Longing

Passages

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

Page 89 of 170 · 20 per page

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  18.PHOEBEThe wind drifts behind me, Phoebe said. Trash shifts, then I’ll find I’m listening to a light footstep, one I almost recognize. Since I don’t want to dispel the hope, I’ll wait as long as possible before I look back. The truth is, it still feels as though, if I wait long enough, she’ll return. I’ve wondered if I’ve stopped being able to want, but maybe it’s just that what I most wish to have again is not, at this point, available. 19.WILLWhen I finished the job, I returned from Beijing to Noxhurst. In the first flush of reunion with Phoebe, it seemed possible we’d only fought because we’d had to be apart too long. The previous spring, we’d decided to split an apartment; in August, she’d signed the lease on a small place above Café Azul. In bed, in the dining hall, we resisted even short-lived separation. I opened my eyes each morning to find a naked leg thrown across mine, my arm fixed tight across her stomach. I sat through movies I could tell I wouldn’t like, just to be at Phoebe’s side. While we strolled through campus, she kept a hand tucked in the back pocket of my jeans. The line between us relaxed its hold, the slack winding, like an exhausted snake, at our adjoined feet. So brazen, Julian said. He raised his full glass to me, then to Phoebe, who leaned into my arm. Did you learn nothing in China, Will? It’s such bad luck, flaunting what you’ve been given. Sensible parents used to insult their own children, calling them idle, stupid— But less than a month into the term, Liesl took a leave of absence from school. She returned to St. Paul again. The rape allegation had become front-page national news. More Edwards girls had stories to tell of sexual assault. Editorials followed; public outrage. Phoebe helped organize a candlelit vigil, which almost half the school attended. Still, there were students who criticized Liesl, small-minded gossips who prattled about which illegal pills she liked best, how reliable she might be. The possibility she’d lied. Others, less spiteful, said they didn’t know what to think. It felt hard to judge Neil outright. In his version, he hadn’t touched Liesl. Even friends wanted facts, details. Phoebe, livid, picked late-night quarrels. No one lies about this, she said. Look at what it’s cost Liesl, then tell me she’s lying. The next time I went out for the night, she refused to come along. It’s fine, go, she insisted. It was a Prohibition costume party; the host, a Phi Epsilon. In ostrich quills, top-hatted, hands chilled from tall glasses clicking ice, people high-fived me, asking about Phoebe. Where’s she hiding? they hollered. She’s staying in. Is she all right? Yes.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  In the news, I would read that the baby was ten feet tall, assembled from cloth and foam by protest organizers, and that the crowd was rallying against an abortion clinic that had opened in downtown Noxhurst; for now, as I strained, I could make out overtly Christian placards. Depictions of the cross, mentions of God. I watched the protest pass, sick with longing. Such a lot of people who still believed they were picked to be God’s children. The unreal baby jiggled its fists, as in the divine visions I once hoped to have, the marvels I’d thought possible. The nephilim at hand, radiant galaxies pirouetting at God’s command. Faith-lifted mountains. Miracles. Healings. I turned Christian in junior high, the first time my mother fell ill. It’s a crack across the brain, she explained. It let sadness in. Pills helped, like a patch, but the usual medicine had stopped working. Lying in bed, she gazed at the ceiling fan. She didn’t wash. Each morning, I left a glass of milk on the bedside table. She ignored it, and the milk curdled. My father came home late, stumbling. He broke lamps; he slept in the living room. So, I prayed. I was devoted. A kid evangelist, and a pain in the ass. I traipsed through town in ironed khakis, pocket Bible in hand, testifying. I made it a personal mission to save my parents, as well: I didn’t want paradise unless I could bring them along. Though my father laughed at my improvised lectures, my mother let me talk. In bed, pallid, she listened. I proselytized until the June afternoon, five months into my campaign, when I stood witness at her baptism. She waded into the lake in a yellow poplin dress, and I shook with pride. The pastor put his hands on her shoulders. She plunged in, submerged so long I panicked, thinking she’d drown, but then he let go. She came up flailing, smiling to break her mouth. The lake healed itself around her hips. In a dress like the sun, she splashed out. She picked me up, spattering lake silt. I touched my mother’s head, the hair wet, sanctified. I, I, I—I thought I’d saved her life. – Close to noon, as I left my suite, Phoebe called to tell me she’d talked to John Leal. He’d invited us both to dinner, Monday at 8:00. Litton Street. Did I have plans then? I didn’t. Would I still be willing to go, in that case? I would, I said. I asked if she’d enjoyed the night. She had. It had gone late. The birthday boy had rented lions. Lions? Well, they were caged, she explained. Phoebe’s words lagged, catching in her throat. I asked if she’d just gotten up. Oh, she said, up would be a lie. I’m still in bed.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  Till his rousing waked her completely. He was sitting up in bed, looking down at her. She saw her own nakedness in his eyes, immediate knowledge of her. And the fluid, male knowledge of herself seemed to flow to her from his eyes and wrap her voluptuously. Oh, how voluptuous and lovely it was to have limbs and body half-asleep, heavy and suffused with passion! "Is it time to wake up?" she said. "Half-past six." She had to be at the lane-end at eight. Always, always, always this compulsion on one! "I might make the breakfast and bring it up here; should I?" he said. "Oh, yes!" Flossie whimpered gently below. He got up and threw off his pyjamas, and rubbed himself with a towel. When the human being is full of courage and full of life, how beautiful it is! So she thought, as she watched him in silence. "Draw the curtain, will you?" The sun was shining already on the tender green leaves of morning, and the wood stood bluey-fresh, in the nearness. She sat up in bed, looking dreamily out through the dormer window, her naked arms pushing her naked breasts together. He was dressing himself. She was half-dreaming of life, a life together with him: just a life. He was going, fleeing from her dangerous, crouching nakedness. "Have I lost my nightie altogether?" she said. He pushed his hand down in the bed, and pulled out the bit of flimsy silk. "I knowed I felt silk at my ankles," he said. But the night dress was slit almost in two. "Never mind!" she said. "It belongs here, really. I'll leave it." "Ay, leave it, I can put it between my legs at night, for company. There's no name nor mark on it, is there?" She slipped on the torn thing, and sat dreamily looking out of the window. The window was open, the air of morning drifted in, and the sound of birds. Birds flew continuously past. Then she saw Flossie roaming out. It was morning. Downstairs she heard him making the fire, pumping water, going out at the back door. By and by came the smell of bacon, and at length he came upstairs with a huge black tray that would only just go through the door. He set the tray on the bed, and poured out the tea. Connie squatted in her torn night dress, and fell on her food hungrily. He sat on the one chair, with his plate on his knees. "How good it is!" she said. "How nice to have breakfast together." He ate in silence, his mind on the time that was quickly passing. That made her remember. "Oh, how I wish I could stay here with you, and Wragby were a million miles away! It's Wragby I'm going away from really. You know that, don't you?" "Ay!" "And you promise we will live together and have a life together, you and me! You promise me, don't you?"

