktie, and ripped open his neck. Ralph Abernathy, King’s close friend and fellow civil rights leader, rushed to King and cradled him in his arms. “Martin, Martin, it’s going to be all right,” Abernathy said. An hour later, King was pronounced dead at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Memphis. That night, America started to burn. Riots and violence broke out in 130 cities across the country. Over the

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  Now let’s go home and find out why people off themselves.” fourteen days after WARNING SIGNS OF SUICIDE the Colonel and I found on the Web: Previous suicide attempts Verbally threatening suicide Giving away prized possessions Collecting and discussing methods of suicide Expressions of hopelessness and anger at oneself and/or the world Writing, talking, reading, and drawing about death and/or depression Suggesting that the person would not be missed if s/he were gone Self-injury Recent loss of a friend or family member through death or suicide Sudden and dramatic decline in academic performance Eating disorders, sleeplessness, excessive sleeping, chronic headaches Use (or increased use) of mind-altering substances Loss of interest in sex, hobbies, and other activities previously enjoyed Alaska displayed two of those warning signs. She had lost, although not recently, her mother. And her drinking, always pretty steady, had definitely increased in the last month of her life. She did talk about dying, but she always seemed to be at least half kidding. “I make jokes about death all the time,” the Colonel said. “I made a joke last week about hanging myself with my tie. And I’m not gonna off myself. So that doesn’t count. And she didn’t give anything away, and she sure as hell didn’t lose interest in sex. One would have to like sex an awful lot to make out with your scrawny ass.” “Funny,” I said. “I know. God, I’m a genius. And her grades were good. And I don’t recall her talking about killing herself.” “Once, with the cigarettes, remember? ‘You smoke to enjoy it. I smoke to die.’” “That was a joke.” But when prodded by the Colonel, maybe to prove to him that I could remember Alaska as she really was and not just as I wanted her to be, I kept returning the conversation to those times when she would be mean and moody, when she didn’t feel like answering how, when, why, who, or what questions. “She could seem so angry,” I thought aloud. “What, and I can’t?” the Colonel retorted. “I’m plenty angry, Pudge. And you haven’t been the picture of placidity of late, either, and you aren’t going to off yourself. Wait, are you?” “No,” I said. And maybe it was only because Alaska couldn’t hit the brakes and I couldn’t hit the accelerator. Maybe she just had an odd kind of courage that I lacked, but no. “Good to know. So yeah, she was up and down—from fire and brimstone to smoke and ashes. But partly, this year at least, it was the whole Marya thing. Look, Pudge, she obviously wasn’t thinking about killing herself when she was making out with you. After that, she was asleep until the phone rang. So she decided to kill herself at some point between that ringing phone and crashing, or it was an accident.” “But why wait until you’re six miles off campus to die?” I asked. He sighed and shook his head. “She did like being mysterious.

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  When the reel ended, Justin escorted her back to Aunt Eugenia before departing for another event. Try as she might, and she did try, Julienne couldn’t stop herself from looking for Lucien. When she found him, she clasped a gloved hand over her mouth, containing a sob. Lucien was leaning over his red-haired lover, whispering in her ear and nuzzling her throat, the picture of rapturous attentiveness. “Excuse me, Aunt Eugenia.” She turned away, her chest tight. “I have to sneeze.” She moved with haste toward the nearest hallway. Afraid to go into the ladies’ retiring room and hazard running into other guests, Julienne made her way farther down the hall, where unlit tapers offered privacy. She slipped into the third closed door and shut it behind her. For a moment, she was blind in the darkness, but she stumbled her way to an open-sided chaise, where she threw herself down and began to cry in earnest. Arrested by grief, she didn’t hear the bolt slide home. When a large, ungloved hand covered her mouth, her eyes flew open in shock. And clashed with Lucien’s furious gaze. His intent was obvious as he covered her body with his own. Removing his hand, he replaced it with his lips, his wonderful scent overpowered by brandy, which filled her nostrils and flavored his kisses. Her heart raced and her chest ached as she struggled for air, her body coming to immediate arousal, needing him like it needed food and water. Julienne tasted blood as her teeth cut the soft insides of her lips. He tasted it, too, and it seemed to inflame him, his ardor mounting until he took her mouth with savage intensity. A delicious shudder heated her body. Against her will, she arched upward into his cock, wanting him . . . needing him to fill the emptiness he’d left behind. Lucien groaned at her response, his hands wandering possessively over her curves, the heat of his erection burning through her satin gown. His feet slipped between her own and then slid outward, forcing her legs as far apart as her dress would allow. Where once there had been tender exploration and affection, there now was only pain and fury. Lucien’s hand gripped her breast convulsively, hurtfully, making her wince. Julienne’s hands moved off the chaise, sliding under his coat and waistcoat, tearing at his buttons in her desperation to get to his skin. Lucien yanked her skirts upward, ripping her stockings. The delicate threads of her gown popped, protesting his rough treatment. He lifted his mouth, and she gasped for air. “You’ve ruined me.” His hands shook as they reached under her skirts. “I’ve been unable to bed another woman . . . since the last time I touched you.” She smothered a sob, hating the thought that he’d even tried, and deeply, endlessly relieved that he’d failed. “Julienne . . .”

