Relief

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 Birthday Girl (2018)

  Aprieto los dientes para mantener mi respiración calmada, y el alivio se apodera de mí. —No sé cuán de acuerdo estoy con todo esto, pero… —asiente—. Sé que me amas. Estoy sin palabras. Es un poco desgarrador ver a tu hijo y preguntarte si tuviste algo que ver en lo bueno que resultó ser. No puedo creer que esté sentado justo aquí cuando no estaba seguro de sí volvería a verme. —¿Todavía la amas? —pregunta. Dudo por un momento, buscando las palabras. Sí, todavía la amo, pero… —Ella está mejor sin mí —le digo. Lo deja, sin presionar más. —Tengo que regresar mañana en la noche. ¿Está bien si me quedo la noche? —Por supuesto. Se levanta, llevando su cerveza con él a la sala. —Los Twins jugarán contra los Cubs esta noche —dice—. ¿Quieres verlo? Inhalo profundamente y lo suelto, sintiendo cómo mi cuerpo se relaja por primera vez en meses. —Suena bien. Ordenaré la pizza. —Queso —especifica. Me río. —Sí, lo recuerdo. Saco el teléfono de mi bolsillo y comienzo a marcar, pero luego escucho su voz. —Y papá —dice. Levanto la cabeza. —Te amo —me dice—. Pero nadie está mejor sin ti. **** Esa noche, despierto por un relámpago a la distancia. No abro los ojos, el peso de muchos largos días de trabajo pesan en mis párpados. Giro a mi costado, sabiendo que volveré a dormir si espero un minuto. La parte interna de mi brazo derecho quema con el tatuaje que me hice más temprano esta noche. Cole y yo decidimos ir al Rockford después de la pizza y hacernos esos tatuajes que había mencionado. Él eligió un ancla a la mitad de su espalda, acompañado por una brújula y un nudo de pescador con la frase “Forjado por el Mar” a su alrededor. Aunque todo solo tiene las líneas. Dice que le daría color después que se lo gane. Supongo que significa después de sus primeros seis meses en el mar. La vela grabada en mi piel se siente como si estuviera realmente encendida, el humo de la mecha sube por mi brazo hasta mi codo. Desde la primera vez que Cole mencionó los tatuajes hace dos meses, supe que algo que representara a Jordan sería la única cosa que querría en mí por el resto de mi vida. La cumpleañera y sus deseos. Siempre sería una parte de mí. Inhalo profundamente, y a pesar que he lavado las sábanas muchas veces desde que se fue, todavía puedo sentir el aroma de su cabello en la almohada. Y si me concentro lo suficiente y dejo mis ojos cerrados, ella está junto a mí. Muevo un brazo alrededor de su cuerpo, y la atraigo hacia mí, clavando mi nariz en su frío cabello. —¿Estaba roncando? —susurra. Sonrió, tratando de no reír. —No.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  After all, the one thing I thought would never happen at a Buddhist retreat was hedonistic sex. But, oh no, those naughty, wonderful Buddhists, sex is A-okay with them—so long as no one is getting hurt, and all karmas are properly aligned. Clearly more experienced in this than me, he began our alignment. When I told him that I was leaving the next day, he suggested meeting up, after the evening meditation. I can’t remember exactly how the proposition was phrased—it wasn’t dinner or a movie or even a date—but he ended up in my cozy room with the Laura Ashley curtains, two narrow single beds, tea bags, and an electric water heater. Outside, needless to say, it was raining. This beautiful Byronic Buddhist not only fucked me royally on the last evening of the retreat, but also performed a particular kind of surgery I had only vaguely considered being of any possible use. He became the second man to fuck my ass in my whole life—gently, wildly, eagerly, Buddhistically. It was amazing. The sex, yes, he was so able, so young, so ready . . . and then ready again. But more amazing was that it happened at all, that I allowed it when others had tried to no avail. But when he asked, I looked into his saintly sexy eyes and saw that he could be the one. The one kind enough. It was like being vaccinated against the very illness I had so long been afflicted with. A-Man was the FirstMan, was the BestMan, but he was no longer the OnlyMan. The spell was broken. Buddha had found his way into my backyard. To think that God, that sly devil, had sent me a Buddhist John the Baptist to show me the way out of hell. Or at least to break the seal that bonded me to another but never to myself. How does one let go of the best thing one has ever known in the hope of something better? With a crazy, illogical leap of faith. I left early the next morning, feeling blessed for the first time in a long time. Time to shop. HEELED Upon returning home, I decided that I would not find a replacement or a continuation in a single man; I must find something entirely other. This plan got legs when I bought some new shoes. The right pair of shoes, at the right time, can really change a woman’s attitude. And these weren’t just any old shoes. These were the shoes in which I would find a new identity. Just as toe shoes had shaped the contours of my young life, these shoes would guide my life when submission to a man was no longer possible. These weren’t nice, elegant, sleek Manolo Blahnik pumps. These were nasty, heavy, spiky heels— useful shoes, practical shoes. No more easy-to-lose mules for me; these were serious strap-ons with buckles galore.