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Torello took the ring and mounted to horse; then, bidding all his people adieu, he set out on his journey and came presently with his company to Genoa. There he embarked on board a galleon and coming in a little while to Acre, joined himself to the other army[476] of the Christians, wherein, well nigh out of hand, there began a sore sickness and mortality. During this, whether by Saladin's skill or of his good fortune, well nigh all the remnant of the Christians who had escaped alive were taken by him, without blow stricken, and divided among many cities and imprisoned. Messer Torello was one of those taken and was carried prisoner to Alexandria, where, being unknown and fearing to make himself known, he addressed himself, of necessity constrained, to the training of hawks, of which he was a great master, and by this he came under the notice of Saladin, who took him out of prison and entertained him for his falconer. Messer Torello, who was called by the Soldan by none other name than the Christian, recognized him not nor did Saladin recognize him; nay, all his thoughts were in Pavia and he had more than once essayed to flee, but without avail; wherefore, certain Genoese coming ambassadors to Saladin, to treat for the ransom of sundry of their townsmen, and being about to depart, he bethought himself to write to his lady, giving her to know that he was alive and would return to her as quickliest he might and bidding her await him. Accordingly, he wrote letters to this effect and instantly besought one of the ambassadors, whom he knew, to cause them come to the hands of the Abbot of San Pietro in Ciel d'Oro, who was his uncle. [Footnote 476: Sic (_all' altro esercito_). The meaning of this does not appear, as no mention has yet been made of two Christian armies. Perhaps we should translate "the rest of the army," _i.e._ such part of the remnant of the Christian host as fled to Acre and shut themselves up there after the disastrous day of Hittin (23 June, 1187). Acre fell on the 29th July, 1187.]

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  26.JOHN LEALIt wasn’t that Christianity fetishized pain, or exalted it. What point could there be in glorifying something so available? It would be like exalting oxygen. But the faith did recognize the potential effect of pain: how it can, with most of us, open what’s closed. Like cut flesh, we become available to excluded possibilities. Light enters in the injured place, he said. That the bones which He hath broken might rejoice. 27.PHOEBEIn the next Jejah confession, Phoebe might have said to them, One night, I walked past a woman talking with a small boy in a white sailing suit. They’re waiting, she told him, in Korean. We should rush. The child trotted, obedient, his soles flaring. The woman bent down to kiss the top of his head. I’d stopped in place. I watched them, feral with longing. When a taxi slid past, I wished: Hit them. In pain, I wanted the world to feel as I did. So, Will. Poor Will. Paradise still burns his eyes, but he can’t get back in. It would be hard to witness others’ faith; he tried so long for his own. Though he’s lived in a state of lack, people often take what he’s lost to be nothing, a joke. Even his mother still thinks it’s a phase. His childish rebellion. He grieves, the absence more vivid to him than what’s present, while being forced to pretend he’s fine. It’s possible that, with time, the mask has sealed itself upon his face. John Leal says I should stop living with Will. But if I moved, I’d join the list of all those Will loves who failed him. One parent in Florida; the other ill, preoccupied with Christ. The God-shaped hole, Will calls it. He hears the church bells sing, but not to him. 28.WILLI exiled myself to the living room. The mattress on the thrift-store futon was so thin that its metal ribs jutted through. I slept on the floor instead, bundled in a plaid blanket. Late the fifth night, finding me like this, Phoebe insisted I come back to bed. No, I’m all right, I said. But you’re shivering. She pulled off the blanket; holding it like a cape, she took it to the bedroom. I waited as long as I could before giving in. She’d left my half of the bed unoccupied. Lulled by the shared warmth, I fell asleep. The following night, she started wearing more to bed than her usual cotton panties, adding a shirt, striped pajama pants, the clothed skin radiating heat, but still taboo. I couldn’t help imagining Phoebe with him. Paired, they flashed from the ceiling, shining billboard projections of his black-nailed toes fumbling up and down Phoebe’s muscled legs. He strained with effort. Thighs lifted to meet him, and he looped my girlfriend’s ponytail in his hand. With a hard tug, the way she liked it, he tightened the leash, Phoebe’s face shown smooth, fast, as if surging from the pool. –

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  I sent Julian a note with what I’d learned about cults, after which, knowing Phoebe’s schedule, I did as she asked, staying away. With no sign of Phoebe, I kept finding I’d paused to gaze, instead, at a beige raincoat thrown across a bench; a girl in a striped dress. The dining-hall grand piano, its glossed lid hinged open. Piped-in Ella, scatting, had me at a standstill in the deli aisle. The bathtub drain clogged. I pulled out a black plug, the tangled hairs iridescent with soap-froth. She’d left lip balm in a pile of toiletries. I twisted open the black cap: the gel surface was still indented, rough with use. I inhaled the faint salt scent of Phoebe’s mouth, then sealed the balm. I put it beneath the sink, where I could find it. By chance, in late April, I saw Phoebe again. I was exiting the dining hall. In the rotunda, I saw my old girlfriend walking in. It was too late to pretend otherwise. Once we’d said hello, she fell silent. Others hurried past. She stood in place, face averted, until, at a loss, I asked about Julian. Julian, she said. Your friend, I said. Julian Noh. Tall. Korean. I haven’t talked to him in a while. I looked up, startled. I’d gotten used to the sound of Phoebe on