Joy

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 Middlesex (2002)

  a long, fuzzy microphone like a dirty, rolled-up bathmat. Jerome was by this time pointedly not speaking to me. They set up in a small equipment shed on the property. The Object and I decided to see what they were doing. Jerome had told us to stay away, so we couldn't resist. We crept up, moving from tree to tree. We had to stop often to fight off laugh attacks, slapping at each other, avoiding each other's eyes until we could control ourselves. At the back win- dow of the equipment shed we peeked in. Not much was happening. One of Jerome's friends was taping a light to the wall. It was hard for us both to see through the small window at once, so the Object got in front of me. She placed my hands on her belly and held my wrists. Still, her attention was officially given over to what was going on in- side the shed. Jerome appeared, dressed as the preppy vampire. Inside the tradi- tional Dracula waistcoat, he wore a pink Lacoste shirt. Instead of a bow tie he had an ascot. His black hair was slicked back, his face 384 whitened with a cosmetic, and he carried a cocktail shaker. One of his friends held a broomstick dangling a rubber bat. Another operated the camera. "Action," said Jerome. He lifted the cocktail shaker. He shook it with both hands. Meanwhile the bat swooped and fluttered above his head. Jerome removed the lid and poured the blood into the martini glasses. He held one up for his friend the bat, who promptiy plopped into it. Jerome sipped his blood cocktail. "Just how you like it, Muffle," he said to the bat. "Very dry." Under my hands the Object's stomach jiggled as she laughed. She leaned back into me and her flesh captured in my arms shook and yielded. I pressed my pelvis against her. All this went on secredy be- hind the shed, like a game of footsie. But then the cameraman low- ered his camera. He pointed at us and Jerome turned around. His eyes fixed on my hands and then rose to my eyes. He bared his fangs, burning me with a look. And then shouted in his regular voice, "Get the hell out of here, you fuckers! We're shooting." He came up to the window and struck it, but we were already running away.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  the old times, but he continued to badger her about her future, picking at BY LAWRENCE VENUTI that old wound. At Christmas he was back in Eastwood, and when he visited her he seemed exultant. He had decided that it was Jessie he should marry, that he had in fact been attracted to her all along. They should keep it quiet for a while; although his writing career was taking off (his first 205 206 • The Art of Seduction "What can Love be novel was about to be published), he needed to make more money. Caught then?" I said. "A off guard by this sudden announcement, and overwhelmed with happiness, mortal?" "Far from it." Jessie agreed to everything, and they became lovers. "Well, what?" "As in my previous examples, he is Soon, however, the familiar pattern repeated: criticisms, breakups, an-half-way between mortal nouncements that he was engaged to another girl. This only deepened his and immortal." What sort hold on her. It was not until 1912 that she finally decided never to see him of being is he then, Diotima?" "He is a great again, disturbed by his portrayal of her in the autobiographical novel Sons spirit, Socrates; everything and Lovers. But Lawrence remained a lifelong obsession for her. that is of the nature of a In 1913, a young English woman named Ivy Low, who had read spirit is half-god and half-man." . . . "Who are his Lawrence's novels, began to correspond with him, her letters gushing with parents?" I asked. "That admiration. By now Lawrence was married, to a German woman, the is rather a long story," she Baroness Frieda von Richthofen. To Low's surprise, though, he invited her answered, "but I will tell to visit him and his wife in Italy. She knew he was probably something of a you. On the day that Aphrodite was born the Don Juan, but was eager to meet him, and accepted his invitation. gods were feasting, among Lawrence was not what she had expected: his voice was high-pitched, his them Contrivance the son eyes were piercing, and there was something vaguely feminine about him. of Invention; and after dinner, seeing that a party Soon they were taking walks together, with Lawrence confiding in Low. was in progress, Poverty She felt that they were becoming friends, which delighted her. Then sud-came to beg and stood at denly, just before she was to leave, he launched into a series of criticisms of the door. Now Contrivance was drunk with nectar— her—she was so unspontaneous, so predictable, less human being than ro-wine, I may say, had not bot. Devastated by this unexpected attack, she nevertheless had to agree— yet been discovered— and what he had said was true. What could he have seen in her in the first went out into the garden of place? Who was she anyway? Low left Italy feeling empty—but then Zeus, and was overcome by sleep. So Poverty, thinking

• From Middlesex (2002)

  I didn't say anything about the Object. "Okay, in some cultures we're considered freaks," she went on. But in others it's just the opposite. The Navajo have a category of person they call a berdache. What a berdache is, basically, is someone who adopts a gender other than their biological one. Remember, Cal. Sex is biological. Gender is cultural. The Navajo understand this. If a person wants to switch her gender, they let her. And they don't denigrate that person— they honor her. The berdaches are the shamans of the tribe. They're the healers, the great weavers, the artists." I wasn't the only one! Listening to Zora, that was mainly what hit home with me. I knew right then that I had to stay in San Francisco for a while. Fate or luck had brought me here and I had to take from it what I needed. It didn't matter what I might be compelled to do to make money. I just wanted to stay with Zora, to learn from her, and to be less alone in the world. I was already stepping through the charmed door of those druggy, celebratory, youthful days. By that first afternoon the soreness in my ribs was already lessening. Even the air seemed on fire, subdy aflame with energy as it does when you are young, when the synapses are firing wildly and death is far away. Zora was writing a book. She claimed it was going to be pub- 489 lished by a small press in Berkeley. She showed me the publisher's catalogue. The selections were eclectic, books on Buddhism, on the mystery cult of Mithras, even a strange book (a hybrid itself) mixing genetics, cellular biology, and Hindu mysticism. What Zora was working on would certainly have fit this list. But I was never clear how actual her publishing plans were. In the years since, I've looked out for Zora's book, which was called The Sacred Hermaphrodite. I've never found it. If she never finished it, it wasn't a question of ability. I read most of the book myself. At my age then, I wasn't much of a judge of literary or academic quality, but Zora's learning was real. She had gone into her subject and had much of it by heart. Her book- shelves were full of anthropology texts and works by French struc- turalists and deconstructionists. She wrote nearly every day. She spread her papers and books out on her desk and took notes and typed. "I've got one question," I asked Zora one day. "Why did you ever tell anybody?" "What do you mean?" "Look at you. No one would ever know." "I want people to know, Cal." "How come?" Zora folded her long legs under herself. With her fairy's eyes, paisley-shaped, blue and glacial looking into mine, she said, "Because we're what's next."