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  “I just realized something.” “What’s that?” “You and Amanda would make a terrific couple.” “I suppose that means that you get Odysseus all to yourself.” “Later, Tad.” A set of bedrooms is tucked away in a corner of the loft. The first two rooms are full of coke fiends and earnest conversers. The third is free, and a phone sits on a table beside the bed. You find the number in your wallet. “What time is it?” Vicky says after you identify yourself. “Where are you?” “It’s late. I’m in New York. I just wanted to talk.” “Let me guess; you’re with Tad.” “I was with Tad.” “It’s a little late for a chat. Is something wrong?” “I just wanted to tell you my mom died.” You hadn’t meant to be so abrupt. You are moving too fast. “Oh, God,” Vicky says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was … when?” “A year ago.” The Missing Person. “A year ago?” “I didn’t tell you before so I wanted to tell you now. It seemed important.” “I’m sorry.” “It’s all right. It’s not so bad. I mean, it was.” You can’t manage to say what you mean. “I wish you could’ve met her. You would’ve hit it off. She had hair like yours. Not just that.” “I’m not sure what to say.” “There’s something else I didn’t tell you. I got married. Bad mistake, but it’s all over. I wanted you to know, in case it makes a difference. I’m drunk. Do you think I should hang up?” In the ensuing pause you can hear the faint hum of the long-distance wire. “Don’t hang up,” Vicky says. “I can’t think of anything to say right now, but I’m here. I’m a little confused.” “I tried to block her out of my mind. But I think I owe it to her to remember.” “Wait. Who? ” “My mother. Forget my wife. I’m talking about my mother. I was thinking today, after she found out she had cancer, she was talking to Michael and me …” “Michael?” “That’s my brother. She made us promise that if the pain became unbearable we’d help her, you know, end it all. We had this prescription for morphine so there was this option. But then it got really bad. I asked her and she said that when you were dying you had a responsibility to the living. I was amazed she said that, the way she felt. And I was just thinking that we have a responsibility to the dead—the living, I mean. Does this make any sense?” “Maybe. I can’t tell, really,” Vicky says. “Can I call tomorrow?” “Yes, tomorrow. Are you sure you’re all right?” Your brain feels like it is trying to find a way out of your skull. And you are afraid of almost everything. “I’m fine.” “Get some sleep.

• From Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (1982)

  A forerunner of the later one-step, it was, in reality, your basic slow bump and grind. The low red lamp and the crowded St. Alban’s parlor floor left us just enough room to hold each other frankly, arms around neck and waist, and the slow intimate music moved our bodies much more than our feet. That had been in St. Alban’s, Queens, nearly two years before, when Muriel had seemed to be the certainty in my life. Now in the spring of this new year I had my own apartment all to myself again, but I was mourning. I avoided visiting pairs of friends, or inviting even numbers of people over to my house, because the happiness of couples, or their mere togetherness, hurt me too much in its absence from my own life, whose blankest hole was named Muriel. I had not been back to Queens, nor to any party, since Muriel and I had broken up, and the only people I saw outside of work and school were those friends who lived in the Village and who sought me out or whom I ran into at the bars. Most of them were white. “Hey, girl, long time no see.” Kitty spotted me first. We shook hands. The bar was not crowded, which means it probably was the Page Three, which didn’t fill up until after midnight. “Where’s your girlfriend?” I told her that Muriel and I weren’t together any more. “Yeah? That’s too bad. You-all were kinda cute together. But that’s the way it goes. How long you been in the ‘life’?” I stared at Kitty without answering, trying to think of how to explain to her, that for me there was only one life—my own—however I chose to live it. But she seemed to take the words right out of my mouth. “Not that it matters,” she said speculatively, finishing the beer she had carried over to the end of the bar where I was sitting. “We don’t have but one, anyway. At least this time around.” She took my arm. “Come on, let’s dance.” Kitty was still trim and fast-lined, but with an easier looseness about her smile and a lot less make-up. Without its camouflage, her chocolate skin and deep, sculptured mouth reminded me of a Benin bronze. Her hair was still straightened, but shorter, and her black Bermuda shorts and knee socks matched her astonishingly shiny black loafers. A black turtleneck pullover completed her sleek costume. Somehow, this time, my jeans did not feel shabby beside hers, only a variation upon some similar dress. Maybe it was because our belts still matched—broad, black, and brass-buckled. We moved to the back room and danced to Frankie Lymon’s “Goody, Goody,” and then to a Belafonte calypso.

