Guilt

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 Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Gracie was fretted near half to death, poor soul, but I said to her: “Don’t you worry about Nancy, girl; Nancy will’ve found some friend to take her in, or missed the last bus home, and passed the night in some rooming-house. Nancy will be back all right, tomorrow, you wait and see.”’ As she spoke she came slowly down the stairs, until at last we were quite level. She gazed at me with real affection; but there was a hint of reproach, I thought, in her words. I felt even more guilty about what I must tell her - but also slightly resentful. I was not her daughter, nor was I Gracie’s sweetheart. I owed them nothing - I told myself - but my rent. Now I drew carefully away from Grace, and nodded to her mother. I said, ‘You’re right, I did meet a friend. A very old friend I hadn’t seen in a long time. What a surprise it was, to meet her! She has rooms over in Kilburn. It was too far to come back so late.’ The story sounded hollow to me, but Mrs Milne seemed pleased enough with it. ‘There now, Gracie,’ she said, ‘what did I tell you? Now, just you run downstairs and put the kettle on. Nancy’ll be wanting a bit of tea, I don’t doubt.’ She smiled at me again, while Gracie dutifully lumbered off; then she headed back up the stairs, and I followed. ‘The thing is, Mrs Milne,’ I began, ‘this friend of mine, she’s in a bit of a state. You see her room-mate up and moved out last week’ - Mrs Milne checked slightly, then stepped steadily on - ‘and she can’t replace her; and she can’t afford all the rent herself, she has only a little part-time work in a milliner‘s, poor thing ...’ We had reached the parlour. Mrs Milne turned to face me, and her eyes were troubled. ‘That is a shame,’ she said feelingly. ‘A good roomer is hard to find, these days, that I do know. That’s why - and I’ve told you so before, you know I have - that’s why me and Gracie’ve been so glad to have you with us. Why, if you was ever to leave us, Nance -’ This seemed the worst possible way for me to tell her, yet I had to speak. ‘Oh, don’t say that, Mrs M!’ I said lightly. ‘For you see, I’m sorry to say I shall be leaving you. This friend of mine has asked me and, well, I said I would take the other girl’s place - just to help her out, you know ...’ My voice grew thin.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Me detengo frente a Lindsay, escaneo el estacionamiento a mi alrededor por el Challenger de Cole. No lo veo, pero apenas puedo ver nada bajo la lluvia en este momento. Lo llamé y a Jordan sin parar durante las últimas veinticuatro horas, pero no puedo soportarlo más. Si él quiere tiempo, puedo hacer eso. Si necesita espacio, se lo daré. Pero necesito disculparme cara a cara. Necesito que sepa que lo amo, y no quise que esto sucediera. No es que él me escuche o probablemente incluso me escuche a través de su ira, pero no puedo sentarme sin hacer nada. Salgo de mi camioneta, corro hacia la puerta de Lindsay, bajo el porche cubierto, y golpeo con mi puño. Ha estado lloviendo todo el día y, aunque dejé que los chicos tuvieran el día libre, todavía fui al sitio y me encargué del negocio solo para matar el tiempo hasta que Cole saliera del trabajo hoy. Si es que ya comenzó su nuevo trabajo, claro. Lin abre la puerta, todavía con su falda recta de oficina, pero descalza y con la camisa por fuera. Me ve y cruza sus brazos sobre su pecho, inmovilizándome con una mirada presumida. —Quiero hablar con él —le digo. —Has hecho suficiente —se burla, sacando su cola de caballo apretada—. Jesús, pensé que yo era una mala madre. ¿Qué estabas pensando? ¿Tomando sus sobras como si no hubiera otra mujer en esta ciudad que pudieras follar? —No fue así. —Ahórrame los detalles. —Se acerca a una mesa cercana y toma un vaso que lo más probable es que sea vodka y jugo de naranja—. Ella no es diferente de lo que pensabas que era yo. Ella te usó, Pike. Te utilizó por un lugar para vivir y conveniencia, y oh, ¿qué más hiciste? ¿Arreglar su auto también? —Sacude la cabeza, sonriendo amargamente—. Ella tuvo suerte contigo, y todo lo que tuvo que hacer fue abrir sus piernas. Cristo, ustedes los hombres son realmente densos cuando se trata de una cara bonita. Mi mandíbula se tensa. Jordan no es así. Ella no se parece en nada a ti.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pero no. Ya estoy adolorido por la culpa y perder el control e ir más lejos con ella sería un mundo de dolor. La noche anterior fue simplemente el resultado de no haber tenido sexo en mucho tiempo. Nada más. Cristo, es una niña. Si fuera dos años más joven, podría ir a prisión por lo que estuve a punto de hacerle la noche anterior. Necesito sacar esto de mi sistema. Apartando la sábana, salgo de mi cama y me pongo unos boxers y jeans. Después lavo mi rostro con agua fría, cepillo mis dientes, y me pongo algo de gel en el cabello, mi polla está lo suficientemente tranquila como para salir de la habitación. Me pongo una camisa y agarro el resto de las cosas que necesitaré para trabajar y salgo de la habitación. Si Cole no hubiera venido a casa cuando lo hizo... Bajo trotando las escaleras, alejando eso de mi cabeza. Solo espero que ella no piense que tiene que irse por esto. Probablemente sería lo mejor, pero no quiero ser otra persona más con la que no pueda contar. En la cocina, me sirvo una taza de café y abro el