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  Even minus the books she’d lost in the miniflood, I could have stayed up until morning reading through the haphazard stacks of titles. A dozen white tulips in a plastic vase were precariously perched atop one of the book stacks, and when I asked her about them, she just said, “Jake and my’s anniversary,” and I didn’t care to continue that line of dialogue, so I went back to scanning titles, and I was just wondering how I could go about learning Edgar Allan Poe’s last words (for the record: “Lord help my poor soul”) when I heard Alaska say, “Pudge isn’t even listening to us.” And I said, “I’m listening.” “We were just talking about Truth or Dare. Played out in seventh grade or still cool?” “Never played it,” I said. “No friends in seventh grade.” “Well, that does it!” she shouted, a bit too loud given the late hour and also given the fact that she was openly drinking wine in the room. “Truth or Dare!” “All right,” I agreed, “but I’m not making out with the Colonel.” The Colonel sat slumped in the corner. “Can’t make out. Too drunk.” Alaska started. “Truth or Dare, Pudge.” “Dare.” “Hook up with me.” So I did. It was that quick. I laughed, looked nervous, and she leaned in and tilted her head to the side, and we were kissing. Zero layers between us. Our tongues dancing back and forth in each other’s mouth until there was no her mouth and my mouth but only our mouths intertwined. She tasted like cigarettes and Mountain Dew and wine and ChapStick. Her hand came to my face and I felt her soft fingers tracing the line of my jaw. We lay down as we kissed, she on top of me, and I began to move beneath her. I pulled away for a moment, to say, “What is going on here?” and she put one finger to her lips and we kissed again. A hand grabbed one of mine and she placed it on her stomach. I moved slowly on top of her and felt her arching her back fluidly beneath me. I pulled away again. “What about Lara? Jake?” Again, she sshed me. “Less tongue, more lips,” she said, and I tried my best. I thought the tongue was the whole point, but she was the expert. “Christ,” the Colonel said quite loudly. “That wretched beast, drama, draws nigh.” But we paid no attention. She moved my hand from her waist to her breast, and I felt cautiously, my fingers moving slowly under her shirt but over her bra, tracing the outline of her breasts and then cupping one in my hand, squeezing softly. “You’re good at that,” she whispered.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  “I do what I can to represent the ladies. Lara had my back.” “Yeah, I deed.” And then Alaska decided that although it wasn’t nearly dark yet, it was time for us to get shitfaced. “Two nights in a row is maybe pushing our luck,” Takumi said as Alaska opened the wine. “Luck is for suckers.” She smiled and put the bottle to her lips. We had saltines and a hunk of Cheddar cheese provided by the Colonel for dinner, and sipping the warm pink wine out of the bottle with our cheese and saltines made for a fine dinner. And when we ran out of cheese, well, all the more room for Strawberry Hill. “We have to slow down or I’ll puke,” I remarked after we finished the first bottle. “I’m sorry, Pudge. I wasn’t aware that someone was holding open your throat and pouring wine down it,” the Colonel responded, tossing me a bottle of Mountain Dew. “It’s a little charitable to call this shit wine,” Takumi cracked. And then, as if out of nowhere, Alaska announced, “Best Day/Worst Day!” “Huh?” I asked. “We are all going to puke if we just drink. So we’ll slow it down with a drinking game. Best Day/Worst Day.” “Never heard of it,” the Colonel said. “’Cause I just made it up.” She smiled. She lay on her side across two bales of hay, the afternoon light brightening the green in her eyes, her tan skin the last memory of fall. With her mouth half open, it occurred to me that she must already be drunk as I noticed the far-off look in her eyes. The thousand-yard stare of intoxication, I thought, and as I watched her with an idle fascination, it occurred to me that, yeah, I was a little drunk, too. “Fun! What are the rules?” Lara asked. “Everybody tells the story of their best day. The best storyteller doesn’t have to drink. Then everybody tells the story of their worst day, and the best storyteller doesn’t have to drink. Then we keep going, second best day, second worst day, until one of y’all quits.” “How do you know it’ll be one of us?” Takumi asked. “’Cause I’m the best drinker and the best storyteller,” she answered. Hard to disagree with that logic. “You start, Pudge. Best day of your life.” “Um. Can I take a minute to think of one?” “Couldn’ta been that good if you have to think about it,” the Colonel said. “Fuck you, dude.” “Touchy.” “Best day of my life was today,” I said. “And the story is that I woke up next to a very pretty Hungarian girl and it was cold but not too cold and I had a cup of lukewarm instant coffee and ate Cheerios without milk and then walked through the woods with Alaska and Takumi. We skipped stones across the creek, which sounds dumb but it wasn’t. I don’t know.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  A week later the two women walk into Buy Buy Baby, a two-story chain store that sells motherhood as a lifestyle. As the automatic doors shush closed behind them, Katrina slings her jacket over her purse, and then, to Reese’s surprise, takes Reese’s hand in her own, and intertwines their fingers. It creates, to Reese, a confusingly dyke- coded moment: two women walking into a Chelsea store to create a baby registry. The suggestion that their new partnership, that of raising a child, could bleed into romance has haunted the past few weeks. Katrina and Reese had even begun to joke together about the necessity of Ames to the project—that perhaps he had already made his big “contribution,” and they could take it from here. This hand-holding, however, is the first time that Katrina has initiated any kind of intimate touch. Reese isn’t sure how she feels about it. Maybe Katrina herself needs the emotional support physically, and Reese wonders whether, in proper lesbian fashion, they really ought to stop and process this moment. But Katrina isn’t stopping: She keeps a firm grip on Reese’s hand and leads her past a fleet of strollers, where a few of the particularly sporty models stand spotlit on pedestals, the way a dealer’s prize Corvette lords it over the anonymous sedans at the Chevy showroom. Past the strollers, following a fence that encloses what seems to be an acre of baby clothing, stands a lounge adorned with a large REGISTRY sign. There, a young woman in a flowered blouse sits behind a large desk. The woman doesn’t yet look old enough to be a mother herself, which Reese finds comforting—perhaps without personal mothering experience, this woman will not detect Reese’s motherly lack. Katrina, still holding Reese’s hand, announces their intention to create a baby registry with the tone a groom uses to claim that he and his betrothed shall be wed on the morrow. The woman behind the desk surveys the apparent couple standing before her with a practiced nonchalance, offers them water, and leads Katrina and Reese to a low couch in a little lounge area beside her desk. There, she hands them a tote bag of brochures, free samples of baby goods, and a large bar-code scanner. Katrina eyes the scanner doubtfully, and the woman explains that any item in the store that they scan will be immediately added to their baby registry. The vibe of the little in-store lounge reminds Reese of her visits to a medical spa for Botox or laser. There lingers the faint suggestion that this is a place where other women understand what you as a woman might need and will be prepared to provide it to you—but with the good taste and discretion never to ask directly what might bother you about your body.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  Like the way the sun is right now, with the long shadows and that kind of bright, soft light you get when the sun isn’t quite setting? That’s the light that makes everything better, everything prettier, and today, everything just seemed to be in that light. I mean, I didn’t do anything. But just sitting here, even if I’m watching the Colonel whittle, or whatever. Whatever. Great day. Today. Best day of my life.” “You think I’m pretty?” Lara said, and laughed, bashful. I thought, It’d be good to make eye contact with her now , but I couldn’t. “And I’m Romaneean! ” “That story ended up being a hell of a lot better than I thought it would be,” Alaska said, “but I’ve still got you beat.” “Bring it on, baby,” I said. A breeze picked up, the tall grass outside the barn tilting away from it, and I pulled my sleeping bag over my shoulders to stay warm. “Best day of my life was January 9, 1997. I was eight years old, and my mom and I went to the zoo on a class trip. I liked the bears. She liked the monkeys. Best day ever. End of story.” “That’s it?!” the Colonel said. “That’s the best day of your whole life?!” “Yup.” “I liked eet,” Lara said. “I like the monkeys, too.” “Lame,” said the Colonel. I didn’t think it was lame so much as more of Alaska’s intentional vagueness, another example of her furthering her own mysteriousness. But still, even though I knew it was intentional, I couldn’t help but wonder: What’s so fucking great about the zoo? But before I could ask, Lara spoke. “’Kay, my turn,” said Lara. “Eet’s easy. The day I came here. I knew Engleesh and my parents deedn’t, and we came off the airplane and my relatives were here, aunts and uncles I had not ever seen, in the airport, and my parents were so happy. I was twelve, and I had always been the leetle baby, but that was the first day that my parents needed me and treated me like a grown-up. Because they did not know the language, right? They need me to order food and to translate tax and immigration forms and everytheeng else, and that was the day they stopped treating me like a keed. Also, in Romania, we were poor. And here, we’re kinda reech.” She laughed. “All right.” Takumi smiled, grabbing the bottle of wine. “I lose. Because the best day of my life was the day I lost my virginity. And if you think I’m going to tell you that story, you’re gonna have to get me drunker than this.” “Not bad,” the Colonel said. “That’s not bad. Want to know my best day?” “That’s the game, Chip,” Alaska said, clearly annoyed. “Best day of my life hasn’t happened yet. But I know it. I see it every day.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  facts: thattobe happyyou havetofindvariety inrepetition;thatto go forwardyouhave tocomebackwhereyou began. Or,inmy grandparents'case,thecirclingworked likethis: as they paced aroundthedeck thefirsttime,LeftyandDesdemonawerestill brotherand sister.Thesecondtime,theywerebrideandbride- groom.And thethird, they werehusbandandwife. The nightofmy grandparents' wedding,thesunset directiy before theship'sbow, pointingthe waytoNew York.Themoonrose, cast- inga silverstripeovertheocean.Onhisnighdytourofthe deck, Captain Kontoulisdescendedfromthepilothouseandmarched for- ward.Thewindhadpickedup.TheGiuliapitchedinhighseas.As thedecktiltedbackandforth,CaptainKontoulisdidn'tstumble once,andwasevenabletolightoneoftheIndonesiancigaretteshe favored,dippinghiscap'sbraidedbrimtocutthewind.Inhisnot terriblyclean uniform,wearingknee-highCretanboots,Captain Kontoulisscrutinized runninglights,stackeddeckchairs,lifeboats. TheGiuliawasalone onthevastAtiantic,hatchesbatteneddown againstswellscrashing overtheside.Thedeckswereemptyexcept for twofirst-class passengers,Americanbusinessmensharinganight- cap underlapblankets."From whatIhear,Tildendoesn'tjustplay tennis withhisproteges, ifyougetmydrift.""You'rekidding.""Lets themdrink fromthelovingcup." CaptainKontoulis, understanding noneofthis, nodded as he passed... Inside oneof thelifeboats,Desdemona was saying,"Don'tlook." Shewas lyingonher back. There was no goat's-hairblanketbetween them, soLeftycoveredhis eyes withhishands, peekingthroughhis fingers. A singlepinholeinthetarpleakedmoonlight,whichslowly filledthe lifeboat. LeftyhadseenDesdemonaundressmanytimes, butusually asno morethana shadow andneverin moonlight.She hadnever curled ontoher backlikethis,liftingher feet totakeoffher shoes. He watchedand,asshe pulled downherskirt andliftedher tunic, was struck byhow differenthissisterlooked,inmoonlight,in alifeboat. She glowed.Shegaveoffwhitelight.Heblinkedbehindhis hands. The moonlight kept rising;itcoveredhisneck,itreachedhis eyes until he understood: Desdemonawaswearing a corset.That was the other thing she'dbroughtalong:thewhite clothenfolding her silkworm eggswasnothingotherthanDesdemona'sweddingcorset. 69 She thought she'dnever wearit,buthereitwas.Brassierecups pointedup at the canvasroof.Whaleboneslatssqueezedherwaist. The corset's skirt droppedgartersattached to nothingbecause my grandmotherowned nostockings.Inthelifeboat, the corset ab- sorbed allavailable moonlight,withthe oddresultthatDesdemona's face,head, andarms disappeared.Shelooked likeWingedVictory, tumbled onherback,beingcartedoffto a conqueror'smuseum.All that was missing was thewings. Leftytookoffhisshoes and socks,asgritraineddown.Whenhe removed hisunderwear,thelifeboatfilledwith a mushroomy smell. Hewasashamed momentarily, butDesdemonadidn'tseemtomind. Shewasdistractedbyherownmixedfeelings.Thecorset,of course,remindedDesdemonaofhermother, and suddenly the wrongnessofwhattheyweredoingassailedher.Untilnowshehad beenkeepingit atbay. Shehadhadnotime to dwell on it inthe chaos ofthelastdays. Lefty,too, was conflicted.Thoughhehad been tortured by thoughtsofDesdemona, hewasgladforthedarknessofthelifeboat, glad,inparticular,thathecouldn't seeherface. FormonthsLeftyhad sleptwith whoreswhoresembledDesdemona,butnowhefoundit easier topretendthatshe wasa stranger. Thecorset seemedtopossessitsownsetsofhands.Onewas softly rubbing herbetweenthelegs.Twomorecuppedherbreasts, one, two,threehands pressingandcaressingher; andinthelingerie Desdemona sawherselfthrough neweyes, herthinwaist,herplump thighs; shefelt beautiful, desirable,mostof all:notherself.Shelifted herfeet, restedher calvesontheoarlocks.She spreadherlegs.She opened her arms forLefty, whotwisted around, chafing hisknees and elbows, dislodging oars,nearlysetting off a flare,untilfinallyhe fellinto her softness, swooning.Forthefirsttime Desdemonatasted the flavor ofhis mouth, and theonly sisterlything shedidduring their lovemaking was tocomeupforair, once,tosay,"Bad boy. You've done this before." ButLeftyonlykept repeating, "Not like this,notlikethis . . ." AndIwaswrong before, Itakeit back. Underneath Desdemona, beatingtime against the boards andliftingherup: a pairofwings. "Lefty!"Desdemona now, breathlessly."I think Ifeltit." "Feltwhat?" "Youknow. That feeling? 70 "Newlyweds," CaptainKontoulissaid,watchingthelifeboatrock. "Oh, tobe young again." After Princess SiLing-chi—whomIfindmyselfpicturingastheim- perial version ofthe bicyclist IsawontheU-Bahntheotherday;I can't stop thinkingabout herfor somereason,Ikeeplookingforher every morning— afterPrincessSiLing-chi discoveredsilk,hernation keptita secretfor threethousand one hundred andninetyyears. Anyonewho attemptedtosmugglesilkworm eggsoutofChina faced punishment ofdeath.Myfamilymightnever havebecomesilk farmersifit hadn'tbeenfortheEmperor Justinian, who,according toProcopius, persuadedtwomissionaries to riskit. Ina.d. 550, the missionaries snucksilkworm eggsout ofChinain theswallowedcon- domofthe time: a hollowstaff.They alsobroughttheseedsofthe mulberrytree.As a result,Byzantiumbecame acenterfor sericulture. Mulberrytreesflourished on Turkish hillsides.Silkwormsatethe leaves. Fourteenhundred yearslater,thedescendantsofthosefirst stolen eggs filledmy grandmother'ssilkwormboxontheGiulia. I'mthedescendant ofasmugglingoperation,too.Withouttheir knowing,mygrandparents, ontheirwaytoAmerica,wereeachcar- ryingasinglemutated geneon the fifthchromosome.Itwasn'tare- centmutation.According toDr. Luce, thegenefirstappearedinmy bloodline sometimearound 1750, in thebodyofonePenelope Evan- gelatos, mygreat-grandmother to the ninthpower.Shepassed iton toherson Petras,who passed iton to his twodaughters,who passed itontothree oftheirfivechildren,andsoonand soon. Beingreces- sive,itsexpression wouldhavebeenfitful.Sporadicheredityiswhat thegeneticists callit.Atraitthatgoesundergroundfordecades only toreappear wheneveryone has forgotten aboutit.Thatwas howit went inBithynios. Every so oftenahermaphrodite was born,aseem- inggirl who, ingrowing up, proved otherwise. For thenext sixnights,undervariousmeteorological conditions, my grandparents trystedinthelifeboat.Desdemona's guiltflared up dur- ing the day, whenshesatondeckwonderingifsheand Leftywereto blame for everything, butby nighttimeshefeltlonelyandwantedto escape the cabinandsostolebacktothelifeboatand hernewhus- band. Their honeymoonproceeded in reverse.Insteadofgetting to 71