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  Swallowing hard, she glanced at Gwen, whose pursed lips and narrowed eyes condemned her. She was condemning herself, knowing how difficult it must have been for Hugh to speak with Jared and reveal her negative reply to his proposal. Lord Merrick cleared his throat, and she returned her gaze to his. His handsome face was impassive, betraying none of his thoughts. “I will relate to you what I told Montrose. A great many adventurers have searched for that treasure over the years, Mrs. Riddleton. I doubt your chances of locating it are any better than theirs, even with Montrose’s substantial largesse. However, he insisted this be done, and because I consider him a friend, I have agreed to assist you.” He stood. “I have your direction, and I will contact you to make arrangements as the date of departure nears.” She grabbed his arm and blurted, “How is he?” Merrick arched a brow and studied her carefully. “As well as any man can be when he’s disheartened.” “Oh.” Her hand fell away. The tone of Merrick’s voice told her much. “You don’t like me, do you, Lord Merrick?” “I don’t like that you have wounded my friend, but I very much appreciate your rejection of his suit. I was fortunate to find true happiness in my marriage. I wish nothing less for him. He’s heartbroken now, but he’ll recover. I hope one day he will love again, as unfashionable as that is, and next time I hope the lucky woman loves him as well.” Charlotte looked away quickly, biting back a sob. The picture evoked by Merrick’s words cut her deeply, clenching a fist around her heart. “I love him,” she said, her voice wavering but clear. “Mrs. Riddleton,” he said, sighing, “I am not privy to the state of your affairs, but I can assure you, for you to remain seated here while a man who loves you suffers is not love by any means.” She looked at him. “My decision was made for his benefit as well as mine. I have reasons. I—” “I’m certain you do. But love requires a leap of faith, and often it has no reason. It simply exists.” He bowed. “Montrose has made arrangements for you to depart tomorrow. Is that acceptable to you?” She gave a jerky nod, and Merrick walked away, his departure drawing the appreciative gaze of every woman in the room. Gwen stood. “You coward,” she accused, in a sharp whisper. “You want to run back to the manse and allow the best thing that ever happened to us go without argument!” Charlotte blinked, never having witnessed Gwen saying an unkind word to anyone. “That’s not true. I’m doing what is best for all of us. We hardly know him and his history—”

• From Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (1982)

  I paused in front of Stolz’s Jewelers, admiring their new display. In particular, I marked a pair of hanging earrings of black opals, set into worked silver. “Gennie will love those,” I thought, “I must remember to tell her…” and then it hit me again that Gennie was dead, and that meant that she would never be there ever again. It meant that I could not ever tell her anything more. It meant that whether I loved her or was angry at her or wanted her to see a new pair of earrings, none of that mattered or would ever matter to her again. I could share nothing at all with her any more because she was gone . And even after all the past weeks of secret mourning, Gennie ’s death became real to me in a different way . I turned away from the jewelry store window. And right then and there in the middle of Broadway and 151st Street on a Saturday afternoon at the beginning of the summer of my sixteenth year, I decided that I would never love anybody else again for the rest of my life. Gennie had been the first person in my life I was conscious of loving. And she had died. Loving hurt too much. My mother had turned into a demon intent on destroying me. You loved people and you came to depend on their being there. But people died or changed or went away and it hurt too much. The only way to avoid that pain was not to love anyone, and not to let anyone get too close or too important. The secret to not being hurt like this again, I decided, was never depending on anyone, never needing, never loving . It is the last dream of children, to be forever untouched. I heard the oil-burner in the basement at Walker Road kick over at 4:30 A.M. and Ginger shifted and sighed softly in her sleep. I started to kiss her awake and stopped, as the smells of our loving and the moist top of her sleepy head engulfed me in a sudden wave of tenderness so strong that I pulled back. “You better watch out,” I said to myself soundlessly in the darkness. The alarm went off, and Ginger and I, galvanized by the hectic morning routine of the house, grabbed our robes and raced upstairs to the bathroom.