the phone with him, the Julian who also stopped by without notice, pint of kimchi in hand, illegal Czech absinthe. He’d leave the gift in the kitchen before he hightailed it into the bedroom, taking hours of Phoebe’s time. But you love Julian, I said. She shifted an arm, a one-sided shrug. The rotunda light whitened Phoebe’s features as in an overexposed photo, already turning this, us, into the past. I apologized; she interrupted, head shaking. I should go, she said. Will, I don’t think you’ve even tried to understand— I caught sight of Phoebe one more time, that spring. She was crossing the quadrangle with John Leal, lit up then extinguished in pools of light. I watched Phoebe laugh. She had on a jacket I didn’t recognize: his, perhaps. It hid her small frame. I turned left; I let them be. – In June, I moved south, to Manhattan, for a hedge-fund internship. I worked long hours, more than I had in Beijing, but I didn’t mind. In fact, I solicited extra projects. I couldn’t fill what little time alone I had. I required pills, or alcohol, often both, to fall asleep. Nights, I was in the habit of spilling the bottle of prescribed sedatives onto the bedside table to look at the pills scattered white, like dice. I’d made the novice mistake of living downtown, next to the fund. The Financial District emptied along with its office buildings. I drifted the streets in the milk heat of late mornings. Taxis blurred past, roof lights signaling isolation.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  I was lost in thought; by the time I recognized him, he’d passed in front of me, his bulk constrained in a light suit, striding in the opposite direction. Julian, I said. I thought I saw him flinch, but he didn’t respond. He’d have kept walking if I hadn’t said it again, taking his arm. Julian, hello, I said, but the face he showed me might have been a stranger’s. He had on glasses. The reflected sunlight hid his eyes. He looked down at the hand I’d put on his arm, and I lifted it. I want nothing to do with you, he said. I know what you are, Will. I don’t understand. With his glasses leveled at me like lights, he said Phoebe had told him what I’d done. That girl, he said. She’d refused to listen to him. He’d urged Phoebe to go to the police, but she didn’t want to hurt me. In his frustration, he’d said things he regretted. They hadn’t talked since. She’d loved me. It made little sense to him, but she had. I’d given Phoebe the last push into Jejah. He hoped I realized that. Oh, he’d fantasized about exposing me, but at least I had to keep living in my own skin: a hell, he said, he’d wish upon no one else. – They still haven’t found Jejah. Once in a while, a politician promises they’ll be located. In principle, the manhunt continues. The absence of proof, I’ve come to believe, isn’t proof on its own. I’ve noticed signs, each of which might be incidental, but not like this, as a whole, collected. I’ve received phone calls that hang up at the first ring; a mailed brochure to a concert-hall Libich revival. Then, not long ago, I left the office to get lunch at Meilai’s, a third-story Sichuan dive I liked. I was in line when I glanced toward the street. I saw Phoebe, in a striped sundress, looking up from the shade of an ailanthus. She’d lost weight, hair cut short; still, it was Phoebe. She turned, shoulders jutting out. I ran down. I shouted, but she’d gone. I’m aware of what people are saying, that she’s drowned, lost, but I also know Phoebe. I’ll open the door to a ringing bell, and she’ll be there: short-haired, face split open with a smile. You don’t even look surprised, she’ll tell me. That morning in June, when I’d seen Julian, I went down into the Columbus Circle station. It was loud inside, the platform more crowded than usual. I sighted the source of the tumult: a band of six male dancers, in white latex tights.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  It’s as though, when I tried to learn His lines by heart, I turned literal. I inked the Word in flesh; I tattooed atrial muscles. It stained the cells, His print indelible. I wasn’t hostile, Phoebe. It was longing, and I should have made that plain. Instead, I asked if she’d known all along he’d be in Noxhurst. What are you implying? Tell me if that’s why you gave up attending classes, I said. If you did this on purpose. She asked if I heard how I sounded. When had she lied to me? Well, all right, I thought, as the kettle pinged. I pulled down a tea bag. Oh, I’d noticed occasional mild deceptions, the milk lies of love, but I hadn’t known Phoebe to be dishonest, not like this. But I’d lied so long, I’d found how natural it could be. I let the tea soak. I took a second pill, then I called Phoebe, giving in. 17. JOHN LEAL Each time he saw Phoebe, he asked if she could talk to him about the mother who’d died. You’re in pain because someone you love has stopped existing, he said. But the love itself is still with you. It’s the more abiding gift. She’s stayed in this world as she could, through absence. If you can find delight in this lack as you did with presence, you’ll gain what you think is lost. But it’s hard, he said. Phoebe, it’ll take time. He’d lost his mother, too: he’d lived with the resulting isolation. He’d had to learn how it felt to watch others avert their eyes, trying to believe all was well. Is it, though, he asked, until, halting, tearful, she started telling him. 18. PHOEBE The wind drifts behind me, Phoebe said. Trash shifts, then I’ll find I’m listening to a light footstep, one I almost recognize. Since I don’t want to dispel the hope, I’ll wait as long as possible before I look back. The truth is, it still feels as though, if I wait long enough, she’ll return. I’ve wondered if I’ve stopped being able to want, but maybe it’s just that what I most wish to have again is not, at this point, available. 19. WILL When I finished the job, I returned from Beijing to Noxhurst. In the first flush of reunion with Phoebe, it seemed possible we’d only fought because we’d had to be apart too long. The previous spring, we’d decided to split an apartment; in August, she’d signed the lease on a small place above Café Azul. In bed, in the dining hall, we resisted even short-lived separation.