refrigerador, buscando la leche. Frunzo el ceño, moviendo las cosas y solo encuentro leche de almendras. La saco y arrugo mi nariz, estudiándola. ¿Las almendras producen leche? Jordan. Pongo los ojos en blanco y la destapo, oliéndola. —Hmm... —No huele mal. Me encojo de hombros y la vierto en el café. Levantando el café, deslizo mi otra mano en mi bolsillo y me inclino contra la encimera, soplando el café. Escucho las pisadas de Jordan en las escaleras y mi estómago se retuerce mientras parpadeo largo y fuerte para prepararme. Entra en la cocina, alzando sus ojos y encontrándose con los míos lo suficiente como para darme una media sonrisa rápida y cortante antes de rodear la mesa y sacar su bolso de una silla. Parece tener prisa. Fuerzo las palabras. Cuanto antes lo solucionemos, más rápido podremos volver a la normalidad. —Lo siento por lo de anoche —le digo—. Fue mi culpa, y no debió haber sucedido. ¿Está bien?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Oh, mira eso —dice, sus ojos se iluminan y su voz vibra—. Tienes todos los reyes en el mazo. Qué suerte, ¿no? Dutch resopla, y no puedo evitar temblar de la risa mientras todos se unen a la diversión. Todos menos Todd, que arroja sus cartas, renunciando a su mano ahora. Compone una sonrisa satisfecha en su rostro y sube las escaleras de nuevo. Estoy medio tentado a decirle que se asegure que nadie coma esas paletas en la piscina, pero estoy tratando de no tratarla a ella y a Cole como si fueran niños. —Oh, oye, ¿puedo hacerte una pregunta? —dice, deteniéndose a mitad de camino por las escaleras. La miro a los ojos. —Hay un pequeño pastel en el refrigerador —continúa—: Cole está rogando por comérselo, pero no lo compré y no estaba segura de dónde vino. Solo quería consultarte antes que se lo coma. Mierda. Mantengo el rostro serio a pesar de mi irritación. Puedo sentir los ojos de los chicos sobre mí. —Oh, eh, es un... —murmuro, sacudiendo la cabeza y fingiendo estudiar mis cartas de nuevo—. Yo, eh... lo compré para ustedes... hoy, en la tienda... para ustedes dos. No dice nada, y después de un momento de silencio completamente incómodo, miro hacia arriba. Ladea la cabeza, luciendo confundida. Le tiro tres cartas a Dutch para que me pase tres más, aunque no estoy seguro de cuáles son las tres que acabo de descartar. Todavía me está mirando. Puedo sentirlo. Suelto más información, esperando que diga algo y salga de aquí. —Solo pasaba por Etienne’s y recordé que no tuviste ningún pastel en tu cumpleaños —le digo, actuando con indiferencia—, o la oportunidad de celebrar realmente. Solo pensé que les podía gustar. —Tomo tres cartas nuevas de la pila cuando Dutch no puede pasarme las nuevas—. Iba de pasada de todos modos. No es gran cosa. Si no fuera gran cosa, no me habría sentido raro al respecto cuando llegué a casa. Fue estúpido comprarlo en primer lugar. Ella no es mi hija. Pero por alguna razón, al pasar por la ventana y ver el pastel de tres capas, con rosas que cubrían cada centímetro, pensé en ella. Creo que todavía estaba tratando de compensarle por actuar como un idiota el otro día.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Sus manos se ralentizan, y veo que sus ojos se mueven mientras busca en su bolso, pero no me mira. Cierra la cremallera y se endereza, se dirige hacia mí y abre el refrigerador. —Me tengo que ir —dice. La miro con cautela. No parece enojada. Solo luce nerviosa. Tal vez estaba esperando que yo tomara la iniciativa para ver cómo manejar esto. O tal vez quiere actuar como si no hubiera sucedido nada en absoluto. Tal vez esté arrepentida. ¿Yo estoy arrepentido? Sí. Sí, por supuesto que sí. Pero lo disfruté también. La necesidad de llevarla a mi cama y saborear cada segundo y cada centímetro de ella fueron como mirar hacia el cielo la noche anterior. Lo deseaba. No podía esperar. Y no me habría detenido. Me dolían los músculos al solo pensar en lo que iba a hacerle pasar a mi cuerpo para disfrutar cada momento con ella. Pero incluso sin Cole, todavía tiene la mitad de mi edad. Nada sobre esto es correcto. —Eres una chica hermosa, Jordan —digo casi en un susurro—, pero eres solo una niña. Se detiene en el refrigerador a mi lado, y la veo aclarar su garganta. Es tan linda. Con su cabello limpio y sedoso, con maquillaje sutil con solo un toque de rosa en los labios... —No estaba pensando en ese momento —le explico—. Ambos estamos solos, y me ha encantado tanto tenerte aquí que los límites se desdibujaron. No volverá a suceder. Asiente, y su mirada cae. Desearía saber lo que estaba pensando. No es como si ella fuera muy callada. ¿Me odia? —Está bien —dice suavemente. Pero sacudo la cabeza. —No lo está. No espero eso de ti. Quiero que lo sepas. Dios sabe que tiene suficiente de esa mierda en el trabajo. Tomando su manzana y una botella de agua, se da la vuelta y camina hacia la mesa, levantando su bolso. No puede asistir a clase tan temprano, pero no voy a cuestionarla como si fuera asunto mío. Ya le he hecho suficiente por las últimas veinticuatro horas. Observo mientras sale de la cocina y entra en el vestíbulo, tomando las llaves del gancho. Cuando llega a la puerta, se detiene. —Mis manos también estaban sobre ti —dice ella. Y luego abre la puerta y sale, cerrándola suavemente tras de sí. Miro fijamente el espacio vacío haciéndome desearla de repente. —No digas cosas como esas —le murmuro a una casa vacía. Si sé que también lo deseas, ¿cómo seré capaz de resistirte?