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  He had the grace to wince. “Julienne.” His voice was low and tinged with regret. “Please forgive me for last night. I was foxed. I should never have touched you the way I did.” She lifted her chin and reached for the curtain. “You are correct about that. Now if you will excuse me.” He gripped her elbow. “Julienne, please. Don’t go yet.” “Why not? I think we’ve said all that needs to be said.” Lucien pulled off his gloves and shoved them into his pockets. The longing on his face arrested her. As his palm cupped her cheek, Julienne closed her eyes and breathed in the familiar scent of his skin. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered. “Every moment I’m not with you, I miss you.” “Lucien, don’t . . .” “Yes, Julienne. Look at me.” Reluctantly she lifted her lids and met his gaze, the austereness of his features stealing her breath. “I’m so very sorry, sweet. I never wanted to hurt you.” Julienne fought the tears that threatened. “Allow me to explain something to you, Lucien. Something men of your sort don’t seem to comprehend. Women are feeling creatures, at least they are until they’ve been hurt enough to no longer care. We reserve parts of our soul for the men who are important in our lives, places where trust and respect reside. Once those feelings are lost, you cannot reclaim them. Once they are dead, they cannot be revived.” She shoved his hand away from her face. “I’ve heard your apology, and yet it means nothing to me. You want me to make you feel better, to tell you I understand and forgive you, but I don’t understand.” She turned to leave. “I didn’t touch her,” he said quickly in a voice so hoarse she barely recognized it. “Since that day I came to your home, I haven’t been with another woman. I’ve been faithful to you.” Julienne turned, searching his face, and found him in deadly earnest. “Why?” she asked simply. “You are the only woman I want.” Lucien cupped her face with both hands. “When you rejected my proposal, I lost my head. I’m not accustomed to being denied something I want so desperately. I am so very sorry, Julienne. You don’t have to forgive me. All I ask is that you believe my sincerity.” His mouth lowered slowly, giving her the opportunity to pull away. With heartrending tenderness, he kissed away the tears she hadn’t known were falling. Julienne turned her head to capture his lips, and she was lost. Lost in his scent, his touch. Lost in him. “I believe you,” she whispered. Lucien’s mouth brushed along her jaw and down her throat. “Why are you wearing this high-necked dress?” he murmured. “To hide the bruises.” He froze, his body turning hard as stone. His hands left her face and reached for the buttons on the back of her gown, his impatient fingers working with obvious familiarity of a woman’s clothing.

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  You suspected she herself couldn’t quite identify the longing that she variously attached to you, to her job, to having and spending, to her missing father, and that she had once attached to the idea of getting married. You were married. And still she was looking for something. But then she would cook you a special dinner, leave love notes in your briefcase and your bureau drawers. A few months ago she was packing for a trip to Paris when she began to cry. You asked her what was wrong. She said she was nervous about the trip. By the time the cab arrived she was fine. You kissed at the door. She told you to water the plants. The day before she was due home, she called. Her voice sounded peculiar. She said she wasn’t coming home. You didn’t understand. “You got a later flight?” “I’m staying,” she said. “For how long?” “I’m sorry. I wish you well. Really I do.” “What are you saying?” “I’m going to Rome for Vogue next week and then Greece for location work. My career is really taking off over here. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to hurt you.” “Career?” you said. “Since when is modeling a fucking career? ” “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to go now.” You demanded an explanation. She said she had been unhappy. Now she was happy. She needed space. She said goodbye and promptly hung up. After three days of transatlantic telexes and calls you located her in a hotel on the Left Bank. She sounded weary when she picked up the phone. “Is there another man,” you asked. This was the track your mind had followed for three sleepless nights. That wasn’t the point, she said, but yes, there was. He was a photographer. Probably the sort who called himself an artist . You couldn’t believe it. You reminded her that she had said that they were all fags. She said, “Au contraire , Pierre,” ripping the last strained tissues that held your heart intact. When you called again later she had checked out. A few days afterward, a man purporting to be her lawyer called. The easiest thing all around, he said, would be for you to sue his client for sexual abandonment. Just a legal term, he said. His client, your wife, would not contest anything. You could split the possessions fifty-fifty, although she drew the line at the sterling and crystal. You hung up and wept. Sexual Abandonment . He called again a few days later to announce that the car and the joint checking account were yours. You said you wanted to know where Amanda was. He called back and asked how much money you would settle for. You called him a pimp. “I want an explanation,” you said. This was months ago. You haven’t told anyone at work. When they ask about Amanda you say she’s fine. Your father doesn’t know.