• From Middlesex (2002)

  And then, somewhere belowthis, myheartreacting. Nota thump exactly. Not evenaleap. Butakindof swish,like a frog kicking offfrom amuddy bank.Myheart,thatamphibian,mov- ing diat momentbetweentwo elements: one,excitement;theother, fear.I triedtopay attention. Itried tohold upmyendofthings.But Clementine waswayahead ofme. She swiveled herheadbackand forththeway actressesdidin themovies.I starteddoingthesame, butout ofthe cornerof hermouth shescolded,"You're theman."So I stopped.I stoodstifflywith arms at my sides.FinallyClementine brokeoff thekiss.Shelooked atmeblankly a moment, andthenre- sponded, "Notbadforyourfirst time." "Mo-om!"Ishouted,cominghometiiatevening."Imade a fri-end!" ItoldTessieabout Clementine, theoldrugsonthewalls,thepretty mother doingexercises,omittingonlythe kissinglessons.Fromthe beginningI was awarethattherewassomethingimproper about the way IfeltaboutClementineStark,somethingIshouldn'ttellmy mother,butIwouldn'thave beenable to articulateit. I didn'tcon- nectthisfeelingtosex.I didn'tknowsexexisted."CanIinviteher over?" "Sure,"saidTessie,relievedthat mylonelinessintheneighbor- hoodwasnowover. "Ibetshe'sneverseena house like ours." And nowitisacool, gray Octoberdayaweekorsolater. From thebackof ayellowhouse, two girlsemerge, playinggeisha. We have coiled upourhairandcrossed take-out chopsticks init.We wearsan- dalsand silkshawls.We carry umbrellas, pretendingthey'reparasols. Iknow bitsofThe Flower DrumSon0^ whichIsingaswe traversethe courtyard and mountthe steps tothe badihouse.Wecome inthe door,failing to noticea dark shape inthe corner.Inside,thebathisa bright, bubbling turquoise. Silk robes fallto floor.Twogiggling flamingos, one fair-skinned, the other lightolive,testthe waterwith one toe each."It's too hot." "It's supposed tobethat way.""You first." "No, you." "Okay." And then: in.Both ofus.The smellof red- wood andeucalyptus. The smellof sandalwood soap.Clementine's hair plastered to her skull. Her foot appearing nowand then above the water like a shark fin. We laugh, float, wastemy mother's bath beads. Steamrises from the surface so thick itobscuresthe walls, the ceiling, the dark shape in the corner. I'm examining the arches ofmy 265 feet, tryingtounderstandwhatitmeans thattheyhave "fallen,"when Isee Clementinebreasting throughthewater tome.Her faceap- pearsoutofthesteam.Ithinkwe'regoing tokissagain, butinstead shewrapsherlegsaroundmywaist. She'slaughinghysterically, cov- eringhermouth.Her eyeswidenandshe says into myear, "Get somecomfort."Shehootslikeamonkey and pulls me backontoa shelfinthe tub. Ifall between her legs,Ifallon top of her,wesink ... andthenwe'retwirling,spinninginthe water,meontop,then her, thenme,and giggling, and makingbirdcries.Steamenvelops us, cloaksus;lightsparklesontheagitatedwater; andwekeepspinning, sothatatsomepointI'mnotsurewhichhandsaremine,whichlegs. Wearen'tkissing.Thisgameisfarlessserious, moreplayful,free- style,butwe'regrippingeachother,tryingnottolettheother'sslip- perybodygo,andour knees bump,ourtummiesslap,ourhipsslide backandforth.VarioussubmergedsoftnessesonClementine's body aredeliveringcrucialinformationtomine,informationIstoreaway but won'tunderstanduntilyearslater.Howlong do wespin?Ihave noidea.Butatsomepointwegettired.Clementinebeachesonthe shelf, withmeontop.Iriseonmykneestoget mybearings— and thenfreeze,hotwaterornot.Forrightthere,sittinginthecornerof theroom— ismygrandfather! I see him fora second,leaningover sideways— is helaughing?angry?—andthenthesteamrisesagain andblots himout. Iamtoostunnedtomoveorspeak.Howlonghashebeenthere? Whatdid hesee?"Wewerejustdoingwater ballet,"Clementinesays lamely. Thesteampartsagain.Leftyhasn'tmoved.He's sittingex- actlyasbefore, headtiltedtooneside.He looksaspaleasClemen- tine. For onecrazysecondIthinkhe's playingourdrivinggame, pretendingtosleep, but thenIunderstandthat hewillneverplay anythingever again... Andnextalltheintercomsinthehouseare wailing.Ishoutto Tessieinthekitchen,whoshoutstoMiltoninthe den,whoshoutsto Desdemonainthe guesthouse. "Comequick! Something'swrong with papoul" Andthen morescreamingand an ambulanceflashingits lights andmy mothertelling Clementineit's time forhertogohome now. Later that night:thespotiight rises ontwo roomsinour new house on Middlesex.In one pooloflight,anold womancrosses her- 266