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  14 EVERYTHING SHE KNEW about a loving relationship came from watching Abby and Lamb. They knew how to keep romance alive in their marriage. That’s what she would remember when and if her time came. Until the last Saturday of the summer when it all seemed to fall apart. She was in the kitchen with Caitlin arguing with the Chicago Boys over whether or not to mix the tomato sauce with the spaghetti before it was served. She and Caitlin wanted the sauce on the side, with basil and parsley from the garden, but Daniel said, “No green stuff in our pasta! Put it on yours after it’s on your plate.” “I don’t want mine drowning in your Ragu,” Caitlin told him. Sharkey, who was buried in a crossword puzzle, asked, “What’s a four-letter word for undulate?” “Flow?” Vix said. “Or maybe gush?” “Gush ... that’s it!” Sharkey said. “Thanks.” Outside it was raining, a slow, soft rain. Abby and Lamb had been cool and remote all day but now their voices, coming from the living room, heated up and as they did, the kitchen crew grew more quiet. “I keep telling you, it’s no big deal,” they heard Lamb say. “Everybody hitches on the island.” “You’re oblivious!” Abby told him. “You live in some other world.” “If you’d learn to cut them some slack, Ab, you wouldn’t have such a hard time. You bring it on yourself ... that’s all I’m saying.” It was her fault they were arguing, Vix thought, hers and Caitlin’s. If Abby hadn’t bumped into some guy she knew in the dairy aisle at Cronig’s she might never have found out they’d been hitching. Not that they’d told him their names. But he’d recognized Caitlin. “I’ll bet you’re Lamb Somers’ girl,” he’d said, oh so proud of himself. “I’ve got a good

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Maybe she should confess now, get it out of the way, beg her forgiveness … “What I said in the Jeep?” Caitlin continues, as if she’s asking a question. “When I told you I wasn’t sure about marrying Bru?” Vix feels dizzy. “I never finished what I was trying to say, what I needed to say …” “You don’t have to explain,” Vix tells her, hoping she won’t. “Everyone gets last-minute jitters.” “No, it’s not about last-minute jitters,” Caitlin says. “It’s about Bru and me …” Vix holds her breath. She’s never regretted anything the way she regrets last night. If only she could take it back. “I always wanted what you had,” Caitlin says. “You’re the one who had everything.” “That’s not the way I saw it. You were the daughter Abby always wanted. You were worthy of the Somers Foundation scholarships. You even had breasts. So I had to prove I was sexier. I had to prove I could have any guy I wanted … even Bru.” “Well, now you’ve got him.” “I don’t mean now, although there’s something quaint about marrying your first lover.” Vix is thoroughly confused. “Aren’t you forgetting the ski instructor … in Italy … junior year?” Caitlin shakes her head. “I invented him for you.” “You invented the ski instructor?” “So you’d think I was first.” Vix is having trouble digesting this. “You mean you lied?” “Couldn’t we just say I was imaginative?” “Imaginative?” “Okay … so I lied.” “What about Von? Did you make him up, too?” And what about the other hundred or so she’s heard about over the years? “Oh, Von … we never actually, you know, consummated our affair. He wouldn’t wear a condom. You can see where that got him. Anyway, he liked all the other stuff better.” They stand there looking at one another until Caitlin says, “You mean you never knew … you never guessed?” Vix feels as if she can’t breathe. She grasps the bed rail. Caitlin’s voice goes whispery. “After Nathan … after the funeral, when I came back to the Vineyard …” Vix turns away. No! She refuses to believe this. She looks out the window as the flower girls line up by size, each one carrying a bunch of daisies. “You asked me to explain to him,” Caitlin says. “You asked me to tell him why you couldn’t come back.” She comes up behind Vix and lays a hand on her arm. “It just happened. It didn’t mean anything. Really.” Vix doesn’t move. Caitlin grabs hold of her, forces her to listen. “I admit I was jealous because he loved you so much … but even more, because you loved him . I wanted to prove to you that he was just like all the others, following his pointer through life.” “Bru was never like that.” She can’t believe she’s standing here defending him after last night. She’s going to tell Caitlin the truth. Right now. She’s going to even the score.