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  “Wait!” she cried after him. “Please don’t go. Not like this.” He knew she would chase him down as she had before, so he lengthened his stride. Hugh left her and the wondrous dream of happiness far behind him. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. He loved her too much. Chapter Nine “I miss Lord Montrose.” Gwen dropped her cards on the table. “Pick those up,” Charlotte scolded. “I can see your hand.” “I’m no longer in the mood to play. Where is he? I haven’t seen him in two days. I inquired after him with Lady Julienne, and she said only that he was ‘about.’ What does that mean?” Releasing a deep sigh, Charlotte set down her cards and leaned back in her chair. Tired and abjectly miserable, she hadn’t been interested in playing anyway. She’d suggested the game in an attempt to cheer Gwen, who was taking Hugh’s absence almost as hard as she was. “It means he doesn’t wish to be found, Gwen.” Blue eyes narrowed. “What did you do, Charlotte?” “What did I do? Why is his behavior my fault?” “I may be young and naïve, but I’m not stupid. The duke is strolling about, puffed up like a rooster, and you glance away whenever Lord Montrose is mentioned.” Charlotte swallowed hard. Part of her hoped every moment that Hugh would walk into the room just so she could see him with her own eyes and assure herself that he was well. The other part of her dreaded such an event, knowing how badly she had wounded him. Her heart ached every moment. “Mrs. Riddleton.” Glancing up, Charlotte’s eyes widened at the sight of Lord Merrick. Tall and radiating savagery barely restrained, he was intimidating, with his long, black hair and intense blue gaze. Standing in the parlor full of women, his presence was overwhelming. “Lord Merrick.” Her heart leapt into a faster rhythm, knowing the only reason the earl would seek her out would be related to Hugh. Gesturing to one of the two empty chairs, he asked, “May I? I won’t take up too much of your time.” “Certainly, my lord.” He settled his powerful frame into the seat and clasped his hands in his lap. “Lord Montrose has shared your map and other items with me, Mrs. Riddleton.” Charlotte’s hand went to her throat. “He did?” “Yes, he did. Lady Merrick and I travel to the West Indies at the end of every Season to visit with her father. Lord Montrose has asked that I take you with us on the journey next year, and he has provided enough funds to retain a large expedition for the search. He’s also spoken with Lord Glenmoore and made arrangements for you to continue to have use of the residence here in Derbyshire.”

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  She was lying on the floor, holding her head and jerking. And I freaked out. I should have called 911, but I just started screaming and crying until finally she stopped jerking, and I thought she had fallen asleep and that whatever had hurt didn’t hurt anymore. So I just sat there on the floor with her until my dad got home an hour later, and he’s screaming, ‘Why didn’t you call 911?’ and trying to give her CPR, but by then she was plenty dead. Aneurysm. Worst day. I win. You drink.” And so we did. No one talked for a minute, and then Takumi asked, “Your dad blamed you?” “Well, not after that first moment. But yeah. How could he not?” “Well, you were a little kid,” Takumi argued. I was too surprised and uncomfortable to talk, trying to fit this into what I knew about Alaska’s family. Her mom told her the knock-knock joke—when Alaska was six. Her mom used to smoke—but didn’t anymore, obviously. “Yeah. I was a little kid. Little kids can dial 911. They do it all the time. Give me the wine,” she said, deadpan and emotionless. She drank without lifting her head from the hay. “I’m sorry,” Takumi said. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” the Colonel asked, his voice soft. “It never came up.” And then we stopped asking questions. What the hell do you say? In the long quiet that followed, as we passed around the wine and slowly became drunker, I found myself thinking about President William McKinley, the third American president to be assassinated. He lived for several days after he was shot, and toward the end, his wife started crying and screaming, “I want to go, too! I want to go, too!” And with his last measure of strength, McKinley turned to her and spoke his last words: “We are all going.” — It was the central moment of Alaska’s life. When she cried and told me that she fucked everything up, I knew what she meant now. And when she said she failed everyone, I knew whom she meant. It was the everything and the everyone of her life, and so I could not help but imagine it: I imagined a scrawny eight-year- old with dirty fingers, looking down at her mother convulsing. So she sat down with her dead-or-maybe-not mother, who I imagine was not breathing by then but wasn’t yet cold either. And in the time between dying and death, a little Alaska sat with her mother in silence. And then through the silence and my drunkenness, I caught a glimpse of her as she might have been.