• From Middlesex (2002)

  age spots our parents had.Itmakesus sniffin idiosyncratic,recog- nizable family ways. Genesembeddedsodeeptheycontrol oureye muscles, sothat two sistershavethatsame way ofblinking, andboy twins dribble inunison.I feelmyselfsometimes,in anxiousmoods, playing withthe cartilageofmynoseexactlyasmybrother does.Our throats andvoice boxes,formedfromthesameinstructions, pressair out in similartonesand decibels. Andthiscanbeextrapolated back- wardintime,so thatwhenI speak, Desdemona speaks,too.She's writing thesewordsnow.Desdemona,whohadnoideaofthearmy insideher,carryingout itsmillionorders,orof theonesoldierwho disobeyed, goingAWOL ... .. .RunninglikeLeftyawayfromLucilleKafkalisandbacktohis sister.She heardhisfeethurrying as shewasrefasteningherskirt. She wiped hereyeswithherkerchiefand puta smileon as hecame throughthe door. "So, whichonedidyouchoose?" Leftysaidnothing,inspectinghissister.Hehadn'tsharedabed- room withherallhislifenot tobeableto tellwhenshe'dbeen cry- ing.Herhairwasloose,coveringmostofherface, but theeyesthat lookedupathimwerebrimmingwithfeeling."Neitherone," hesaid. At that Desdemona felt tremendoushappiness.Butshe said, "What'sthematterwithyou?Youhavetochoose." "Thosegirlslooklike a coupleofwhores." "Lefty!" "It'strue." "Youdon't wanttomarrythem?" "No." "Youhave to."Sheheldoutherfist."IfIwin, youmarryLucille." Lefty, who couldneverresist abet, madea fist himself. "One, two,three . ..shoot! "Axbreaks rock," Leftysaid."Iwin." "Again,"saidDesdemona."Thistime,ifI win,you marryVicky. One,two,three.. ." "Snake swallows ax.Iwin again! So longto Vicky." "Then who willyou marry?" "Idon'tknow"—takingherhandsand looking down at her. "How aboutyou?" "ToobadI'm yoursister." 38 "You'renotonlymy sister. You'remy thirdcousin,too.Third cousinscanmarry." "You're crazy, Lefty." "This way will beeasier. Wewon't have to rearrange thehouse." Joking butnot joking, Desdemona andLeftyembraced. Atfirst they justhuggedinthe standard way,but aftertensecondsthehug begantochange;certain positionsof thehandsandstrokings ofthe fingersweren'tthe usualdisplaysof siblingaffection,and these things constituted alanguage oftheirown, announcedawhole newmessage in thesilentroom. Leftybeganwaltzing Desdemona around,European-style;hewaltzed heroutside,acrosstheyard,over tothe cocoonery, andbackunderthe grapearbor,andshelaughed and coveredher mouthwithherhand."You're agooddancer, cousin,"shesaid,andherheartjumpedagain,makingherthinkshe might dierightthenandthereinLefty's arms,butofcourseshe didn't;theydanced on.Andlet'snotforgetwheretheyweredancing, inBithynios,that mountainvillagewherecousinssometimesmarried thirdcousins andeveryonewassomehowrelated;sothatasthey danced,they startedholdingeach othermoretightiy,stoppedjoking, andthenjust dancedtogether,asa manand a woman,inlonelyand pressingcircumstances, mightsometimesdo. Andin the middleof this, beforeanythinghadbeensaidoutright oranydecisionsmade (before firewouldmakethose decisionsfor them),rightthen, mid-waltz, theyheard explosionsinthedistance, andlookeddowntosee, in firelight,theGreekArmyinfull retreat. 39 AH MODEST PROPOSAL escendedfrom Asia MinorGreeks,borninAmerica,IliveinEu- ropenow.Specifically,intheSchonebergdistrictof Berlin. The Foreign Serviceissplitintotwoparts,thediplomaticcorpsand the cultural staff.Theambassadorandhisaidesconductforeign policyfromthenewlyopened,extensivelybarricadedembassyon NeustadtischeKirchstrasse.Ourdepartment(inchargeof readings, lectures,andconcerts)operatesoutofthecolorfulconcreteboxof Amerika Haus. ThismorningItookthetrain to workasusual.TheU-Bahncar- riedme gentiywest fromKleistpark to BerlinerStrasseandthen,af- ter aswitch,northwardtowardZoologischerGarten. Stations of the formerWest Berlinpassedoneafter another.Mostwerelastremod- eledinthe seventiesandhavethecolorsof suburbankitchensfrom mychildhood: avocado, cinnamon,sunflower yellow.AtSpichern- strassethetrain haltedtoconductan exchangeof bodies. Outon theplatform astreetmusicianplayeda teary Slavicmelody onan accordion.Wing tips gleaming,myhairstill damp,Iwasflipping throughthe Frankfurter Allgemcimwhen she rolledherunthinkable bicyclein. You usedtobeabletotella person's nationalitybytheface. Immigration endedthat.Nextyou discerned nationalityviathe footwear.Globalization ended that. Those Finnish sealpuppies, those German flounders— youdon'tsee them much anymore.Only Nikes, onBasque,onDutch,on Siberianfeet. 40

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  “I could have done that.” “Sure, but then you wouldn’t have gotten to wear that sexy hat,” the Colonel said, laughing. Takumi took the headband off and put it in his bag. “Kevin is going to be pissed about his hair,” I said. “Yeah, well, I’m really pissed about my waterlogged library. Kevin is a blowup doll,” Alaska said. “Prick us, we bleed. Prick him, he pops.” “It’s true,” said Takumi. “The guy is a dick. He kind of tried to kill you, after all.” “Yeah, I guess,” I acknowledged. “There are a lot of people here like that,” Alaska went on, still fuming. “You know? Fucking blowup-doll rich kids.” But even though Kevin had sort of tried to kill me and all, he really didn’t seem worth hating. Hating the cool kids takes an awful lot of energy, and I’d given up on it a long time ago. For me, the prank was just a response to a previous prank, just a golden opportunity to, as the Colonel said, wreak a little havoc. But to Alaska, it seemed to be something else, something more. I wanted to ask her about it, but she lay back down behind the piles of hay, invisible again. Alaska was done talking, and when she was done talking, that was it. We didn’t coax her out for two hours, until the Colonel unscrewed a bottle of wine. We passed around the bottle till I could feel it in my stomach, sour and warm. I wanted to like booze more than I actually did (which is more or less the precise opposite of how I felt about Alaska). But that night, the booze felt great, as the warmth of the wine in my stomach spread through my body. I didn’t like feeling stupid or out of control, but I liked the way it made everything (laughing, crying, peeing in front of your friends) easier. Why did we drink? For me, it was just fun, particularly since we were risking expulsion. The nice thing about the constant threat of expulsion at Culver Creek is that it lends excitement to every moment of illicit pleasure. The bad thing, of course, is that there is always the possibility of actual expulsion. two days before I WOKE UP EARLY the next morning, my lips dry and my breath visible in the crisp air. Takumi had brought a camp stove in his backpack, and the Colonel was huddled over it, heating instant coffee. The sun shone bright but could not combat the cold, and I sat with the Colonel and sipped the coffee (“The thing about instant coffee is that it smells pretty good but tastes like stomach bile,” the Colonel said), and then one by one, Takumi and Lara and Alaska woke up, and we spent the day hiding out, but loudly. Hiding out loud. — At the barn that afternoon, Takumi decided we needed to have a freestyle contest. “You start, Pudge,” Takumi said.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "MissSchuyler." "MissSchuyler has a vibrator inher desk" "Awhat!" "A vibrator.LizClarksawit.It'sinher bottomdrawer." "I can'tbelieveit!"The Object was shocked, amused.Butthenshe squinted, thinking. Inaconfidentialvoice sheasked,"Whatarethose for, anyway?" "Vibrators?" "Yeah."Sheknewshewassupposed toknow.Butshetrusted I wouldn't makefunof her. Thiswastheformof thepactwemade that day: Iwouldhandlethe deep intellectual matters,likevibrators; shewouldhandlethesocialsphere. "Mostwomencan'thaveorgasms by regular intercourse,"Isaid, quotingfromthecopyofOurBodies,OurselvesMegZemka had givenme."Theyneedclitoralstimulation." Behindherfreckles,ablushrosetotheObject'sface.Shewas,of course,transfixed by suchinformation.I wasspeakingintoherleft ear.Theblushspreadacrossherfacefromthatside, as ifmywords left a visible trace. "Ican'tbelieveyouknowallthisstuff." "I'll tell you whoknowsaboutit.MissSchuyler,that'swho." Thelaugh,thehoot,shotoutofhermouthlikeageyser,andthen the Objectwas fallingbackonthecouch.Shescreamed,withdelight, withrevulsion.Shekickedherlegs,knocking hercigarettesoffthe table. Shewas fourteenagain,insteadoftwenty-four,andagainstall odds wewerebecoming friends. " 'Unwept, unfriended, withoutmarriagesong,Iam led forthin my horror—' " " '—sorrow—' " " '—in my sorrowonthisjourneythatcanbe delayednomore. No longer .. .'" .haplessone .. .'" 'Hapless one!'I hate that!'No longer,hapless one,mayIbehold yon day-star's sacredeye;but formyfateno tearisshed,no... no . . .' " " 'No friend makesmoan.' " " 'Nofriend makesmoan.' " 334 We wereat the Object'shouse again,goingover ourlines. We were inthe sun room, sprawledontheCaribbean sofas.Parrots flocked behind theObject's headasshe squeezed hereyes shut,recit- ing. We'd beenatit fortwo hours.The Object hadgonethroughal- most afull pack. Beulah,the maid,broughtussandwicheson a tray along withtwo sixty-four-ounce bottlesofTab.Thesandwicheswere white, crustiess,but not cucumberorwatercress.Asalmon-colored spread cakedthe spongy bread. Wetook frequent breaks.TheObject required constantrefresh- ment. Istillwasn't comfortableinthe house.I couldn'tgetusedto being waitedon.Ikept jumpinguptoservemyself.Beulah was black,too, which didn'tmakeitany easier. "I'mreallyglad we'reinthisplaytogether,"the Object said, munching."Iwould've nevertalkedtoakidlikeyou."She paused, realizinghow thissounded."Imean,Ineverknewyouweresuch a coolkid." Cool? Calliopecool?Ihadneverdreamedofsuch a thing. ButI wasready to accepttheObject'sjudgment. "CanItellyousomething,though?"she asked."Aboutyour part?" "Sure." "Youknowhowyou're supposedtobeblindandeverything? Well, wherewegoinBermuda there'sthismanwhorunsahotel. Andhe's blind.Andthething abouthimis,it'slikehisearsarehis eyes.Likeif someonecomesinto theroom,heturnsoneearthat way. Theway youdoit—"Shestoppedsuddenly and seized myhand. "You'renot getting madatme, areyou?" "No." "You've gottheworst expressiononyourface,Callie!" "I do?" Shehad my hand.Shewasn'tletting go."Yousureyou'renot mad?" "I'mnot mad." "Well, theway youpretendtobeblindis youjust, sort of,stum- ble around alot. Butthethingis,thisblind mandowninBermuda, he never stumbles. Hestands up really straightandheknows where everything is.Andhisears are always focusinginon stuff." I turned my faceaway. 335 "See, you'remad!" "I'mnot." "Youare? "I'm beingblind,"Isaid."I'mlooking atyouwithmyear." "Oh.That'sgood. Yeah,like that.That's reallygood." Without letting go of my hand, sheleaned closerandIheard, felt, very sofdy,herhotbreathinmyear."Hi, Tiresias,"shesaid, giggling. "It'sme. Antigone." The day oftheplayarrived("opening night"wecalled it,though therewouldbenoothers).Inanimprovised "dressingroom"behind thestage weleadactorssatonfolding chairs.Therestoftheeighth graders werealready onstage,standingin a bigsemicircle. Theplay wassetto beginatseveno'clockandfinish beforesunset.Itwas 6:55.Beyond theflats we couldhear thehockeyfieldfilling up. The lowrumblegotsteadilylouder—voices,footsteps, thecreakingof bleachers, and theslammingof cardoorsupintheparkinglot.We wereeachdressedinafloor-lengthrobe,tie-dyedblack,gray,and white.TheObscure Object, however, was wearing a white robe.Mr. daSilva'sconceptwasminimal:nomakeup,nomasks. "Howmanypeopleareoutthere?"TinaKubekasked. MaxineGrossingerpeekedout."Tons." "Youmustbeusedtothis,Maxine,"Isaid."Fromallyour recitals." "I don'tgetnervouswhenI'mplayingthe violin.Thisis way worse." "Iamsooonervous," theObject said. Inherlap shehadajarofRolaids, whichshewaseatinglike candy.Iunderstood nowwhyshehadpounded herchestthefirstday ofclass.The ObscureObjectsufferedfroma moreorlessconstant case ofheartburn. Itwasworseduringtimesofstress. Afewminutes earlier,shehadwanderedoff tosmoke herlastcigarette beforeshow- time.Nowshewaschewing onthe antacidtablets. Part of coming fromoldmoney,apparently, washaving old-person habits,those gross,adultneedsanddesperatepalliatives.TheObject wasstilltoo youngfor theeffects totellonher.Shedidn't haveeyebagsyetor stained fingernails. Buttheappetiteforsophisticated ruinwasalready there.She smelledlike smoke,ifyougotclose. Herstomach wasa 336