• From How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety (2018)

  Does that mean he never gets anxious? Of course not. Does that mean he is confident in every situation? Not on your life. But does it matter? Again, let’s ask Jim. “Every time I walk out of the house I still feel that old twinge in my stomach,” he says. “It was so drilled into me. But I know I can get nervous and still do whatever I want.” The goal is not to dance on the bar or wear a lampshade on your head, but to challenge yourself a little, on your own terms. You will start off by living the life you want with anxiety—by carrying it along with you. And as you do, surprisingly, the anxiety will ebb away. Nothing will change. And everything will change. * * * Jim came down with pneumonia during the infamous Boston winter of 2015. Locals called it the Worst Wicked Wintah Evah. Images of roof-high snow and stressed city officials were all over the national news. Rosaleen and a set of snow tires got him to the doctor. In the office, after listening to Jim’s lungs and peering down his throat, the doctor inquired about the pace of his life. “Wait a minute,” the doctor said. “You’re telling me you’re fifty-six, you work all week, you go to the gym every day, and you dance all weekend with dozens of women?” Jim had never thought about it like that. “Um, I guess so.” The doctor looked at him. He said something to Jim about listening to his body, but Jim was busy experiencing The Moment. I promise this—The Moment—to clients. I’ve seen it happen time and time again. It works like this: as you grow and practice and challenge yourself, you won’t notice your anxiety changing in real time. Only after your transformation can you look back and realize something is different. The Moment is when you realize, Huh, I would never have flagged down the waiter for another napkin before, or, Wait, I just went to a holiday party without thinking of a million excuses to stay home, or, Hey, I can’t remember the last time I stayed in all weekend. Or a doctor looks at you with a raised eyebrow and tells you to take it easy, tiger. 2 Social Anxiety Is Like an Apple Tree (or, Why Social Anxiety Has Stuck Around for Millennia) A stammering man is never a worthless one. Physiology can tell you why. It is an excess of sensibility to the presence of his fellow creature that makes him stammer. —THOMAS CARLYLE, IN A LETTER TO RALPH WALDO EMERSON, 1843

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Agarra la hamburguesa de su plato en una mano y mete una parte oxidada y sucia del auto debajo de su brazo, inclina su barbilla hacia mí. —Hola, nena. Estamos trabajando en tu VW. No te importa si como afuera, ¿verdad? Lo miro. ¿Habla en serio? Disparo una mirada entre él y su padre. —Sí —contesto suavemente, intentando decir más con mis ojos. No quiero comer a solas con su papá. —Vamos. —Cole ladea la cabeza, intentando convencerme con su expresión juguetona—. No puedo simplemente dejarlos allá. Podrías venir y sentarte afuera con nosotros. Cielos, gracias. Frunzo los labios y me vuelvo hacia el refrigerador, tomando la jarra de limonada. Es grosero simplemente irse. Su padre no es nuestro restaurante. Debería esforzarse un poco por conocerlo. Pero antes que pueda decirle a Cole que solo se vaya y coma afuera, su padre habla: —¿Por qué no te sientas diez minutos? No te he visto en un tiempo. El alivio me golpea, y estoy agradecida por el respaldo. Finalmente escucho a Cole soltar un suspiro y las patas de uno de los taburetes de la isla de la cocina raspan el suelo mientras toma asiento frente a su plato. Me aseguro que el horno esté apagado, agarro mi bebida, y sigo al padre de Cole mientras toma asiento, dejando el asiento entre él y Cole vacío. Lo tomo, estirándome sobre la isla y acercando el plato hacia mí. —Entonces, ¿cómo va el trabajo? —pregunta el señor Lawson, y asumo que está hablándole a Cole. La mano derecha de Cole encuentra mi muslo mientras usa la izquierda para llevar la hamburguesa a su boca, y miro a su padre, viendo sus ojos mirando hacia abajo y observando la mano de Cole sobre mí. Su mandíbula se flexiona mientras vuelve a alzar la mirada. —Es trabajo. —Cole se encoge de hombros—. Sin embargo, es mucho más fácil ahora que el clima ha calentado. Cole ha estado haciendo construcción de carreteras desde que nos mudamos juntos hace nueve meses. Ha pasado por muchos trabajos desde que lo conozco, pero este le ha durado. —¿Has pensado en la universidad? —pregunta su padre. Pero Cole solo frunce el ceño. —Tuve que esforzarme demasiado para terminar la secundaria. Ya lo sabes. Llevo la limonada a mis labios y tomo un sorbo, mi estómago se tensa y ahora no tengo ganas de comer. El padre de Cole mastica y deja su hamburguesa, levantando luego su botella. —El tiempo se mueve más rápido de lo que crees —contesta suavemente, casi para sí mismo—. Casi me uní a la marina cuando me enteré… —pero guarda silencio, termina con otra cosa—, cuando tenía dieciocho años.