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  You think of your mother. You try to remember the way she was before she got sick. “You’ve just forgotten Mom completely, is that it?” “Don’t get righteous with me.” “And Dad, who you haven’t seen since Christmas.” “How about if you just shut up.” “You never had to exert yourself for anything and you’re not about to start now. School, girls, awards, fancy jobs—it all just falls in your lap, doesn’t it? You don’t even have to go out and look for it. Mom and Dad certainly couldn’t do enough for you. So I guess it gets pretty easy to take people for granted when you’re Mr. Everything.” “Omniscience must be a terrible burden, Michael. How do you bear it?” “Mr. Wonderful, who galloped in from New York last year like some kind of fucking knight in his British sports-car, just in time for the dramatic finale of Mom’s life. Like it was some goddamn New York party that you didn’t want to be early for, God forbid.” “Shut up.” “Don’t tell me to shut up.” “How about if I make you shut up?” You stand up. Michael stands up. “I’m getting out of here,” you say. You turn away. You can hardly see your way to the door. Your eyes are dim and cloudy. You hit your knee on a chair. “You’re not going anywhere.” Michael grabs your arm as you reach the door. You yank it away. He slams you against the doorframe and bangs your head against the metal. He’s got you pinned. You jam your elbow into his belly and he lets go. You turn and punch him in the face. You punch him hard. You hit him with the hand the ferret bit and it hurts like hell. You fall backward into the hall. You get to your feet and look to see what’s happened to Michael. He is on his feet. You remember thinking, He’s going to hit me . When you come around, you are stretched out on the couch. Your head feels truly awful. You can feel the point of contact just below your left temple. Michael comes out of the kitchen holding a paper towel to his nose. The towel is stained with blood. “You all right,” you ask him. He nods. “That kitchen faucet needs a washer. Drips like crazy.” “Amanda isn’t shopping,” you say. “She left me.” “What?” “She called up from France one day and said she wasn’t coming home.” Michael scrutinizes your face to see if you are serious. Then he leans back in the chair and sighs. “I don’t know what to say,” he says. He shakes his head. “Goddamn. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Michael stands up and comes over to the couch. He crouches down, then says, “Are you all right?” “I miss Mom,” you say. THE NIGHT SHIFTMichael is hungry and you are thirsty; a foray is proposed and seconded. All of uptown seems to be headed downtown for Saturday night.

• From Story of the Eye (1928)

  But, like this Preface, Coincidences has a literal exactness: many people in the village of R. could confirm the material; moreover, some of my friends did read W.C .) What upset me more was: seeing my father shit a great number of times. He would get out of his blind paralytic’s bed (my father being both blind and paralytic at once). It was very hard for him to get out of bed (I would help him) and settle on a chamber-pot, in his nightshirt and, usually, a cotton nightcap (he had a pointed grey beard, ill-kempt, a large eagle-nose, and immense hollow eyes staring into space). At times, the “lightning-sharp pains” would make him howl like a beast, sticking out his bent leg, which he futilely hugged in his arms. My father having conceived me when blind (absolutely blind), I cannot tear out my eyes like Oedipus. Like Oedipus, I solved the riddle: no one divined it more deeply than I. On November 6, 1915, in a bombarded town, a few miles from the German lines, my father died in abandonment. My mother and I had abandoned him during the German advance in August 1914. We had left him with the housekeeper. The Germans occupied the town, then evacuated it. We could now return: my mother, unable to bear the thought of it, went mad. Late that year, my mother recovered: she refused to let me go home to N. We received occasional letters from my father, he just barely ranted and raved. When we learned he was dying, my mother agreed to go with me. He died a few days before our arrival, asking for his children: we found a sealed coffin in the bedroom. When my father went mad (a year before the war) after a hallucinating night, my mother sent me to the post office to dispatch a telegram. I remember being struck with a horrible pride en route. Misery overwhelmed me, internal irony replied: “So much horror makes you predestined”: a few months earlier, one fine morning in December, I had informed my parents, who were beside themselves, that I would never set foot in school again. No amount of anger could change my mind: I lived alone, going out rarely, by way of the fields, avoiding the centre, where I might have run into friends. My father, an unreligious man, died refusing to see the priest. During puberty, I was unreligious myself (my mother indifferent). But I went to a priest in August 1914; and until 1920, rarely did I let a week go by without confessing my sins! In 1920, I changed again, I stopped believing in anything but my future chances. My piety was merely an attempt at evasion: I wanted to escape my destiny at any price, I was abandoning my father.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  As she unscrewed the next bottle, Alaska smiled at the Colonel. “You won that round. Now what’s your worst day?” “Worst day was when my dad left. He’s old—he’s like seventy now—and he was old when he married my mom, and he still cheated on her. And she caught him, and she got pissed, so he hit her. And then she kicked him out, and he left. I was here, and my mom called, and she didn’t tell me the whole story with the cheating and everything and the hitting until later. She just said that he was gone and not coming back. And I haven’t seen him since. All that day, I kept waiting for him to call me and explain it, but he never did. He never called at all. I at least thought he would say good-bye or something. That was the worst day.” “Shit, you got me beat again,” I said. “My worst day was in seventh grade, when Tommy Hewitt pissed on my gym clothes and then the gym teacher said I had to wear my uniform or I’d fail the class. Seventh-grade gym, right? There are worse things to fail. But it was a big deal then, and I was crying, and trying to explain to the teacher what happened, but it was so embarrassing, and he just yelled and yelled and yelled until I put on these piss-soaked shorts and T-shirt. That was the day I stopped caring what people did. I just never cared anymore, about being a loser or not having friends or any of that. So I guess it was good for me in a way, but that moment was awful. I mean, imagine me playing volleyball or whatever in pee-soaked gym clothes while Tommy Hewitt tells everyone what he did. That was the worst day.” Lara was laughing. “I’m sorry, Miles.” “All good,” I said. “Just tell me yours so I can laugh at your pain,” and I smiled, and we laughed together. “My worst day was probably the same day as my best. Because I left everytheeng. I mean, eet sounds dumb, but my childhood, too, because most twelve-year-olds do not, you know, have to feegure out W-2 forms.” “What’s a W-2 form?” I asked. “That’s my point. Eet’s for taxes. So. Same day.” Lara had always needed to talk for her parents, I thought, and so maybe she never learned how to talk for herself.