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Luego se da vuelta para poner una cuchara para servir en la ensalada y abre las papas fritas para la salsa de taco, y me quedo ahí, sintiendo que un camión se dirige hacia mí, pero no me puedo mover. Él es un buen hombre. No puedo arruinar eso. De repente, siento como si necesitara salir de aquí. Pike no es mi familia, y por muy natural que se sienta estar donde él está, es tiempo prestado. Durante el siguiente par de horas, mantengo mi distancia de Pike. Teresa me da un tour por su casa, me siento con ella y unos pocos más, comiendo y hablando, aunque no digo mucho, y uno de los hijos de Dutch me discute jugando quemados en la entrada del auto de alguien. Ayudo a los niños con los cohetes, aunque aún no está oscuro, y a Teresa llevando las bandejas vacías a la basura y recogiendo todas las latas de soda y botellas de agua. No estoy segura si Pike me está poniendo atención, porque no he mirado en su dirección para ver dónde está, pero de vez en cuando, siento la parte posterior de mi cuello ponerse caliente o un pequeño estremecimiento extendiéndose por mi columna vertebral. —Oh, hola, Jordan —dice alguien, saltando sobre mis piernas, a punto de tropezar—. No te vi allí. Él se ríe, y echo un vistazo desde donde estoy tendida en el césped para ver a Carter Hewitt sonriéndome por encima de su hombro. Otro chico y una chica están a su alrededor, pero no recuerdo sus nombres a pesar que nos graduamos juntos. Carter y yo supuestamente iríamos a hacer tubing hoy, pero canceló por esta fiesta ya que sus padres le pidieron que estuviera aquí. Por suerte también, porque me estaba costando convencerme de no cancelarle. No quería dejar que Pike ganara esa discusión, pero estaba en lo correcto. Hacer tubing es una excusa para emborracharse, y no estaba de humor. Me siento derecha y sacudo el césped de mis brazos, que estaba usando como almohada para ver las estrellas que empezaban a salir. —Hola, ¿qué están haciendo, chicos? —pregunto. —Todo menos esto. —Suspira—. Hay un montón de gente en el A&W 11 ¿Quieres venir? Te compraré una cerveza de raíz con helado. Sonrío entre dientes y me pongo de pie. Eso suena realmente bien. 11 Franquicia de comida rápida famosa por su cerveza de raíz.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  When I asked her what she meant, she said that in addition to her forty-dollar-a-week salary, she made 10 percent on every sale. Her commissions were sometimes double her salary. “Hell, welfare’ll get you more than forty bucks a week,” she said. “If you’re not getting commissions, Becker’s stiffing you.” When I asked Mr. Becker about commissions, he said they were for salespeople and I was just an assistant. The next day, when Mr. Becker went off to the Mountaineer, I opened the display case and took out the four-band watch. I slipped it into my handbag and rearranged the remaining watches to cover the gap. I had made plenty of sales on my own when Mr. Becker was busy. Since he hadn’t paid me any commissions, I was only taking what I was owed. When Mr. Becker came back from lunch, he studied the diamondring display like he always did, but he didn’t even glance at the watches. Walking home that evening with the watch hidden in my purse, I felt light and giddy. After dinner, I climbed into my bunk bed, where no one could see me, and tried on the watch with each of the bands, gesturing the way I figured rich people did. Wearing the watch to work was out of the question, of course. I also realized that I could run into Mr. Becker in town at any time, so I decided that until school started, I’d put the watch on only at home. Then I began to wonder how I’d explain the watch to Brian and Lori and Mom and Dad. I also worried that Mr. Becker might see something thieflike in my expression. Sooner or later, he’d discover the missing watch and would question me, and I’d have to lie convincingly, which I wasn’t very good at. If I wasn’t convincing, I’d be sent off to a reform school with people like Billy Deel, and Mr. Becker would have the satisfaction of knowing he’d been right all along not to trust me. I wasn’t about to give him that satisfaction. The next morning I took the watch out of the wooden box where I kept my geode, put it in my purse, and brought it back to the store. All morning I nervously waited for Mr. Becker to leave for lunch. When he was finally gone, I opened the display case, slipped the watch inside, and rearranged the other watches around it. I moved fast. The week before, I had stolen the watch without breaking a sweat. But now I was terrified that someone would catch me putting it back. IN LATE AUGUST, I was washing clothes in the tin pan in the living room when I heard someone coming up the stairs singing. It was Lori. She burst into the living room, duffel bag over her shoulder, laughing and belting out one of those goofy summer-camp songs kids sing at night around the fire.