• From Middlesex (2002)

  himinsideand brought gauze, antiseptic, and tapefromamedical cabinet, andexamined the hand. Thewound wasonthe man's thumb, where thenail wasmissing. "Howdid thishappen?" "FirsttheGreeks invaded," the refugee said. "Then theTurks in- vadedback.My hand gotin the way." Dr.Philobosian said nothing as hecleaned thewound. "I'llhave topayyouwithacheck, Doctor," the refugee said."Ihope you don't mind.Idon'thave alot ofmoney onme atthemoment." Dr.Philobosian reached into his pocket. "Ihave alittle. Goon. Takeit." Therefugee hesitated only amoment. "Thank you, Doctor.I'll re- payyou as soon asI gettothe United States.Please giveme yourad- dress." "Becarefulwhat youdrink," Dr.Philobosian ignoredtherequest. "Boilwater, ifyoucan. Godwilling, some shipsmay comesoon." Therefugee nodded. "You'reArmenian, Doctor?" "Yes." "And you're not leaving?" "Smyrnaismyhome." "Good luck,then.AndGodbless you." "You too."AndwiththatDr.Philobosian led himout.He watched therefugeewalkoff.It'shopeless, hethought. He'll bedead in a week. Ifnottyphus,somethingelse.But itwasn'this concern. Reaching insideatypewriter,he extracted athickwad ofmoneyfrom beneath theribbon. He rummagedthroughdrawers untilhefound, insidehis medicaldiploma,afaded typewritten letter:"Thisletter is tocertify thatNishan Philobosian,M.D.,did,onApril 3, 1919, treat Mustafa Kemal Pasha for diverticulitis.Dr.Philobosian isrespectfully recommended by Kemal Pashatothe esteem, confidence,andprotec- tion of allpersonsto whom hemaypresentthisletter."Thebearer of this letter now folded it and tuckeditintohispocket. Bythen therefugee was buyingbread ata bakeryonthe quay. Where now, ashe turns away, hiding thewarmloafunderhis grimy suit,the sunlightoff the water brightenshisfaceandhisidentity fills itself in: theaquiline nose, the hawk-likeexpression,thesoftness ap- pearing inthebrown eyes. For the firsttime since reaching Smyrna, Lefty Stephanides was 47 smiling. On his previous forayshe'd broughtback only a singlerot- ten peachand six olives, whichhe'd encouraged Desdemona to swal- low, pits and all, tofill herself up. Now,carryingthe sesame-seeded chureki, he squeezedback intothecrowd.He skirtedtheedges of open-air living rooms (wherefamiliessatlisteningto silentradios) and stepped over bodieshehopedweresleeping.He wasfeelingen- couragedby anotherdevelopment,too. Just that morningwordhad spread thatGreece wassendingafleetofshipstoevacuate refugees. Lefty lookedoutat theAegean.Havinglivedona mountainfor twenty years,he'd neverseentheseabefore.Somewhere over thewa- terwas America andtheircousinSourmelina.Hesmelledtheseaair, thewarmbread, theantisepticfromhisbandagedthumb,andthen he sawher— Desdemona,sittingonthe suitcasewherehe'd left her— andfeltevenhappier. Leftycouldn't pinpointthemoment he'dbeguntohavethoughts about hissister.Atfirsthe'djustbeencuriousto see what a real woman'sbreastslookedlike.Itdidn'tmatterthattheywerehissis- ter's.Hetriedto forget thattheywerehissister's.Behindthehanging kelimithatseparatedtheir beds, he sawDesdemona'ssilhouetteasshe undressed.It wasjustabody;itcouldhavebeenanyone's,orLefty likedtopretend so."Whatareyoudoingoverthere?"Desdemona asked,undressing. "Whyare youso quiet?" "I'mreading." "Whatare youreading?" "TheBible." "Oh,sure.You never readtheBible." Soonhe'd found himselfpicturinghissisterafterthelightswent out.She'd invaded his fantasies, butLefty resisted.Hewent downto thecityinstead, in searchof naked womenhewasn'trelated to. But since thenight of theirwaltz,he'dstopped resisting. Because of themessagesof Desdemona's fingers,because their parentswere dead andtheirvillage destroyed, becauseno oneinSmyrna knew who theywere,and because of theway Desdemonalooked right now, sittingonasuitcase. And Desdemona?What did she feel? Fear foremost,and worry, punctuated byunprecedented explosionsof joy. Shehadneverrested her head in aman'slap before while ridinginan oxcart. She'd never slept like spoons,encircledbya man's arms;she'd neverexperienced a man getting hard against her spine whiletrying totalkasthough 48