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  Maybe I was in the middle of a Michelangelo’s shift, clearing basil-flecked plates. I fold napkins, and I align them in white triangles. The shining knives lie flat. She pulls her ponytail, the tip soft, wide, like a paintbrush. I’m awash with images. If I’d been with Phoebe on this night—and sometimes I see it all in such bold detail I think I was—I’d have said it’s fine, I’m here, forget Beijing. You should have seen Will when he learned he won his internship, she said. He flailed across the suite to me, half-naked, fists raised. Flinging himself on the futon, he settled his head on my thigh. Come with me, he said. Let’s go to China. He reached up to grab my face, and he pulled it down to his. But I didn’t need convincing. I said yes, I’ll go. He shouted, jubilant. I’ll go with you, I kept saying, just so that I could listen to him shout again. For a while, I pitched myself into learning about Beijing. It was going to be my first real trip to Asia. Though born in Seoul, I’d left when I was still so little I kept nothing of it. So, I explored travel guides. I compiled best-of lists: Tanzhe Si. Houhai. I plotted which sections of the Wall we’d hike, picked restaurants. Online, at night, I studied photos of temples and red-tiled palaces. Tourists’ frilled parasols, like stiff blooms, roved the imperial pavilions. I told Will what I learned. Listen to this, I said. Palace eunuchs relied on chili paste for a local anesthetic, nothing else. They rubbed it on, then, chop. Half the aspiring eunuchs died, but, hey, if they survived, they’d get rich. They all belonged to peasant families. One cut, then a palatial life. No men but eunuchs lived on imperial grounds. Even the emperor’s sons had to be banished from court the minute they learned to crawl. Oh, plus, eunuchs kept the genitals pickled. In jars. They hoped to be reunited in the afterlife. Will laughed, as I’d known he would. But then, Noxhurst opened with spring, the trees bud-tipped, and I started losing interest in the trip. It wasn’t his fault. I’d been wasteful. It’s as if, or so I’ve, at times, believed, a pleasure has its allotted limit, a finite portion of juice in each pistil. I’d sucked it all out, anticipating. If I went with him, Will would have his job, while I’d, what, visit old palaces? I’d take banal pictures. Jostle along with the hordes—a tourist, like them. One night, I admitted to Will that I didn’t know what I’d do while he was working. Do anything, he said. He didn’t look up from his book. I tapped his wrist, impatient, until he put the book down. Take a class, if you want. In, ah, the fine art of Sichuan cuisine.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  Even before she joined Jejah, I valued what clues I could find. I’d studied, for instance, the handful of old novels she’d brought from L.A. Soft with use, they proved Phoebe’s claim that she used to love reading. She’d underlined words, filled margins, the penciled notes fading. I asked why she’d stopped; I lost interest in it, she said. I’d examined the glyphs as I might have a coded map, directions to Phoebe’s shining, inmost psyche, that visible opacity, which showed itself in allowing me to sight it hiding. Privation is lust; isolation, desire. I craved what she withheld. I always wanted to know more about how it felt, being Phoebe. Then, Phoebe took up Jejah, and I sat in the circle while she divulged secrets: more, often, than she’d let slip with me. He raised questions; obedient, she replied. I tried to believe she was also talking in my direction, but it was obvious she wasn’t. If, alone, on the way home from a meeting, I alluded to what she’d said, she’d give me a quick kiss, a laugh. No, let’s talk about you, she said. I haven’t had a minute with you all night. Tell me about the lunch shift. Did you find out who hid the pipe in the trash? – In the Seoul before you and I lived, John Leal told us, a unified land, everyone learned the same songs. It wasn’t unusual, he said, in this city of Phoebe’s birth, to have one person begin singing a ballad in public. Others would join in. He loved to picture it, the heads lifting to sing in chorus. If this Seoul hadn’t existed, he still wanted to think it had. Korea dispatched more Christian apostles abroad than any nation but the U.S. Per capita, it placed first. It could well take the lead. The next fount of revival, he called it. No one was more spiritual than Koreans could be; no believers, more devoted. It was a land of purists. He talked about present-day Seoul, where lit-up, blinking signs jutted out like flags on a pole. You’ll have to see it, he said. –

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  DAVID FITCH SYBIL DAVIS EZRA CATLIN JOHN GIBB LOUIS WHITING MERIT WYETH GILBERT MERRILL SARAH ELLIS CHRISTOPH POULSON MATTHIAS HILCOX PHILIP STILSON MARION COIT JULES DUCLOT ISAIAH PIERSON PHINEAS ALBIG ELIPHELET BALL MABEL LANG NAOMI HOYLAND JOSIAH MEIGS IRVING PLATT ELIHU RINEHART BENJAMIN CHILTON EZRA LEVITT FRANCIS STILES WILLIAM INGERSOLL ELIJAH GIRD DANIEL HALL J. T. BRINTNAL ELIPHELET LADD JULIET FALTIX RUTH YUNDT HEZEKIAH DAVIS LEVI TALBOT MERIT LAHN JOHAN PURNELL ITHIEL TODD HAVILA FAUST T. I. HOYT FEIT NEWTON LANG HORATIO COTTELL DANIEL PLATT FRANCIS JOSEPH COIT BAVIL KING MARIAH HALL ITHIEL BUEL ISAAC ALBURTIS JOEL BOYD LYDIA GIBB MERIT TODD EDWARD HOPKINS NATHANIEL HOLLIN JOEL BARTGIS FIELDING BLAUVELT GAIL LUNT JABEZ BOYD GILBERT ETHEL KIRK TITUS MARTIN MILES KEITH OBADIAH PECHIN FAITH HOYT PRATT RICHARD WELLS PHILIP NEWHALL ETTA MYGATT LUCIUS ALBIG PHILA HOYT JOHN LYALL MILES EVANS ELIHU GILL SYBIL BUEL J. D. STILES FRANTZ BOYD LORING ALLEN GAIL FAUST PHILA FALTIX JULIET LUNT 34. WILL I stayed up through much of the night, not getting in bed until the curtain edges had lightened with morning. By noon, she still hadn’t called. The extended silence, though, left me less anxious than I’d felt, not more. Much as I might want to talk, I’d lost that right months ago. She’d been home all along, in