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  “What do you know about the hardships and obstacles that the underclass faces?” The other students were staring at me. “You have a point,” I said. THAT JANUARY IT GOT so cold you could see chunks of ice the size of cars floating down the Hudson River. On those midwinter nights, the homeless shelters filled up quickly. Mom and Dad hated the shelters. Human cesspools, Dad called them, goddamn vermin pits. Mom and Dad preferred to sleep on the pews of the churches that opened their doors to the homeless, but on some nights every pew in every church was taken. On those nights Dad would end up in a shelter, while Mom would show up at Lori’s, Tinkle in tow. At times like that, her cheerful facade would crack, and she’d start crying and confess to Lori that life in the streets could be hard, just really hard. For a while I considered dropping out of Barnard to help. It felt unbearably selfish, just downright wrong, to be indulging myself with an education in the liberal arts at a fancy private college while Mom and Dad were on the streets. But Lori convinced me that dropping out was a lamebrained idea. It wouldn’t do any good, she said, and besides, dropping out would break Dad’s heart. He was immensely proud that he had a daughter in college, and an Ivy League college at that. Every time he met someone new, he managed to work it into the first few minutes of conversation. Mom and Dad, Brian pointed out, had options. They could move back to West Virginia or Phoenix. Mom could work. And she was not destitute. She had her collection of antique Indian jewelry, which she kept in a self-storage locker. There was the two-carat diamond ring that Brian and I had found under the rotten lumber back in Welch; she wore it even when sleeping on the street. She still owned property in Phoenix. And she had the land in Texas, the source of her oil-lease royalties. Brian was right. Mom did have options. I met her at a coffee shop to discuss them. First off, I suggested that she might think of finding an arrangement like mine: a room in someone’s nice apartment in exchange for taking care of children or the elderly. “I’ve spent my life taking care of other people,” Mom said. “Now it’s time to take care of me.” “But you’re not taking care of you.” “Do we have to have this conversation?” Mom asked. “I’ve seen some good movies lately. Can’t we talk about the movies?” I suggested to Mom that she sell her Indian jewelry. She wouldn’t consider it. She loved that jewelry. Besides, they were heirlooms and had sentimental value. I mentioned the land in Texas. “That land’s been in the family for generations,” Mom said, “and it’s staying in the family. You never sell land like that.” I asked about the property in Phoenix.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  “Not exactly,” I said. I was fumbling for words. “They do. But if some of them were willing to work hard and make compromises, they might not have ideal lives, but they could make ends meet.” Professor Fuchs walked around from behind her lectern. “What do you know about the lives of the underprivileged?” she asked. She was practically trembling with agitation. “What do you know about the hardships and obstacles that the underclass faces?” The other students were staring at me. “You have a point,” I said. THAT JANUARY IT GOT so cold you could see chunks of ice the size of cars floating down the Hudson River. On those midwinter nights, the homeless shelters filled up quickly. Mom and Dad hated the shelters. Human cesspools, Dad called them, goddamn vermin pits. Mom and Dad preferred to sleep on the pews of the churches that opened their doors to the homeless, but on some nights every pew in every church was taken. On those nights Dad would end up in a shelter, while Mom would show up at Lori’s, Tinkle in tow. At times like that, her cheerful facade would crack, and she’d start crying and confess to Lori that life in the streets could be hard, just really hard. For a while I considered dropping out of Barnard to help. It felt unbearably selfish, just downright wrong, to be indulging myself with an education in the liberal arts at a fancy private college while Mom and Dad were on the streets. But Lori convinced me that dropping out was a lamebrained idea. It wouldn’t do any good, she said, and besides, dropping out would break Dad’s heart. He was immensely proud that he had a daughter in college, and an Ivy League college at that. Every time he met someone new, he managed to work it into the first few minutes of conversation. Mom and Dad, Brian pointed out, had options. They could move back to West Virginia or Phoenix. Mom could work. And she was not destitute. She had her collection of antique Indian jewelry, which she kept in a self-storage locker. There was the two-carat diamond ring that Brian and I had found under the rotten lumber back in Welch; she wore it even when sleeping on the street. She still owned property in Phoenix. And she had the land in Texas, the source of her oil-lease royalties. Brian was right. Mom did have options. I met her at a coffee shop to discuss them. First off, I suggested that she might think of finding an arrangement like mine: a room in someone’s nice apartment in exchange for taking care of children or the elderly. “I’ve spent my life taking care of other people,” Mom said. “Now it’s time to take care of me.” “But you’re not taking care of you.”