• From Middlesex (2002)

  ison herback. I'm fulcrumedononeelbow, leaningoverto inspect herface. "You know whatsleep is?" Isay. "What?" "Snot." "It isnot." "Itis.It'smucus. It'ssnotthat comes outyoureyes." "That'sso gross!" "You've got a littlesleepin your eyes, mydear," Isayinafake deep voice. WithmyfingerIflickthecrust from theObject's eye- lashes. "Ican'tbelieveI'mlettingyoudo this," shesays."You'retouching my snot." We lookateachother a moment. "I'mtouchingyoursnot!"Iscream.Andwewrithearound, throwingpillowsandscreamingsomemore. Onanotherday,theObjectistaking a bath.Shehasherownbath- room.I'monthebed,reading a gossipmagazine. "Youcantell Jane Fondaisn'treally naked inthatmovie," Isay. "How?" "She's gotabodystockingon.You cansee it." Igointo thebathroomtoshowher.Intheclaw-footed tub, underalayer ofwhippedcream,the Object lolls,pumicingoneheel. Shelooks atthephotographand says, "You'renevernaked, ei- ther." Iamfrozen, speechless. "Doyou havesome kindofcomplex?" "No,Idon't haveacomplex." "What are youafraidof,then?" "I'm not afraid." The Object knowsthisisn'ttrue.Buther intentionsaren'tmali- cious. She isn'ttrying tocatchmeout,onlyto putmeatease.My modesty baffles her. "I don't know what you're soworried about,"shesays. "You're my bestfriend." I pretend to be engrossedin themagazine.I can'tget myself to look away. Inside,however,I'm burstingwith happiness.I'm erupt- 349 ing withjoy,but I keepstaringatthemagazine asthough I'mmad at it. It'slate. We'vestayed upwatchingTV.The Objectisbrushing her teeth whenI comeintothebathroom. Ipulldownmy underpants and sitonthetoilet.I dothissometimes asacompensatory tactic. The T-shirtislong enoughtocovermylap. Ipeewhilethe Object brushes. It'sthenIsmellsmoke. Lookingup,I see,besidesatoothbrushin theObject'smouth, a cigarette. "Youevensmokewhileyoubrushyour teeth?" Shelooks at mesideways."Menthol," shesays. Thething aboutthosesouvenirs,though:theglitterfallsfast. Aremindertapedtoourrefrigeratorbroughtme backtoreality: "Dr.Bauer, July 22, 2 p.m." Iwasfilledwithdread.Dreadofthe pervertedgynecologistand his inquisitorialinstruments.Dreadofthemetalthingsthatwould spreadmylegs and ofthedoohickey thatwould spread something else.Anddreadofwhatallthisspreadingmightreveal. It wasinthisstate,this emotional foxhole,thatI started goingto churchagain.One Sunday inearly July mymotherandIdressed up (Tessieinheels, menot)and drove downto Assumption.Tessie was suffering, too.IthadbeensixmonthssinceChapter Eleven hadsped away from Middlesexonhismotorcycle, andsincethattimehe hadn't been back.Worse,inAprilhehadbroken thenewsthat he was dropping outof college.Hewas planningtomovetotheUpper Peninsula with somefriendsand, as heputit, liveofftheland."You don'tthink he'd dosomethingcrazylikerunoff andmarrythatMeg, doyou?"Tessie askedMilton."Let's hope not,"he answered.Tessie worriedthat Chapter Elevenwasn'ttaking careof himself,either.He wasn'tgoing tothe dentistregularly.His vegetarianismmade him pale. Andhe was losinghishair.Attheage oftwenty.Thismade Tessie feel suddenly old. United inanxiety, seekingsolacefor differing complaints(Tessie wantingtoget rid ofher painswhileIwanted mineto begin), we en- teredthechurch. As far asIcouldtell,what happened everySunday atAssumption Greek OrthodoxChurch was that thepriestsgotto- 350 getherandread the Bibleoutloud. Theystarted with Genesisand kept goingstraight throughNumbers and Deuteronomy. Thenon through Psalmsand Proverbs,Ecclesiastes,Isaiah,Jeremiah, and Ezekiel, allthewayup totheNewTestament. Thentheyreadthat. Giventhe length ofourservices,Isawno otherpossibility. Theychantedas the churchslowlyfilledup.Finallythe central chandelier flickedonand FatherMike,likealife-sizepuppet,sprang throughthe iconscreen. Thetransformationmyunclewentthrough everySunday always amazedme.AtchurchFatherMikeappeared and disappearedwiththe capriciousnessofadivinity.Oneminutehe wasup onthebalcony, singinginhistender,tone-deafvoice.The nextminutehewasback ongroundlevel,swinginghiscenser.Glit- tering,bejeweled,as overdoneinhisvestmentsasaFabergeegg,he promenadedaroundthechurch, giving us God'sblessing.Some- timeshis censerproduced so muchsmokeitseemedthatFatherMike hadthe ability tocloak himselfin a mist.Whenthemistdispersed, however,laterthatafternoon in ourlivingroom,he was onceagaina short,shyman, in black,polyester-blendclothesand a plasticcollar. AuntZoe's authoritywentinthe oppositedirection.Atchurch shewasmeek.The roundgrayhatsheworelooked liketheheadof a screw fasteningher to her pew.Shewas constandypinchinghersons tokeepthemawake.I could barelyconnecttheanxiousperson hunched downevery weekinfrontofusto thefunnywomanwho, under theinspirationofwine, launched intocomedyroutinesinour kitchen. "Youmenstay out!"she'dshout, dancingwithmymother. "We've gotknives inhere." So startling wasthecontrastbetweenchurchgoingZoe'andwine- drinkingZoe that Ialwaysmade a pointofwatchinghercloselydur- ing theliturgy. On mostSundays, whenmymother tappedheron the shoulderin greeting,Aunt Zo respondedonlywith a weaksmile. Her large nose lookedswollenwithgrief.Then she turned back, crossed herself, andsettledinfortheduration. And so: AssumptionChurchthat July morning.Incenserising with the pungency of irrational hope.Closerin(ithadbeendrizzling out), the smell ofwetwool.Thedrippingofumbrellas stashedunder pews. The rivuletsfromthese umbrellasflowingdowndie uneven floor of our poorlybuiltchurch, poolinginspots.Thesmell ofhair- spray and perfume,ofcheap cigars,and the slow tickingof watches. 351

• From Middlesex (2002)

  brief flareof happiness wentoffinsideher and hung,raining sparks, until Lefty disappeared aroundthefront ofthehouse. My grandfather'sgood mood accompaniedhimalltheway tothe trolley stop. Otherworkers were already waiting,loose-kneed, smok- ing cigarettesandjoking.Leftynoticedtheir metal lunch pailsand, embarrassed byhispapersack,heldit behindhim.Thestreetcar showedup first asahum inthesoles ofhisboots.Thenitappeared againsttherisingsun,Apollo'sownchariot,onlyelectrified. Inside, menstoodingroupsarranged by language. Facesscrubbedforwork stillhadsoot inside theears,deepblack.Thestreetcar sped offagain. Soonthejovialmooddissipatedandthe languagesfellsilent.Near downtown, a few blacks boarded thecar,standingoutsideonthe runners,holdingontotheroof. And thenthe Rougeappearedagainstthe sky, risingoutofthe smokeitgenerated.Atfirstallthatwasvisible wasthetopsof theeightmain smokestacks. Eachgavebirthtoitsowndarkcloud. Thecloudsplumedupwardandmergedinto a generalpall that hung overthelandscape, sendingashadowthatranalongthetrolley tracks;andLeftyunderstoodthatthe men's silence wasa recognition ofthisshadow,ofitsinevitableapproacheachmorning.Asitcame on,thementurnedtheir backsso thatonlyLeftysawthelightleave theskyastheshadowenvelopedthestreetcar andthe men'sfaces turnedgrayandoneof the mavrosontherunnersspatbloodontothe roadside.The smellseepedintothestreetcar next,firstthebearable eggs and manure,then the unbearablechemical taint, andLefty lookedattheother mentoseeifthey registeredit,buttheydidn't, thoughthey continuedtobreathe.The doorsopenedandtheyall filedout.Through thehangingsmoke, Leftysaw otherstreetcars let- tingoffotherworkers, hundredsand hundredsof grayfigures trudg- ingacrossthe paved courtyard towardthe factorygates.Truckswere drivingpast,and Lefty lethimself be takenalong withtheflowofthe nextshift, fifty, sixty, seventy thousandmen hurryinglastcigarettes or gettinginfinal words—becauseas they approachedthefactory they'd beguntospeak again,notbecause theyhad anything tosay butbecause beyondthose doorslanguage wasn't allowed.Themain building, a fortressof darkbrick,was seven storieshigh,thesmoke- stacksseventeen.Runningoffit were two chutestoppedbywater towers. These ledtoobservation decks andto adjoiningrefineries 94 studded withless impressivestacks.Itwaslikea grove oftrees,as if the Rouge's eight mainsmokestackshadsownseedstothewind,and now ten or twentyorfiftysmallertrunksweresproutingupinthein- fertile soil around theplant.Lefty couldseethetrain tracks now, the huge silos alongthe river,thegiant spicebox of coal,coke, andiron ore,and the catwalksstretchingoverheadlikegiantspiders.Beforehe wassucked in thedoor,heglimpsed a freighterand a bitof the river French explorers namedforitsreddishcolor,longbeforethewater turnedorange from runoff orevercaughtonfire. Historical fact:peoplestoppedbeinghumanin1913.That was theyear HenryFordputhiscarsonrollersandmadehisworkers adoptthespeed oftheassemblyline.Atfirst,workersrebelled.They quitin droves,unabletoaccustomtheirbodiestothenewpaceof theage. Sincethen,however,theadaptationhasbeenpasseddown: we've allinheritedittosomedegree,sothatweplugrightintojoy- sticks andremotes,torepetitivemotionsof a hundredkinds. Butin1922itwasstill a newthingtobe a machine. Onthefactoryfloor,mygrandfatherwastrainedforhisjobin seventeenminutes.Partofthenewproductionmethod'sgeniuswas itsdivisionoflaborintounskilledtasks.That way youcouldhire anyone.Andfireanyone.TheforemanshowedLeftyhowtotakea bearingfromtheconveyor,grinditonalathe,and replace it. Hold- ing astopwatch,hetimedthenew employee'sattempts.Then,nod- dingonce, heledLeftytohis positionontheLine.Ontheleftstood amannamed Wierzbicki;on theright, a mannamedO'Malley.Fora moment,they arethreemen, waitingtogether.Thenthe whistle blows. Every fourteensecondsWierzbicki reams a bearingandStepha- nides grinds abearingand O'Malleyattachesabearingtoa cam- shaft. This camshafttravelsaway onaconveyor, curlingaroundthe factory, through itsclouds ofmetaldust, itsacid fogs, untilanother worker fifty yardsonreachesup andremovesthe camshaft,fitting itonto the engineblock (twentyseconds). Simultaneously,other men are unhookingpartsfrom adjacentconveyors— thecarburetor, the distributor, theintake manifold—andconnecting themto theen- gine block. Abovetheir bentheads,huge spindlespoundsteam- powered fists. Noone saysa word.Wierzbickireamsa bearing and Stephanides grindsa bearingand O'Malleyattachesabearingto a 95 camshaft. The camshaftcircles aroundthefloor untilahandreaches up totake itdown andattach itto the engine block, growing increas- ingly eccentric nowwith swooshesofpipe andtheplumageoffan blades. Wierzbickireamsa bearingand Stephanidesgrindsabearing and O'Malley attachesabearingtoacamshaft.Whileotherworkers screwinthe airfilter(seventeenseconds)andattachthestartermotor (twenty-six seconds)andputontheflywheel.Atwhichpointtheen- gine isfinishedand thelastmansendsit soaringaway... Exceptthatheisn't thelastman.There areothermen below haul- ingthe enginein,asachassis rolls outtomeetit.Thesemenattach theenginetothe transmission(twenty-fiveseconds).Wierzbicki reamsabearingand Stephanidesgrinds a bearing and O'Malley at- tachesa bearingtoacamshaft.Mygrandfatherseesonlythebearing infront ofhim,hishandsremovingit,grindingit,andputtingit backasanotherappears. Theconveyoroverhisheadextends backto the menwhostampoutthebearingsandloadingotsintothefur- naces;itgoesbacktothe FoundrywheretheNegroeswork,goggled againsttheinfernallightandheat. TheyfeedironoreintotheBlast Ovenandpourmoltensteelintocoremoldsfromladles.Theypour atjusttherightrate—tooquickly andthemoldswillexplode;too slowlyandthesteelwillharden.Theycan'tstop eventopickthe burningbitsofmetal fromtheir arms.Sometimes theforeman does it;sometimes not.TheFoundryisthe deepestrecessoftheRouge, itsmolten core,buttheLinegoesback fartherthanthat.Itextends outside tothehills ofcoal andcoke;itgoesto theriverwhere freighters dock tounloadtheore,at which pointtheLine becomes theriveritself, snaking upto the northwoods untilit reachesits source,which isthe earthitself,the limestoneandsandstonetherein; andthenthe Line leadsback again,out ofsubstratatoriverto freightersandfinally tothecranes, shovels, andfurnaceswhereitis turnedintomolten steelandpouredinto molds, coolingandharden- ing intocarparts— thegears,drive shafts,and fueltanksof1922 ModelT's.Wierzbicki reams a bearing and Stephanidesgrinds a bearingandO'Malley attaches a bearing toa camshaft.Aboveand behind, atvariousangles, workerspack sand into core molds,or hammer plugs into molds, orputcasting boxes into thecupola fur- nace. The Line isn't asingle linebut many, divergingandintersect- ing. Otherworkersstamp outbodyparts (fifty seconds),bumpthem 96