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  She wades through the sea of T-shirts, Caitlin’s and Bru’s faces smiling at her from all directions, and takes The Chicago Boys by surprise. “Cough Drop!” Gus gives her a tight hug. Unlike Sharkey, he has no fear of pressing his body close to hers or of kissing her too close to her mouth. “Good to see you.” And for once, she’s glad to see him. The summer sister and the summer brother. Daniel holds her by the shoulders and plants a cool kiss near her ear. “How are you, Vix?” It’s driving her crazy, all these condolences. She can’t stand the idea of them thinking she’s been betrayed. It’s important to set the record straight, to let everyone know once and for all that whatever she and Bru had, it’s officially over, it’s been over for a long time. He’s free to marry whomever, even Caitlin. Okay, so it’s awkward. But look … is she falling apart? No, goddamn it! Can’t they see she’s fine? That she’s one hundred percent! “So …” Gus says, “is your boyfriend here?” “My boyfriend?” She pauses, thinking she should have brought someone. Why didn’t she? Earl would have come with her. He’d have found enough material here for at least two new plays. But she says, “No … he couldn’t make it. What about your girlfriend?” “What girlfriend?” Gus asks. “I’m still trying to get over you. You were my first love.” This time she laughs for real. “You don’t believe me? Ask the Baumer if it’s not true.” Daniel gives her his haughty look. “God help us … it’s true.” “Well, Gus … here’s to what might have been,” Vix says, downing a third glass of champagne. This one is a mistake. She knows it the minute she sets the empty glass on the tray. It goes straight to her head, making her dizzy and slightly nauseous. The Chicago Boys escort her outside, where the three of them sit on a log on the beach. DanielVIX IS LOOKING GOOD . Lost that baby fat. You can see her cheekbones now. Not his type though. He prefers cool blondes. Sleek. The last one told him, You’re just too intense for me, Daniel. I need someone, you know, with less intensity . He’s working on it but given his genes he doesn’t expect to wind up anywhere near loose. Not like Gus with his easygoing humor. Women find him irresistible. Don’t mind his unkempt look. Maybe they dream about making him over, about buying him clothes. You never can tell with women. Look at Ab … Who’d have guessed his mother had it in her? Drives his father nuts that she’s done so well for herself. Not just the part about Lamb and the money. The other stuff, the philanthropy. She sits on the boards of four major organizations. Lamb’s turned out to be a decent guy. Bought Ab’s folks a place on Longboat Key. Grandma’s the queen of the condo set.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Aguanté tanto como lo hice porque Cole era un amigo y no solo un novio. La mayoría de las chicas, si son más inteligentes que yo y eso no sería difícil, creo, se cansan de los holgazanes realmente rápido. Saber que él y Elena probablemente no durarán es el único consuelo para el dolor. Saltó de mi cama inmediatamente a la suya, ¿verdad? Pero quizás me hizo un favor. ¿Lo querría que regreso? No. No quiero odiarlo y sé que es mejor que esto, pero lo forzamos porque necesitábamos aferrarnos a algo por una vez en la vida. Forzamos lo que no estaba allí, no porque nos necesitáramos el uno al otro, sino porque necesitábamos a alguien. Siempre fuimos mejores amigos. Siento que ahora puedo respirar. Y si él tiene un problema conmigo por estar aquí, dejaré que su papá lidie con eso. Frente a la habitación de Cole, abro la puerta de la otra habitación de invitados, mi nueva habitación, y saco mi cesta plegable para la ropa sucia de la esquina. Amo mi nuevo espacio. Ya había una cama aquí, así que simplemente fui y