L.A. I could imagine Phoebe lazing poolside, beneath a hat brim’s flopping petal. If her phone rattled, she ignored it. Ripe oranges plopped. I’d have a birthday soon, I realized. It was in less than a week. The last time, I’d had trouble convincing Phoebe I didn’t want a celebration: no big gathering, I said. No barhopping expedition. She thought awhile, then proposed I at least take a short trip. I asked what she had in mind. Rolling to face me, she said, What about Coney Island? Oh, so you want to go to Coney Island. You’ll love it. I drove us down to the lowest tip of Brooklyn. I was put off, at first: its kitsch, the noise. Then, I had a couple of beers. She led me to pinball and tilt-a-whirls, to a sideshow stall. We spun in teacups. Toddlers squalled; clowns tottered past on painted, salt-glazed stilts. Street acrobats flung up agile legs. Ignoring the fall chill, girls on the beach lolled in bikinis, flat bared stomachs shining like mirrors to the sun. Night fell, and Phoebe and I split blini and horseradish-infused vodka. The plucked flesh of rose petals strewed the tablecloth. She tapped out the birthday song on the inside of my thigh. In the past, I hadn’t understood what made people flag birthdays, let alone with parties— celebrating death’s advent, I thought. Meanwhile, glittering Coney Island was what I’d wanted. I hadn’t known, but she had. This time, I waited. The phone didn’t ring until late in the morning with my mother’s hello, barely audible.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  I told Phoebe she’d been missed, that people had asked if she felt ill. I don’t care, she said. I fell asleep on the futon, anesthetized with alcohol, but I woke to see her sitting in the open windowsill. Night sounds flowed in while she looked out as if listening for a faint echo—how is Phoebe, how is she—tell us—how is Phoebe. Sometimes, I still imagine I’m in that room again. I watch the girl I love, a silhouette waiting upon what I haven’t thought to give. Outside, revelers stumble, laugh. The floral scent of gin drifts into the apartment; a drunk’s baritone swells, then falls silent. Julian aside, she put a halt to spending time with old friends. Each morning, she went to the college pool, looping back and forth in fast, obsessive laps. Phoebe’s ass tightened. Thighs expanded. Unexpected muscles jutted against pale skin: a new Phoebe, fresh-hewn, more powerful than the original. In direct light, her head looked as if she’d tinted it sea-witch-green. It brought to mind the bronze statues on the central lawn, stone-eyed heroes oxidized to verdigris. She also kept going to John Leal’s house, meeting with his group. Jejah, he called it, in tribute to the new life he’d started since the gulag. They talked, ate, rolled out the piano. Explored Bible passages. I asked if that meant anything, Jejah. If it translated. It means “disciple,” in Korean, she said. Oh, I said. I’d changed my approach. I joked; I asked occasional questions, but I tried to hide what I felt. I still hoped this experiment, Phoebe’s flirtation with belief, might lose its appeal. I’ll admit I found Phoebe’s notion of faith childish. It was a whim, I thought, a foolish hope she hinged on His alleged promises, the old, beguiling lies. He’d lift us up, rescind all death. In short, she wished to love the Lord because. But I loved Phoebe, period. I had no rationale behind prizing, for instance, Phoebe’s pointed chin. The full-blown mouth. I treasured for its own sake Phoebe’s tongue sliding between my lips, its salt taste the daily host. Minute dots flecked ticklish legs. I’d licked the spots; I traced snail-lines while she shivered, laughing. Enough, she said. But I persisted. I baptized private constellations. If I hadn’t counted the individual hairs, I’d still claimed each inch of Phoebe’s skin. She wasn’t even a Christian, she told me, one night, as we walked to Gibb Hall for a Phi Epsilon’s choral recital. Wind blew silk around Phoebe’s thighs. She’d been reading the Davenport translation of sayings attributed to Christ. Though she found His ideas compelling, she wasn’t at all sure she believed in God. I’d like to, she said. It isn’t enough. Well, you know how it is. – I’d saved enough in Beijing that I could plan a short trip. Driving us north in Phoebe’s coupe, I kept the destination, Cape Cod, a surprise. It’s Maine, she said. No. Ohio.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  9 For you remember, b believers, our labor and hardship. We worked night and day [practicing our trade] in order not to be a [financial] burden to any of you while we proclaimed the gospel of God to you. 10 You are witnesses, and so is God, how unworldly and just and blameless was our behavior toward you who believe [in our Lord Jesus Christ]. 11 For you know how we were exhorting and encouraging and imploring each one of you just as a father does [in dealing with] his own children, [guiding you] 12 to live lives [of honor, moral courage, and personal integrity] worthy of the God who [saves you and] calls you into His own kingdom and glory. 13 And we also thank God continually for this, that when you received the word of God [concerning salvation] which you heard from us, you welcomed it not as the word of [mere] men, but as it truly is, the word of God, which is effectually at work in you who believe [exercising its inherent, supernatural power in those of faith]. 