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "You havesuchadirtymind,Callie." "Don'tdenyit." She turnedaround andsmiled."Iknow whowantstomolest you" shesaid. Forasecond,anirrepressiblehappiness floodedme. "Jerome," shefinished. "Idon'twanttogooutinthe woods,"Isaid."There's bugs and stuff." "Don't beasuchawuss,"shesaid.I hadneverheardhersay "wuss" before.Itwas a word boysused;boyslikeRex.Finished dressing,theObjectstoodbeforethemirror, pickingatsomedry skinonher cheek.Sheranabrushthroughherhairand put onlip gloss.Thenshecameover to me.She cameupveryclose.Sheopened hermouthandblewherbreathintomyface. "It'sfine,"Isaid,andmoved away. "Don't youwantmetocheckyours?" "No biggie," I said. I decided thatiftheObjectwasgoingtoignoremeandflirtwithRex, Iwouldignore herandflirtwith Jerome. Aftersheleft,Icombedmy hair.From thecollectionofatomizersonthedresser,I choseoneand squeezedthe bulb,but no perfumecame out.Iwentintothebath- roomand undidthestrapsofmyoveralls.Lifting myshirt,Istuffed a fewtissuesin mybrassiere.ThenIshookmy hairback,hitchedupmy overalls, andhurriedoutsideforourwalkinthewoods. Theywere waitingformeundera yellowbuglightonthe porch. Jerome held asilverflashlight.Slungover Rex'sshoulderwasan armysurplus backpack,filledwithStroh's. Wecame downthesteps ontothelawn. Thegroundwasuneven, treacherous with roots, but thepine needles weresoftunderfoot.Fora moment,despitemy foul mood,Ifeltit:the crispnorthern Michigandelight. Aslightchillto theair,eveninAugust, somethingalmost Russian. Theindigosky abovethe black bay.Thesmellofcedarand pine. AttheedgeofthewoodstheObjectstopped. "Isit goingtobe wet?" shesaid."I only havemyTretornson." "Come on," saidRexReese,pullingherbythe hand."Get wet." Shescreamed,theatrically.Leaningbacklike someoneonarope tow, she waspulled unsteadily intodietrees. Ipaused, too, peering in, waiting for Jerome to do the same.He didn't, though.Instead he 368 stepped straight intothe swamp and thenslowlymelted belowthe knees. "Quicksand!"he cried."Helpme!I'msinking!Please some- body help ... glub glubglubglubglub." Up ahead,already invisible, Rexand theObjectwere laughing. The cedarswampwas anancient place.Nologginghadever been done here.The groundwasn'tsuitableforhouses. The trees had been aliveforhundreds ofyearsandwhentheyfellover they felloverfor good.Here inthecedarswampverticalitywasn'tanessentialprop- erty oftrees.Manycedarswerestandingstraightupbutmanywere leaning over.Stillothershad fallen againstnearbytrees,orcrashedto the ground,poppinguprootsystems.Therewasagraveyardfeeling: everywherethegray skeletons oftrees.Themoonlightfilteringinlit upsilverpuddlesandspraysofcobweb.ItglancedofftheObject's redhairasshemovedanddartedaheadofme. Wemadeaclumsy,yahooprogressthroughtheswamp.Reximi- tated animal soundsthatsoundedlikenoanimal.Beercansdingedin his backpack.Ourderacinatedfeetstompedalonginthemud. Aftertwentyminutes we foundit: aone-roomshackmadeofun- paintedboards.Theroof wasn'tmuch taller thanIwas.Thecircular flashlight beamshowed tarpapercoveringthenarrowdoor. "It's locked.Fuck,"said Rex. "Let's trythewindow," Jerome suggested.Theydisappeared,leav- ingthe Objectandmealone. I looked at her.Forthefirst timesince I'd arrivedshe reallylooked at me.There was justenoughmoonlight toaccomplishthis silentexchangebetweenoureyes. "It's darkout here,"Isaid. "Iknow it,"said theObject. There was a crash behindthe shack,followed bylaughter.The Object took astepcloser to me."Whataretheydoinginthere?" "Idon't know." Suddenly thesmallwindowofthe shacklitup.Theboyshadlit a Coleman lantern inside.Nextthefrontdooropenedand Rexstepped out. He wassmiling likeasalesman."Got aguy herewants tomeet you." Atwhich point he held upamousetrapdanglingthejellied mouse. The Object screamed."Rex!"Shejumped backandheld onto me. "Take it away!" Rexdangled it some more, laughing,andthen tosseditinto the woods. "Okay, okay.Don'thave ashit fit."He wentback inside. 369 TheObjectwas stillclinging tome. "Maybewe should goback,"Iventured. "Do youthinkyouknowtheway?I'm totallylost." "Icanfindit." She turnedandlookedinto theblackwoods.She wasthinking aboutit.But then Rex reappeared inthe doorway."Comeonin,"he said. "Checkitout." Andnowitwastoolate.TheObjectlet goofme.Throwingthe redscarfofherhairoverhershoulder,she duckedthroughthelow thresholdintothe huntingshack. Insidewere two cotswithHudson's Bayblankets.Theystoodat eitherend ofthesmallspaceseparated bya crudekitchenwitha campstove.Emptybourbon bottles lined thewindowsill.The walls werecoveredwithyellowedclippingsfromthelocalpaper,angling competitions,soapboxderbies.There wasalsoataxidermied pike, jawsagape.Lowonkerosene,thelanternsputtered.Thelightwas butter-colored, therippleofsmoke greasing theair.Itwasopium denlight,which was appropriate,becausealreadyRexhadpluckeda jointfromhispocketandwaslightingitwithasafetymatch. Rex wasononecot, Jerome onthe other. CasuallytheObjectsat down nexttoRex.Istoodinthemiddleofthe floor,hunching.I couldfeel Jerome watchingme.Ipretendedtoexaminetheshackbut thenturned, expectingtomeethis gaze.Thisdidn'thappen,how- ever. Jerome'seyes were focusedon mychest.Onmyfalsies.Heliked mealready. Nowherewasanaddedattraction,likea bonusforgood intentions. MaybeIshouldhave beenpleasedby thetrancehewasin.But my revengefantasy hadalreadygonebust.My heartwasn'tinit.Still, havingno alternative, I went ahead andsatbeside Jerome. Acrossthe shack RexReesehad thejointinhismouth. Rexwas wearing shortsandamonogrammed shirt,rippedat the shoulder,showingtannedskin.Therewasared markonhis fla- mencodancer'sneck:a bug bite, a fadinghickey. Heclosedhis eyes toinhale deeply, hislong eyelashes coming together.Thehairon his headwas as thickandoiled asan otter'spelt. Finallyheopened his eyesand passedthe jointtothe Object. Tomysurpriseshe took it.Asthoughitwere oneofher beloved Tareytons, sheputit between herlipsandinhaled. 370