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  Part of me wanted to do whatever I could to take care of Mom and Dad, and part of me just wanted to wash my hands of them. The cold came early that year, and every time I left the psychologist’s apartment, I found myself looking into the faces of the homeless people I passed on the street, wondering each time if one of them would turn out to be Mom or Dad. I usually gave homeless people whatever spare change I had, but I couldn’t help feeling like I was trying to ease my conscience about Mom and Dad wandering the streets while I had a steady job and a warm room to come home to. One day I was walking down Broadway with another student named Carol when I gave some change to a young homeless guy. “You shouldn’t do that,” Carol said. “Why?” “It only encourages them. They’re all scam artists.” What do you know? I wanted to ask. I felt like telling Carol that my parents were out there, too, that she had no idea what it was like to be down on your luck, with nowhere to go and nothing to eat. But that would have meant explaining who I really was, and I wasn’t about to do that. So at the next street corner, I went my way without saying a thing. I knew I should have stood up for Mom and Dad. I’d been pretty scrappy as a kid, and our family had always fought for one another, but back then we’d had no choice. The truth was, I was tired of taking on people who ridiculed us for the way we lived. I just didn’t have it in me to argue Mom and Dad’s case to the world. That was why I didn’t own up to my parents in front of Professor Fuchs. She was one of my favorite teachers, a tiny dark passionate woman with circles under her eyes who taught political science. One day Professor Fuchs asked if homelessness was the result of drug abuse and misguided entitlement programs, as the conservatives claimed, or did it occur, as the liberals argued, because of cuts in social-service programs and the failure to create economic opportunity for the poor? Professor Fuchs called on me. I hesitated. “Sometimes, I think, it’s neither.” “Can you explain yourself?” “I think that maybe sometimes people get the lives they want.” “Are you saying homeless people want to live on the street?” Professor Fuchs asked. “Are you saying they don’t want warm beds and roofs over their heads?” “Not exactly,” I said. I was fumbling for words. “They do. But if some of them were willing to work hard and make compromises, they might not have ideal lives, but they could make ends meet.” Professor Fuchs walked around from behind her lectern. “What do you know about the lives of the underprivileged?” she asked. She was practically trembling with agitation.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  38 ABBY INTRODUCED VIX to the School Volunteer Program the same way she introduced her to eligible young men. Vix signed up and every Wednesday night from six to eight she tutored a sixteen-year-old dropout, D’Nisha Cross, who was trying to get her GED. “Cool name, huh?” D’Nisha said at their first meeting. “Sound like a movie star or a rapper, don’t it?” “Very cool,” Vix agreed. When D’Nisha came to Vix’s place she checked it out, circling around a couple of times. “You could blade in here,” she told Vix. For a minute Vix felt guilty to be sharing eight hundred square feet with two friends while D’Nisha lived in the projects with who knows how many relatives. She had to remind herself it was okay, unfair maybe, but okay. “You read all these books?” D’Nisha asked, running her hand across a shelf of paperbacks. “Not all, but a lot.” “I like to read but not the stuff they gave us in school.” “Starting tonight you can choose whatever you want.” “Cool.” She browsed for a minute. “You married?” “No.” “Got a boyfriend?” “No.” “A computer?” “At work.” “I gotta learn computer. You learn computer you get a job.” Vix made a note to pick up some computer intro books. “You got luck?” D’Nisha asked. Was this some code word? A new drug? “What do you mean by luck?” Vix said, cautiously.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Trisha SHE SHOULD HAVE spent more time with Caitlin after Maizie was born but she was so busy building her dream house with Arthur. Lamb was right. As soon as he’d set her free her life turned around. Of course, if Lamb had chosen her over Phoebe way back when, if she’d had his children, none of this would have happened. But what’s the point in going on about that now? Bru looks dazed. The way he looked in church on his wedding day. But did he have to start up with Star again ... and so soon? As if Caitlin hadn’t happened, as if Maizie hadn’t? It’s all getting to be too much for her ... Lamb and his family. But Maizie is so sweet. She’d love to have a baby with Arthur. Is it too late? Maybe they can adopt. Suppose Caitlin had left Maizie with them? EVERYONE ASSUMES VIX knows more than she’s saying, that Caitlin still confides in her. She can tell they don’t really believe it when she swears she doesn’t have a clue. She’s in shock like the rest of them. But at least they know Caitlin is more or less okay. Lamb hired a detective who tracked her down in Barcelona. She signed divorce papers so Bru is free to marry Star, who’s seven months pregnant. He didn’t waste any time. Vix hates him for that. How ironic that Caitlin chose to leave her baby with Abby. Or maybe it’s what she always wanted for herself —to live with Lamb and Abby, to have a real sense of family—but out of some kind of loyalty to Phoebe she felt she couldn’t. Whenever they visit the Vineyard she and Gus stay in Caitlin’s room. Across the hall, in the room the Chicago Boys once shared, is the nursery, where Maizie sleeps clutching a pink pig. Phoebe FRANKLY, SHE CAN’T BELIEVE IT. Not that she’d expected the marriage to work. She’d always known it was just another of Caity’s games. But Maizie. For God’s sake! Even she didn’t abandon her children. And leaving her with Lamb and Abby. What kind of statement was that? Oh, please ... don’t tell her Caity wasn’t well loved! Don’t give her simplistic explanations. While she might not have been the most nurturing parent in the history of the universe, she was there, for crissakes! And Caity knew Lamb adored her. No, it’s something else. Some flaw. She wishes she could put her finger on it. Vix must know but she’s not talking. She’ll try to see Caity this summer. She’s already changed her plans to include Barcelona. Barcelona of all places. Why not Venice or Paris?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Debí haber insistido más cuando comenzó a dejarme fuera. Mucho más. Pero sé a quién debo culpar realmente por la brecha que hay entre nosotros. —Fui bueno con tu madre —le digo. Resopla, tomando otro gran sorbo de agua y todavía sin mirarme. Él le creerá. Aún no está listo para escucharme. Pero igualmente lo voy a decir. —Trabajé duro, los apoyé a ambos y fui fiel. —Me levanto del asiento y lo miro—. Puedes hacerme preguntas. No voy a mentir. Pero solo sacude la cabeza, termina el vaso y lo baja. —Tengo que darme una ducha. Se da vuelta para alejarse, pero no he terminado todavía. —¿Alguna vez no hice algo que me pediste que hiciera? —le pregunto. Se detiene pero no se vuelve. Cada vez que necesitaba dinero, se lo daba. Cada vez que necesitaba un aventón, yo estaba allí. Cada vez que quería ir a algún lado, ver algo, tomar una clase de karate o simplemente estar conmigo, siempre estuve allí para él. El dolor se extiende por mi pecho mientras le miro la espalda. Era un buen padre. Cuando me quería cerca. —¿Alguna vez me descubriste una mentira? —continúo. Una mentira que ella no le enseñó a creer, ¿verdad? Me mira por encima de su hombro, y puedo ver la lucha en sus ojos. Quiere estar enojado con algo o con alguien, y fui ese objetivo durante mucho tiempo, pero ahora no está seguro del por qué. Tiene que empezar a ver quién es su madre y qué le hace a la gente. Tiene que dejar de permitir que ella se lo haga. —Estoy aquí —digo—. ¿Está bien? Lo escucho respirar, su pecho subiendo y bajando y finalmente asiente, todavía parece vacilante, pero es algo. Luego se da vuelta y sale de la habitación, hacia las escaleras, pero de repente miro hacia la puerta principal, y algo se me ocurre. —¿Dónde está Jordan? —grito, caminando hacia la sala de estar. Está a mitad de camino por la escalera, pero vuelve a mirarme y niega, todavía sin hablar. —¿No la recogiste del trabajo anoche? —pregunto—. ¿No estaban juntos?