compré un nuevo juego de sábanas. Pude haber traído mi viejo juego de sábanas de la cama de Cole, dado que es mío de cualquier forma, pero quise empezar de nuevo. Nada que me recordara quién había sido con él. Moví el resto de mis cosas, cerré su puerta y no he vuelto a entrar. Pike y yo fuimos a IKEA y compramos un tocador, por el cual pagué, pero necesitábamos su camioneta para traerlo, una mesita de noche y un sillón acolchado. Me divertí un poco decorando, dado que no necesité considerar a nadie más que a mí. Hay luces parpadeantes ondeando en la cabecera de hierro forjado de mi cama, algunos cojines divertidos, una lámpara y una pintura que le compré a un vendedor ambulante en Nueva Orleans cuando fui con mi hermana. Incluso Dutch, el amigo de Pike, me trajo su vieja radio casetera Panasonic vintage que encontró limpiando el garaje de sus padres un par de días atrás. Supongo que Pike le contó sobre los casetes. —¡Jordan! —Llega un bramido desde abajo. Dejo caer la camiseta blanca que estaba acomodando y sacudo mi cabeza, escuchando la puerta mosquitera cerrarse de golpe contra el marco en el piso de abajo. Mi corazón late un poco más fuerte. Saliendo de la habitación, bajo rápidamente las escaleras. Pike está en la puerta principal sacando su chaqueta del armario. Agua cae por su rostro y la piel dorada de sus brazos tatuados, y su cabello está pegado a su cuero cabelludo. Se quita la chaqueta y su camiseta empapada. Camino hacia él. —¿Qué pasó? —La orilla del río está inundándose —dice, entrando rápidamente en la cocina y directo hacia el refrigerador—. Están llamando a cualquiera que pueda venir a ayudar con sacos de arena antes que llegue a la calle.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  You do, honey … you give me a lot of loving . Then what? What are you asking for? Everything . You’ve got everything . She gave him a sad smile. You need vitamins , he told her. Vitamins with minerals . She laughed. He didn’t care. And you need to get out of the house more. A job maybe … I have a job. I’m your wife. I’m Maizie’s mother . TrishaSHE SHOULD HAVE spent more time with Caitlin after Maizie was born but she was so busy building her dream house with Arthur. Lamb was right. As soon as he’d set her free her life turned around. Of course, if Lamb had chosen her over Phoebe way back when, if she’d had his children, none of this would have happened. But what’s the point in going on about that now? Bru looks dazed. The way he looked in church on his wedding day. But did he have to start up with Star again … and so soon? As if Caitlin hadn’t happened, as if Maizie hadn’t? It’s all getting to be too much for her … Lamb and his family. But Maizie is so sweet. She’d love to have a baby with Arthur. Is it too late? Maybe they can adopt. Suppose Caitlin had left Maizie with them? [image file=Image00006.jpg] EVERYONE ASSUMES VIX knows more than she’s saying, that Caitlin still confides in her. She can tell they don’t really believe it when she swears she doesn’t have a clue. She’s in shock like the rest of them. But at least they know Caitlin is more or less okay. Lamb hired a detective who tracked her down in Barcelona. She signed divorce papers so Bru is free to marry Star, who’s seven months pregnant. He didn’t waste any time. Vix hates him for that. How ironic that Caitlin chose to leave her baby with Abby. Or maybe it’s what she always wanted for herself —to live with Lamb and Abby, to have a real sense of family—but out of some kind of loyalty to Phoebe she felt she couldn’t. Whenever they visit the Vineyard she and Gus stay in Caitlin’s room. Across the hall, in the room the Chicago Boys once shared, is the nursery, where Maizie sleeps clutching a pink pig. PhoebeFRANKLY, SHE CAN’T BELIEVE IT . Not that she’d expected the marriage to work. She’d always known it was just another of Caity’s games. But Maizie. For God’s sake! Even she didn’t abandon her children. And leaving her with Lamb and Abby. What kind of statement was that? Oh, please … don’t tell her Caity wasn’t well loved! Don’t give her simplistic explanations. While she might not have been the most nurturing parent in the history of the universe, she was there , for crissakes! And Caity knew Lamb adored her. No, it’s something else. Some flaw. She wishes she could put her finger on it. Vix must know but she’s not talking.