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  Ain’t that just delightful.” We ran with it to the TV room, closed the blinds, locked the door, and watched the movie. It opened with a woman standing on a bridge with her legs spread while a guy knelt in front of her, giving her oral sex. No time for dialogue, I suppose. By the time they started doing it, Alaska commenced with her righteous indignation. “They just don’t make sex look fun for women. The girl is just an object. Look! Look at that!” I was already looking, needless to say. A woman crouched on her hands and knees while a guy knelt behind her. She kept saying “Give it to me” and moaning, and though her eyes, brown and blank, betrayed her lack of interest, I couldn’t help but take mental notes. Hands on her shoulders , I noted. Fast, but not too fast or it’s going to be over, fast. Keep your grunting to a minimum. As if reading my mind, she said, “God, Pudge. Never do it that hard. That would hurt. That looks like torture. And all she can do is just sit there and take it? This is not a man and a woman . It’s a penis and a vagina. What’s erotic about that? Where’s the kissing?” “Given their position, I don’t think they can kiss right now,” I noted. “That’s my point. Just by virtue of how they’re doing it, it’s objectification. He can’t even see her face! This is what can happen to women, Pudge. That woman is someone’s daughter. This is what you make us do for money.” “Well, not me ,” I said defensively. “I mean, not technically. I don’t, like, produce porn movies.” “Look me in the eye and tell me this doesn’t turn you on, Pudge.” I couldn’t. She laughed. It was fine, she said. Healthy. And then she got up, stopped the tape, lay down on her stomach across the couch, and mumbled something. “What did you say?” I asked, walking to her, putting my hand on the small of her back. “Shhhh,” she said. “I’m sleeping.” Just like that. From a hundred miles an hour to asleep in a nanosecond. I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep. Not fuck, like in those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together, in the most innocent sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was a hurricane. forty-seven days before ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, I woke up with a stuffy nose to an entirely new Alabama, a crisp and cold one.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  I am sure that she tasted like stale booze, but I did not notice, and I’m sure I tasted like stale booze and cigarettes, but she didn’t notice. We were kissing. I thought: This is good. I thought: I am not bad at this kissing. Not bad at all. I thought: I am clearly the greatest kisser in the history of the universe. Suddenly she laughed and pulled away from me. She wiggled a hand out of her sleeping bag and wiped her face. “You slobbered on my nose,” she said, and laughed. I laughed, too, trying to give her the impression that my nose-slobbering kissing style was intended to be funny. “I’m sorry.” To borrow the base system from Alaska, I hadn’t hit more than five singles in my entire life, so I tried to chalk it up to inexperience. “I’m a bit new at this,” I said. “Eet was a nice slobbering,” she said, laughed, and kissed me again. Soon we were entirely out of our sleeping bags, making out quietly. She lay on top of me, and I held her small waist in my hands. I could feel her breasts against my chest, and she moved slowly on top of me, her legs straddling me. “You feel nice,” she said. “You’re beautiful,” I said, and smiled at her. In the dark, I could make out the outline of her face and her large, round eyes blinking down at me, her eyelashes almost fluttering against my forehead. “Could the two people who are making out please be quiet?” the Colonel asked loudly from his sleeping bag. “Those of us who are not making out are drunk and tired.” “Mostly. Drunk,” Alaska said slowly, as if enunciation required great effort. We had almost never talked, Lara and I, and we didn’t get a chance to talk anymore because of the Colonel. So we kissed quietly and laughed softly with our mouths and our eyes. After so much kissing that it almost started to get boring, I whispered, “Do you want to be my girlfriend?” And she said, “Yes please,” and smiled. We slept together in her sleeping bag, which felt a little crowded, to be honest, but was still nice. I had never felt another person against me as I slept. It was a fine end to the best day of my life. one day before THE NEXT MORNING, a term I use loosely since it was not yet dawn, the Colonel shook me awake. Lara was wrapped in my arms, folded into my body. “We gotta go, Pudge. Time to roll up.” “Dude. Sleeping.” “You can sleep after we check in. IT’S TIME TO GO!” he shouted. “All right. All right. No screaming. Head hurts.” And it did. I could feel last night’s wine in my throat and my head throbbed like it had the morning after my concussion. My mouth tasted like a skunk had crawled into my throat and died.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  Mama made bacon and cinnamon toast while Gary charged in and out with a bath towel for a cape calling, “There’s no need to fear. Underdog is here.”Gary had become enamored of Underdog while pretending to not watch the neighbor’s TV. I threw him on the floor and tickled him until he begged for mercy.Mama sounded a warning from the kitchen. “Kids, stop that. Go wash your hands. Breakfast is ready.”We ran to the bathroom, stuck our hands under the faucet, and flung water drops in the air as we passed the empty spot where the dinner table was supposed to go.“Are we ever going to get a table?”“One thing at a time.” My mother set our plates down on the breakfast counter with a sigh.I bit into my toast and studied her. “You tired?”“Not exactly.”Her thin slippers slapped back and forth between the stove and the counter. More toast, more bacon, scrambled eggs, too, please. More, more, more. The beige plastic radio she kept on the counter broadcast one preacher after the next. Garner Ted Armstrong, Carl McIntire, A. A. Allen. The harvest was ripe and the workers were few and they made sure we didn’t forget it.“Can we turn off the radio? Please?”We could not. The radio was my mother’s lifeline. Brother Terrell was on twice a day now, and though the programs were exactly the same, Mama listened both times.After breakfast, Gary and I met the neighbor kids in the field across the street to watch airplanes land and take off at nearby Hobby Airport. We lay in the tall weeds while the jets screamed over us like fierce metallic insects. My stomach dropped to my toes, and I breathed in the acrid odor of jet fuel. I could not believe how lucky we were to live so close to the airport.As it turned out, it was design, not luck, that determined our location. Mama stopped us one morning on our way out the door to tell us she had a surprise for us; two surprises, really. Brother Terrell was coming to visit and we would go to the airport later that afternoon to pick him up.We jumped up and down. “The airport! The airport!” It would be the first time my brother and I had been inside an airport.I stopped and thought for a minute. “But where will they all sleep?”“Who?” Mama brushed the hair from my eyes.“Everybody. Pam. Randall. Brother Terrell. Betty Ann. The baby.”“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”My mother hummed and smiled all day. She swept, mopped, went to the grocery store, dusted, baked biscuits, and swept some more. She made us take baths and put on clean clothes while she curled her hair and sprayed perfume and picked out a dress that “put color in her cheeks.”At the airport that afternoon, Mama stood Gary in one of the airport’s long windows to watch the planes, keeping one hand on his back to make sure he didn’t fall.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  “At one point the Irish lady with dreads playing a steel drum, the one leading the ceremony, instructed us that we should ‘follow the psychic dolphins through the crystalline waters of our minds.” Katrina repeats this phrase in a surprisingly good Irish accent. “This older woman next to me snorted derisively, which broke the spell. She was like, “Really? Mind dolphins?’ and I started giggling and couldn’t stop, for like a half hour. I don’t know when the last time that happened to me was, but that much giggling was totally purifying. I left with a very purified aura.” “Tt’s nice that you support her,” Reese says. “Kathy is a sweetheart.” Katrina shrugs. “She was my friend before she was my real estate agent. We’ve known each other for a long time. Some of her family is still in Taiwan, and when I went on a business trip there two years ago, she even came along and they showed us around.” “So everyone is just doing this for Kathy?” Reese asks, waving a hand at the scene around her. “Just the women I know. I think the others want essential oils. They really do smell nice.” A few moments later, Reese finds herself included in a conversation with Kathy herself, who does not look witchy at all; she looks like a real estate agent—which of course she is—the kind of blandly pretty face that belongs in a headshot beneath a photo of your suburban house. Another youngish woman, who speaks in a husky, honeyed voice—though Reese can’t tell whether from chardonnay or habit—is recounting with excitement that her husband will be away at a bachelor party that weekend. The party is somewhere upstate, and the woman works herself up describing her husband in flannel, drinking whiskey, and tacitly, of the anticipation of his returning home, smelling of woodsmoke and replenished masculinity, to ravish her. The woman wears an immaculate cream skirt, so crisp it looks freshly starched, even though she claims to have come directly from work. There is an audacity in wearing a cream skirt so crisp: Cream is even less forgiving than white; a single stain on cream and the whole skirt looks vaguely dirty, whereas a single stain on white just looks like a single stain. Reese once read in a fashion magazine that, at the turn of the century, the leisure class wore immaculate whites to show that they did no work, the same- classed fashion that gave the feminine gender heels, corsets, and long nails. Thus, Reese has to surmise that this cream-skirted woman has not actually married a ranch hand, so most likely, her husband is another NYC white-collar worker.