• From Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (1982)

  Maybe she’s run away, maybe she’s just run away again. Not to her relatives in Richmond this time. Oh no. Gennie’ll think of someplace nobody’ll think of looking, and then eventually she’ll come sauntering in with a new outfit she got someone to buy her and that quick toss of her head, saying, “I was fine all the time.” “Where is she, Mrs. Thompson?” “She’s at Sydenham. Evidently she rode the subways all night, that’s what she told the police, but nobody knows where she’d been before. She didn’t go to school yesterday.” Cutting through Louisa’s voice is the sound of the jukebox in Mike’s Food Shoppe. Yesterday, after school, hearing Gennie’s favorite song these days—the richly elongated tones of Sarah Vaughan’s chocolate voice repeating over and over, I saw the harbor lights they only told me we were parting The same old harbor lights that once brought you to me I saw the harbor lights, how could I help the tears were starting, were starting, were starting… Mike came over and kicked the box. “Albanian magic,” he grinned, and went back to his griddle. The hateful taste of black coffee and lemon in my mouth. Gennie Gennie Gennie Gennie . “Can I see her, Mrs. Thompson? When are visiting hours?” Could I go see Gennie and still get back before my mother got home? “You can come anytime, honey, but you better hurry.” Rifling my mother’s old pocketbooks for ten cents carfare. My empty stomach churning. Louisa’s tears as she greets me at the door of the emergency room, as she takes my hands. “They’re working on her again, honey. They won’t even admit her up in the ward. They say she won’t last ’til night.” The hospital bed in the glass cubicle behind the emergency room in Harlem Hospital. Her mother and grandmother and I clutching each other for comfort. Louisa smelling of Evening in Paris that always made me sneeze. My head an endless kaleidoscope of numb images, jumbled, repeated. Speech class, the only class we ever had together. Jenny come tie my, Jenny come tie my, Jenny come tie my bonny cravat. I’ve tied it behind and I’ve tied it before and I’ve tied it so often, I’ll tie it no more. Miss Mason’s monotonous voice drilling us through the exercise over and over. “Nice wide i’s, now. Again, class.” Gennie’s grandmother, her insistent southern voice looking for meaning. “She didn’t talk about it this time. Nobody knew. If only she’d said something. I’da believed her this time…” The young white doctor, “You can go in now, but she’s asleep.” Gennie Gennie Gennie I never saw you asleep before. You look just like you awake except your eyes are closed. Your brows still bend down in the middle like you frowning . What time is my mother coming home?