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  unloading his or her own accumulated grievances and blaming the others for allowing the most fragile one of us to break into pieces. The judge sent Maureen to an upstate hospital. She was released after a year and immediately bought a one-way bus ticket to California. I told Brian that we had to stop her. She didn’t know a single person in California. How would she survive? But Brian thought it was the smartest thing she could do for herself. He said she needed to get as far away from Mom and Dad, and probably the rest of us, as possible. I decided Brian was right. But I also hoped that Maureen had chosen California because she thought that was her true home, the place where she really belonged, where it was always warm and you could dance in the rain, pick grapes right off the vines, and sleep outside at night under the stars. Maureen did not want any of us to see her off. I rose just after first light the morning she was scheduled to leave. It was an early departure, and I wanted to be awake and thinking about her at the moment her bus pulled out, so I could say farewell in my mind. I went to the window and looked out at the cold, wet sky. I wondered if she was thinking of us and if she was going to miss us. I’d always had mixed feelings about bringing her to New York, but I’d agreed to let her come. Once she arrived, I’d been too busy taking care of myself to look after her. “I’m sorry, Maureen,” I said when the time came, “sorry for everything.”

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  There, the necessary sacrifices are laid down ‘if you unintentionally fail to observe all these commandments’. But at the end it is laid down: ‘But whoever acts high-handedly … affronts the Lord … shall be utterly cut off and bear the guilt.’ Deuteronomy 17:12 lays it down: ‘Anyone who presumes to disobey … that person shall die.’ The sin of ignorance is pardonable; the sin of presumption is not. Nevertheless, we must note that by the sin of ignorance the Jews meant more than simply lack of knowledge. They included the sins committed when someone was carried away in a moment of impulse or anger or passion or was overcome by some irresistible temptation, and the sins were followed by repentance. By the sin of presumption, they meant the cold, calculated sin for which the perpetrator was not in the least sorry, the open-eyed disobedience of God. So, the priest existed to open for sinners the way back to God – as long as they wanted to come back. (2) Priests must be at one with others. They must have gone through the same experiences and must be in full sympathy with others. At this point, the writer to the Hebrews stops to point out – he will later show that this is one of the ways in which Jesus Christ is superior to any earthly priest – that earthly priests are so at one with other people that they have an obligation to offer sacrifice for their own sin before they offer sacrifice for the sins of others. Priests must be bound up with other men and women in all that life brings. In connection with this, the writer used a wonderful word – metriopathein . We have translated it as to feel gently ; but it is really untranslatable. The Greeks defined a virtue as the mid-point between two extremes. On either hand, there was an extreme into which people might fall; in between, there was the right way. So, the Greeks defined metriopatheia (the corresponding noun) as the mid-point between extravagant grief and utter indifference. It was feeling about others in the right way. W. M. Macgregor, Principal of Trinity College, Glasgow, defined it as ‘the mid-course between explosions of anger and lazy indulgence’. The Greek philosopher and historian Plutarch spoke of that patience which was the child of metriopatheia . He spoke of it as that sympathetic feeling which enabled people to lift up and to save, to spare and to hear. Another Greek blames a man for having no metriopatheia and for therefore refusing to be reconciled with someone who had differed from him.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Chaucer’s Retractions Here taketh the makere of this book his leve ‘I make this request to all of those who hear or read this little treatise. If there be anything here that pleases them, they should thank our Lord Jesus Christ from whom proceeds all virtue and all wisdom. If there be anything here they dislike I beg them to ascribe the fault to my ignorance and not to my will. I would have written better if I possessed the gift of eloquence. The Bible tells us that words must be used to instruct us. That has always been my intention. ‘So I beseech you, for the mercy of God, to pray for me to Christ our Saviour. Plead with Him to forgive my sins, and especially my transgressions in the writing and translation of books of worldly vanity. I now revoke and condemn these books: Troilus and Criseyde, The Book of Fame, The Legend of Good Women, The Book of the Duchess, The Parliament of Fowls, and those stories of The Canterbury Tales that may be construed as sinful. I also recant The Book of the Lion and, if I could remember them, many other books. I renounce the songs and lecherous lays that I have written down, in the hope that Christ will forgive my trespasses. Grant me mercy, oh Lord. But for the translation of The Consolation of Boethius, for all the saints’ lives, for all the homilies and moral tales that tend to virtue - for all these I thank Christ and His blessed Mother, beseeching them and all the saints of heaven to pray for me now and at the hour of my death. Send me grace so that I may repent my sins and save my soul. Grant me true penitence, confession and absolution. In the merciful name of our Saviour, Jesus Christ, king of kings and priest of priests, who redeemed the world with His precious blood, may I be one of those saved on the day of doom. Qui cum Patre et Spiritu Sancto vivit et regnat Deus per omnia secula. Amen.’ I rose to my feet, and walked back to my horse. Heere is ended the book of the tales of Canterbury, compiled by Geoffrey Chaucer, of whos soule Jhesu Crist have mercy. Amen.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  He knelt so that he was looking up at me. “What is it?” he said. “Ask away.” “It’s big.” “Just ask, baby.” “I’m scared.” “You know if it’s humanly possible, I’ll get it for you. And if it ain’t humanly possible, I’ll die trying.” I looked up at the thin swirls of clouds high in the blue Arizona sky. Keeping my eyes fastened on those distant clouds, I took a breath and said, “Do you think you could maybe stop drinking?” Dad said nothing. He was staring down at the cement patio, and when he turned to me, his eyes had a wounded look, like a dog who’s been kicked. “You must be awfully ashamed of your old man,” he said. “No,” I said quickly. “It’s just I think Mom would be a lot happier. Plus, we’d have the extra money.” “You don’t have to explain,” Dad said. His voice was barely a whisper. He stood up and walked into the yard and sat down under the orange trees. I followed and sat down next to him. I was going to take his hand, but before I could reach for it, he said, “If you don’t mind, honey, I think I’d like to sit here by myself for a while.” • • • In the morning Dad told me that for the next few days, he was going to keep to himself in his bedroom. He wanted us kids to steer clear of him, to stay outside all day and play. Everything went fine for the first day. On the second day, when I came home from school, I heard a terrible groaning coming from the bedroom. “Dad?” I called. There was no answer. I opened the door. Dad was tied to the bed with ropes and belts. I don’t know if he had done it himself or if Mom helped him, but he was thrashing about, bucking and pulling at the restraints, yelling “No! ” and “Stop!” and “Oh my God!” His face was gray and dripping with sweat. I called out to him again, but he didn’t see or hear me. I went into the kitchen and filled an empty orange-juice jug with water. I sat with the jug next to Dad’s door in case he got thirsty. Mom saw me and told me to go outside and play. I told her I wanted to help Dad. She said there was nothing I could do, but I stayed by the door anyway. Dad’s delirium continued for days. When I came home from school, I’d get the jug of water, take up my position by the door, and wait there until bedtime. Brian and Maureen played outside, and Lori kept to the far side of the house. Mom painted in her studio. No one talked much about what was going on. One night when we were eating dinner, Dad let out a particularly hideous cry.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  She smiled. “Winter is one of my favorite seasons,” she said. I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to do whatever I could to take care of Mom and Dad, and part of me just wanted to wash my hands of them. The cold came early that year, and every time I left the psychologist’s apartment, I found myself looking into the faces of the homeless people I passed on the street, wondering each time if one of them would turn out to be Mom or Dad. I usually gave homeless people whatever spare change I had, but I couldn’t help feeling like I was trying to ease my conscience about Mom and Dad wandering the streets while I had a steady job and a warm room to come home to. One day I was walking down Broadway with another student named Carol when I gave some change to a young homeless guy. “You shouldn’t do that,” Carol said. “Why?” “It only encourages them. They’re all scam artists.” What do you know? I wanted to ask. I felt like telling Carol that my parents were out there, too, that she had no idea what it was like to be down on your luck, with nowhere to go and nothing to eat. But that would have meant explaining who I really was, and I wasn’t about to do that. So at the next street corner, I went my way without saying a thing. I knew I should have stood up for Mom and Dad. I’d been pretty scrappy as a kid, and our family had always fought for one another, but back then we’d had no choice. The truth was, I was tired of taking on people who ridiculed us for the way we lived. I just didn’t have it in me to argue Mom and Dad’s case to the world. That was why I didn’t own up to my parents in front of Professor Fuchs. She was one of my favorite teachers, a tiny dark passionate woman with circles under her eyes who taught political science. One day Professor Fuchs asked if homelessness was the result of drug abuse and misguided entitlement programs, as the conservatives claimed, or did it occur, as the liberals argued, because of cuts in social-service programs and the failure to create economic opportunity for the poor? Professor Fuchs called on me. I hesitated. “Sometimes, I think, it’s neither.” “Can you explain yourself?” “I think that maybe sometimes people get the lives they want.” “Are you saying homeless people want to live on the street?” Professor Fuchs asked. “Are you saying they don’t want warm beds and roofs over their heads?”