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Le entrego las llaves. —Aquí tienes. Funciona a la perfección. —¿Estás...? —Sí, estoy seguro —le digo—. Está bien. Desliza las llaves en su bolsillo. —Gracias. —La camioneta está estacionada a la vuelta de la esquina. Asiente y se dirige de regreso hacia la barra, mirándome una vez. Reviso mi teléfono, viendo que es casi medianoche y si Dutch me va a dar un aventón preferiría terminar con esto ahora. Tomo un trago largo de la Corona, bebiéndome aproximadamente la mitad. No escapó a mi atención el hecho que también recordara qué cerveza me gusta. Sacando un poco de dinero, tiro unos cuantos billetes en la mesa por lo que sea que haya bebido y le digo a Dutch: —Vamos. Se levanta de la mesa, su corte de cabello se desordena mientras bosteza. Nos dirigimos hacia la puerta y paso frente a la barra, arrojando algunos billetes en la parte superior frente a Jordan. Me da una mirada conocedora. —¿No hablamos sobre esto? —Solo soy un cliente. La mirada en sus ojos dice que no cree en mi razón para darle propina, pero el humor en su mirada dice que lo dejará ir. Esta vez. Salimos y cruzamos la calle en dirección a la Tahoe de Dutch y subimos. —Realmente no querías esperar hasta las dos, ¿verdad? —pregunta mientras nos abrochamos el cinturón de seguridad. De hecho... —No —le digo, decidiendo que no tengo la energía para hablar de eso—. Gracias por el aventón. Se aparta de la acera y me reclino un poco, moviendo el asiento hacia atrás para obtener más espacio para las piernas. Su esposa usualmente está en este asiento. Echo mi cabeza hacia atrás y la cubro con mi mano, cerrando los ojos.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Hadn’t meant to make love to her. And jeez … she’d been a virgin … had bled all over the place. A real surprise after all those stories Von told him. A mistake, he’d told her, after. Did she understand? Because it was never going to happen again. She understood. And she’d stayed away from the island, away from him … until now. It suddenly occurs to him he was not only Victoria’s first lover, but Caitlin’s. Maybe that’s his problem. He loves them both. He’s glad he doesn’t have to choose. Glad they’ve done it for him. [image file=Image00006.jpg] CAITLIN AND BRU face the young minister who plays hockey with the guys on Mondays and Thursdays. She promises to love, cherish, and respect Joseph Brudegher until death do them part and he promises the same to her. They slip matching rings on one another’s fingers. The minister pronounces them husband and wife. They kiss and the guests applaud while the smallest flower girl lifts her dress and scratches her backside. A tent is set up on the lawn of the house, with tables to seat one hundred fifty. Vix’s heels sink into the soft ground as she marches in with the other attendants and takes her place at the head table. The guests dance to the music of the Martha’s Vineyard Swing Band on a wooden floor that slopes downhill. Vix drinks only designer water but feels light-headed anyway. Fini, finis, finito … Maybe Paisley was right when she told Maia this could offer closure. They’ll all be grownup now, won’t they? She dances once with Bru, who says, “About last night … ” “Forget last night,” she tells him. “Last night never happened.” Her knees don’t go weak. Her stomach doesn’t do flips. Last night was the end and they both know it. She can sense his relief. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Bru asks as they both watch Caitlin waltzing with Lamb. “I can’t believe she’s my …” “Wife,” Vix says, finishing the sentence for him. The music ends but they don’t break apart. She thinks about asking him if it’s true, if he and Caitlin really … But what’s the point? For all she knows Caitlin made it up, like the ski instructor. For all she knows there was no woman in Paris who cut up Caitlin’s panties, no Tim Castellano in L.A., no married man who got her pregnant in London. It hardly matters anymore. Gus comes up beside her, slips his arm around her waist. “I think this one is mine, Cough Drop.” Trisha and Arthur sail by dipping and twirling. None of the younger people know how to dance to this music but they follow the older generation’s lead and pretend they’re dancing anyway. “So,” Gus says, “the beautiful princess marries the prince and lives happily ever after on a magical island. True or false?” “True,” she tells him. “Suppose he turns into a frog.