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  Raw pain, piercing and wounding, cut him to the quick. His eyes slid closed. “Please don’t say that,” he murmured hoarsely, pulling her against him, needing the physical closeness, because he felt her withdrawing. “Don’t judge me by my past.” “There is more at stake here than just you and me, Hugh. You’ll regret this rash proposal later. I am not a suitable wife for you. The burden of those I bring with me will begin to weigh on you. You will come to resent me and then hate me. I lack the breeding to be a proper countess. You would—” Hugh covered her mouth with a kiss, cutting off her words. Her lips melted into his, and he groaned, pressing his advantage, his hands stroking her back until she opened with a whimper. She returned his ardor in equal measure, kissing him as if it were the last time, as if they never would again. Her arms lifted, her small hands cupping the nape of his neck, holding him close. The lush, ripe mouth that he loved so much moved feverishly under his, forcing his desire to rise up to match his anger and fear, then far surpassing both. Pulling away, he rested his damp forehead against hers. “What are you afraid of?” he asked softly. “Being abandoned or discarded? I’m not Glenmoore. I won’t take all that you are or all that you have, and leave you with nothing.” “I-I’m not afraid.” “You are. Afraid to trust. Afraid to hope. Afraid to love.” “Hugh—” “Have I disappointed you, Charlotte? Have I promised you something and then not delivered?” “Not yet, but—” “Not ever. You either trust me to support you, trust me to be a good husband, to love you and care for you . . . You either trust me, or you don’t.” She melted against him, her slight weight necessary and welcome. He hugged her close, squeezing her, until there was no space between them. He held his breath, waiting. “Please understand,” she begged. “I am responsible for the care of Gwen and the others. My decisions must be made with my head, not my heart.” He recoiled as the import of her words struck home. “You refuse me.” His voice was a pained whisper, his heart aching as he stepped away. Her touch, which he had been longing for, was suddenly painful. Hugh struggled to control his breathing, unsure of what he could do or say to erase the tormented look he saw in Charlotte’s eyes. There was sadness there, a deep well of it. Her gaze said good-bye as surely as her kiss had. It was then he realized there was nothing he could say. Her fear was too powerful. Even with an offer of marriage, she still couldn’t trust him. Shaking his head, he turned away, his throat clenched tight. He strode down the hall, suddenly anxious to be away from her and the cloying agony that twisted inside him.

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  You ask about the twins, Peter at Amherst and Sean at Bowdoin. Having already discussed your travails at the magazine, including your recent ferret gambit, you ask Michael about his business—restoring old houses—and he tells you it’s going well. He’s working on a derelict carriage house in New Hope. “I’m going to hire out some grunt work. Maybe you’d be interested. At least it’s a change of scene. Say, three or four weeks of work.” You tell him you’ll think about it. You are surprised that he would offer. Michael has long considered you incompetent. By the time he was twelve he was bigger than you. He shaped an ethic of engagement with the physical world under which your aptitudes and accomplishments were suspect. You drink and talk. Under the spell of alcohol your differences recede. You and Michael and Peter and Sean and Dad stand against the world. The family has been fucked over, but you’re going to tough it out. Forget that slut Amanda. The doctors who couldn’t save your mother’s life and wouldn’t tell you what was going on. Clara Tillinghast. The priest who, at your mother’s deathbed, said, “We’ve seen some beautiful deaths with cancer.” After many drinks Michael says, “I need a little air.” On the way back to the apartment, you stop in on a friend who happens to have a spare half for the low, low price of sixty dollars. You feel that you are basically through with this compulsion. This time you just want to celebrate crossing the hump. You are a little drunk and you want to keep going, keep talking. You should have told us, Michael says, sprawled out on the couch in your apartment. “I mean, what’s a family for?” He bangs his hand on the coffee table for emphasis. “What’s family for?” “I don’t know. You want to do a few lines?” Michael shrugs. “Why not?” He watches as you get up and take the mirror from the wall. “What was bad for me,” he says, “is at first I’d see her the way she was toward the end, all wasted and thin. But now I have this image I keep with me. I don’t know when it was, but I came home from school one day—this was after you’d gone to college—and Mom was out back raking leaves. It was October or something and she was wearing your old ski team jacket, which was about six sizes too big.” He stops. His eyes are closed and you think maybe he has passed out. You shake some coke out onto the mirror. Michael opens his eyes. “I remember the way the air smelled, the way Mom looked in that jacket with leaves in her hair, the lake in the background. That’s the way I remember her now. Raking leaves in your old ski team jacket.” “I like that,” you say. You can imagine it. She wore that jacket for years.