14 For you, c brothers and sisters, became imitators of the churches of God in Christ Jesus that are in Judea, because you too suffered the same [kind of] persecution from your own countrymen, as they did from the Jews, 15 who d killed both the Lord Jesus and the prophets, and harassed and drove us out; and [they] continue to be highly displeasing to God and [to show themselves] hostile to all people, 16 forbidding us from speaking to the Gentiles (non-Jews) so that they may be saved. So, as always, they fill up [to the brim] the measure of their sins [allotted to them by God]. But [God’s] wrath has come upon them at last [completely and forever]. [Gen 15:16 ] 17 But since we were taken away from you, believers, for a little while—in person, but not in heart—we endeavored, with great longing to see you face to face. 18 For we wanted to come to you—I, Paul, again and again [wanted to come], but Satan hindered us. 19 For who is [the object of] our hope or joy or our victor’s wreath of triumphant celebration [when we stand] in the presence of our Lord Jesus at His coming? Is it not you? 20 For you are [indeed] our glory and our joy! 1 Thessalonians 3 Encouragement of Timothy’s Visit 1 T herefore, when we could no longer endure our separation [from you], we thought it best to be left behind, alone at Athens, 2 and so we sent Timothy, our brother and God’s servant in [spreading] the good news of Christ, to strengthen and encourage you [exhorting, comforting, and establishing you] in regard to your faith, 3 so that no one would be unsettled by these difficulties [to which I have referred]. For you know that we have been destined for this [as something unavoidable in our position].

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  I finished the last month of high school. Then, as soon as possible, I left. I came to Noxhurst. In Littell, during the college president’s opening talk, I walked out. I crossed the silent campus while everyone else sat in chapel pews, listening to the president tell them how glad they should feel. This school, he’d said. He called it one of the nation’s pinnacles of learning. Such luck. Privilege. The obligation to give back. In front of Latham gate, a fellow truant held a bluish flame up to the key-card light. The gate didn’t open; the flame went out. He flicked his flame on again. I asked what he was doing. It’s broken, he said. This gate. It’s busted. Won’t open. I could give it a try, I said. He paused, but then he stepped back. His broad face was pink, sullen. The tall bulk of him listed toward the stone arch. I swiped my card, and the gate rang open. I tried not to laugh. He said I was his hero. You’ll have to let me give you a drink, he insisted, until I followed him to his suite. He told me his name, Julian. Julian Noh. I gave him mine. He asked if I was also Korean, lifting his hand for a high five. I could tell, he said. Tilting into his futon, he slid on his back, sighed, then closed his eyes. I tiptoed as I left. In the morning, I had a waist-high bouquet, white gladioli, propped against the doorsill. It included a long note from Julian, apologizing. He requested that I come to his suite to join him in, as he put it, a wine-tasting shindig. I did, and then I went with him to more parties, not getting back to my place until dawn. We split a late lunch that afternoon. Phoebe, he said. Last night, you met a Mitch. Blond, kind of thin, this high. Tell me if you liked him. I do, I think. I asked Julian questions. He tried to reciprocate, asking about life before Edwards. No, I said. First, I have to know everything about you. I want all your secrets, Julian. Let’s start at the beginning. Big or small, what’s the first lie you told? I watched him smile, each wide tooth showing. It was like a picket fence swinging open: his smile invited me inside.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  20 Accordingly I set a goal to preach the gospel, not where Christ’s name was already known, so that I would not build on another man’s foundation; 21 but [instead I would act on this goal] as it is written [in Scripture], “THEY WHO HAD NO NEWS OF HIM SHALL SEE , AND THEY WHO HAVE NOT HEARD [of Him] SHALL UNDERSTAND .” [Is 52:15 ] 22 This [goal—my commitment to this principle] is the reason why I have often been prevented from coming to you [in Rome]. 23 But now, with no further place for work in these regions, and since I have longed for many years to come to you— 24 whenever I go [on my trip] to Spain—I hope to see you as I pass through [Rome], and to be helped on my journey there by you, after I have first enjoyed your company for a little while. 25 But for now, I am going to Jerusalem to serve the saints (Jewish believers). 26 For [Gentile believers in] d Macedonia and Achaia have been pleased to make a contribution for the poor among the saints (Jewish believers) in Jerusalem. 27 They were pleased to do it, and they are indebted to them. For if the Gentiles have come to share in their spiritual things, then they are indebted to serve them also in [tangible] material things. 28 Therefore, when I have finished this [mission] and have safely given to them what has been raised, I will go on by way of you to Spain. 29 I know that when I do come to you, I will come in the abundant blessing of Christ. 30 I urge you, believers, by our Lord Jesus Christ and by the love of the Spirit, to join together with me in your prayers to God in my behalf, 31 [and pray] that I may be rescued from the unbelievers in Judea, and that my service for Jerusalem may be acceptable to the saints (Jewish believers) there; 32 so that by God’s will I may come to you with joy and find rest in your company. 33 May the God of peace be with you all! Amen. Romans 16 Greetings and Love Expressed 1 N OW I introduce and commend to you our sister a Phoebe, a deaconess (servant) of the church at b Cenchrea, 2 that you may receive her in the Lord [with love and hospitality], as c God’s people ought to receive one another. And that you may help her in whatever matter she may require assistance from you, for she has been a helper of many, including myself. 3 Greet Prisca and Aquila, my fellow workers in Christ Jesus, 4 who risked their own necks [endangering their very lives] for my life. To them not only do I give thanks, but also all the churches of the Gentiles. 5 Also greet the church that meets in their house.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "Oh, no, my Lady! That was only my silly cry. And I kept expecting him back. Especially at nights. I kept waking up thinking: Why he's not in bed with me!--It was as if my _feelings_ wouldn't believe he'd gone. I just felt he'd _have_ to come back and lie against me, so I could feel him with me. That was all I wanted, to feel him there with me, warm. And it took me a thousand shocks before I knew he wouldn't come back, it took me years." "The touch of him," said Connie. "That's it, my Lady! the touch of him! I've never got over it to this day, and never shall. And if there's a heaven above, he'll be there, and will lie up against me so I can sleep." Connie glanced at the handsome, brooding face in fear. Another passionate one out of Tevershall! The touch of him! For the bonds of love are ill to loose! "It's terrible, once you've got a man into your blood!" she said. "Oh, my Lady! And that's what makes you feel so bitter. You feel folks _wanted_ him killed. You feel the pit fair _wanted_ to kill him. Oh, I felt, if it hadn't been for the pit, an' them as runs the pit, there'd have been no leaving me. But they all _want_ to separate a woman and a man, if they're together." "If they're physically together," said Connie. "That's right my Lady! There's a lot of hard-hearted folks in the world. And every morning when he got up and went to th' pit, I felt it was wrong, wrong. But what else could he do? What can a man do?" A queer hate flared in the woman. "But can a touch last so long?" Connie asked suddenly. "That you could feel him so long?" "Oh my Lady, what else is there to last? Children grows away from you. But the man, well--! But even _that_ they'd like to kill in you, the very thought of the touch of him. Even your own children! Ah well! We might have drifted apart, who knows. But the feeling's something different. It's 'appen better never to care. But there, when I look at women who's never really been warmed through by a man, well, they seem to me poor dool-owls after all, no matter how they may dress up and gad. No, I'll abide by my own. I've not much respect for people." CHAPTER XII

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  18.PHOEBEThe wind drifts behind me, Phoebe said. Trash shifts, then I’ll find I’m listening to a light footstep, one I almost recognize. Since I don’t want to dispel the hope, I’ll wait as long as possible before I look back. The truth is, it still feels as though, if I wait long enough, she’ll return. I’ve wondered if I’ve stopped being able to want, but maybe it’s just that what I most wish to have again is not, at this point, available. 19.WILLWhen I finished the job, I returned from Beijing to Noxhurst. In the first flush of reunion with Phoebe, it seemed possible we’d only fought because we’d had to be apart too long. The previous spring, we’d decided to split an apartment; in August, she’d signed the lease on a small place above Café Azul. In bed, in the dining hall, we resisted even short-lived separation. I opened my eyes each morning to find a naked leg thrown across mine, my arm fixed tight across her stomach. I sat through movies I could tell I wouldn’t like, just to be at Phoebe’s side. While we strolled through campus, she kept a hand tucked in the back pocket of my jeans. The line between us relaxed its hold, the slack winding, like an exhausted snake, at our adjoined feet. So brazen, Julian said. He raised his full glass to me, then to Phoebe, who leaned into my arm. Did you learn nothing in China, Will? It’s such bad luck, flaunting what you’ve been given. Sensible parents used to insult their own children, calling them idle, stupid— But less than a month into the term, Liesl took a leave of absence from school. She returned to St. Paul again. The rape allegation had become front-page national news. More Edwards girls had stories to tell of sexual assault. Editorials followed; public outrage. Phoebe helped organize a candlelit vigil, which almost half the school attended. Still, there were students who criticized Liesl, small-minded gossips who prattled about which illegal pills she liked best, how reliable she might be. The possibility she’d lied. Others, less spiteful, said they didn’t know what to think. It felt hard to judge Neil outright. In his version, he hadn’t touched Liesl. Even friends wanted facts, details. Phoebe, livid, picked late-night quarrels. No one lies about this, she said. Look at what it’s cost Liesl, then tell me she’s lying. The next time I went out for the night, she refused to come along. It’s fine, go, she insisted. It was a Prohibition costume party; the host, a Phi Epsilon. In ostrich quills, top-hatted, hands chilled from tall glasses clicking ice, people high-fived me, asking about Phoebe. Where’s she hiding? they hollered. She’s staying in. Is she all right? Yes.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Wherefore, so this may not betide, now that you have it in your power to succour me, bethink yourself and ere I die, be moved to pity on me, for that with you alone it resteth to make me the happiest or the most miserable man alive. I trust your courtesy will be such that you will not suffer me to receive death in guerdon of such and so great a love, but will with a glad response and full of favour quicken my fainting spirits, which flutter, all dismayed, in your presence.' Therewith he held his peace and heaving the deepest of sighs, followed up with sundry tears, proceeded to await the lady's answer. The latter,--whom the long court he had paid her, the joustings held and the serenades given in her honour and other like things done of him for the love of her had not availed to move,--was moved by the passionate speech of this most ardent lover and began to be sensible of that which she had never yet felt, to wit, what manner of thing love was; and albeit, in ensuance of the commandment laid upon her by her husband, she kept silence, she could not withal hinder sundry gentle sighs from discovering that which, in answer to Il Zima, she would gladly have made manifest. Il Zima, having waited awhile and seeing that no response ensued, was wondered and presently began to divine the husband's device; but yet, looking her in the face and observing certain flashes of her eyes towards him now and again and noting, moreover, the sighs which she suffered not to escape her bosom with all her strength, conceived fresh hope and heartened thereby, took new counsel[172] and proceeded to answer himself after the following fashion, she hearkening the while: 'Zima mine, this long time, in good sooth, have I perceived thy love for me to be most great and perfect, and now by thy words I know it yet better and am well pleased therewith, as indeed I should be. Algates, an I have seemed to thee harsh and cruel, I will not have thee believe that I have at heart been that which I have shown myself in countenance; nay, I have ever loved thee and held thee dear above all other men; but thus hath it behoved me do, both for fear of others and for the preserving of my fair fame. But now is the time at hand when I may show thee clearly that I love thee and guerdon thee of the love that thou hast borne and bearest me.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  I didn’t look at Phoebe, though I felt she was listening. I pointed everything I said in the single direction of my girlfriend, sitting with the others. This went on, lasting hours at a time. I kept explaining, while they’d interrupt. They’d ask questions, pushing me to tell more than I intended—in principle, they. Most often, though, it was him. Nights ended with John Leal pacing the hearth, agitated, his odd, zigzag gait picking up speed as he preached. He told us that, while still enrolled at Edwards, he’d founded a Christian group that pulled in hundreds of students; he implied he’d led large-scale rallies, charismatic revivals. Since the gulag, he’d lost interest in big crowds. Instead, the Lord had called him, His apostle, to this more private kind of service. Here, he said, like this. With us. But I could picture his stage act. He’d have flaunted how close he felt to the Lord. It was, I realized, one of his principal tricks. I want to tell you about God, he said, then did. He performed his religion, discalced, talking to Christ. Mid-sentence, he broke into ecstatic song. Filled with the Spirit, he said. Tall firelight lapped at the ceiling while he signaled to each of us in turn; he shouted, flinging up his arms. Most would-be Christians, he said, insist too much on faith. But all God looks to find in us is desire. If we want Him, belief spills in. It rises to His level, and it will fill the void. Isn’t that right, Lord. Real faith isn’t about laws, moral prohibitions. No, Lord. He cited early Christians, the saints who’d received His visions. Like them, he heard God’s voice. He’d seen His face, and lived. But all this could be made available to us, if we tried. – Even before she joined Jejah, I valued what clues I could find. I’d studied, for instance, the handful of old novels she’d brought from L.A. Soft with use, they proved Phoebe’s claim that she used to love reading. She’d underlined words, filled margins, the penciled notes fading. I asked why she’d stopped; I lost interest in it, she said. I’d examined the glyphs as I might have a coded map, directions to Phoebe’s shining, inmost psyche, that visible opacity, which showed itself in allowing me to sight it hiding. Privation is lust; isolation, desire. I craved what she withheld. I always wanted to know more about how it felt, being Phoebe. Then, Phoebe took up Jejah, and I sat in the circle while she divulged secrets: more, often, than she’d let slip with me. He raised questions; obedient, she replied. I tried to believe she was also talking in my direction, but it was obvious she wasn’t. If, alone, on the way home from a meeting, I alluded to what she’d said, she’d give me a quick kiss, a laugh. No, let’s talk about you, she said.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  I kept walking. It was a dense, hot night again, the slight wind blood-temperature. Girls on bicycles spun past, black triangle seats wedged between taut buttocks. No one knew where I was in the old, ill-lit alleys, the zigzag streets of the hutong, and not a soul could find me. It seemed the quiet the hermit seeks in the wild or the stylite on his post might be realized here, like this, amid Beijing’s chaos. I felt free, blameless: I’d have liked to be lost all night. Too soon, I happened upon the stalls of street-food hawkers. Steam coiled up in a haze from grills and open pots. I asked for directions at the last cart in my college Mandarin. The peddler replied, but I didn’t understand him. The couple waiting in line heard the exchange, and, laughing, said they’d help. While they sketched a map, I noticed a girl who stopped to purchase food. In the occult light of the hawker’s cart, I saw the upturned stub of a nose, a flat bob streaked peacock-blue. She held a translucent plastic backpack with nothing inside. Despite the childish bag, she looked about my age. She had excess baby fat, the kind of flesh a person can grab. Upon receiving the change for a scallion pancake, she inspected the coins, slanting them to the light. Then, she bit into the fried cake; broad front teeth tugged free a long, tantalizing shred of bright green. Inhaling, she sucked both lips clean of oil. She looked nothing like Phoebe, but in relishing the treat, the obvious appetite—it brought my absent girlfriend to mind. We’d fought, again. I hadn’t talked to Phoebe in almost a week. She left; I thanked the couple, then I followed the girl. Staying at half a block’s distance, on the opposite side of the street, I kept pace through walled alleys. In the dark, it wasn’t hard to keep the girl in sight, the backpack’s plastic bulge jolting ahead like a lamp. I tried to walk quietly. Pigeons flapped down, jingling bells tied to their legs. Cyclists passed. I tripped on a pile of bricks. The girl’s bob leaped along. The streets emptied: to keep up, I had to quicken my stride. She hurried—impatient to be home, I thought; then, turning right, she glanced back. The round face blazing, then gone. Despite the pains I’d taken, she looked afraid. I’d wanted to follow the girl for just a few minutes. But now, accused, I felt insulted. I saw something white, a sheet, flit from the girl’s hand. Thinking it might be a note, a signal, I paused to pick it up, but it was nothing: half the pancake, crumpled into its napkin. I resumed the chase. She doglegged left. I was losing breath. She halted, then bent down. I saw her adjust a sandal strap. She broke into a run, hobbling.