• From City of Night (1963)

  With great difficulty, advancing two steps, being pushed back one—feeling the ubiquitous hands on my legs—I worked my way to the back of the bar, where a glass was suddenly thrust into my hand by someone I know from the dozens of score-faces here. Liberatingly, outside, I stood in the courtyard, and I gulped the drink in a hurried swallow. The crowd was not so thick in this courtyard. Male-and-female couples, male-and-male partners cling in loveshadows against the wall. In the center of the courtyard three queens were posing for a man in a small party of tourists. The camera bulb flashed harshly expelling the gray darkness momentarily. The queens, feeling acknowledged as Women, struck impossible languid poses. One bends down, raises her skirt to reveal her man’s knee, invitingly. Miss Ange, in Scarlett-O’Hara plantation tones, says to the man taking the pictures: “Now me! Take My picture!”... Muttering “bitch,” the other queens glared at Miss Ange as she poses in her billowing ballgown—as if she has just returned, Triumphantly, to Tara. The flashbulb clicked on the smug at-last womanface of Miss Ange. I sit exhausted on the steps leading to the balcony over the bar. I breathe in the air, deeply, scanning the crowds—which are slowly thinning in respite for the renewed burst of merriment which will precede and follow the morning parade when the fever will rage uncontrolled, twisting across the city like a tornado, when the invasion of costumed revelers will raid the streets. In the shadows of the courtyards, Chi-Chi stood against the wall, her head cocked quizzically to one side as if she cant really understand what is going on about her. The breeze had tossed her frizzled hair recklessly, the lace dangles over one massive shoulder. She leaned artlessly, ungracefully against the wall like some kind of lavender vine. As the flashbulbs popped around her, chasing away the returning yellowish islands created by the lights strung along the balconies, the lights from inside Les Petits and Sandy-Vee’s—she looked even more incredible. Like a football tackle in drag. Some careless foot must have ripped her lace dress, it dangles in a long tail. Feeling it on her legs, she tore off the piece of lavender cloth, held it now like a delicate lace handkerchief. With the other hand, she grips the cigarette holder in that still-ominous fist. I raised myself higher on the steps, sat looking down on the scene, feeling a sense of almost-heavenly safety to be watching the crowds from this distance—remotely. The man taking the photographs spots Chi-Chi—delightedly like an archeologist finding a rare treasure. He wears an absurd peaked hat, striped red and silver, photographic paraphernalia draped over his shoulders make him look like a futuristic decoration. His wife or companion—but she looks too much like him not to be his wife—his wife is a sadly puffed-up middle-aged woman in a starkly masculine-tailored suit.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  She handed him over and, through some extraordinary miracle - perhaps I was holding him so inexpertly, the grip quite stunned him - he fell against my shoulder, and sighed, and grew calm. I might have thought, if I had had more experience in the matter, that the sight of her foster-son content and still in another girl’s arms would be the last thing to convince a mother to allow that girl to stay in her own house; and yet, when I looked at Florence again I saw that her eyes were upon me, and her expression - as it had been once, last night - was strange and almost sad, but also desperately tender. One curl had worked its way out of her knot of hair, and hung, rather limply, over her brow. When she raised a hand to brush it from her eye, it seemed to me that the finger came away a little damp at the tip. I thought: Blimey, I was wasted in male impersonation, I should have been in melodrama. I bit my lip, and gave a gulp. ‘Good-bye, Cyril,’ I said, in a voice that shook a little. ‘I must put on my damp bonnet now, and head off into the darkening night, and find some bench to sleep on...’ But this, after all, proved too much. Florence sniffed, and her face grew stern again. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘You may stay - for a week. And if the week works out, we shall try it for a month: you may have a share of the family salary, I suppose, for the sake of watching Cyril and keeping house. But if it does not work, then you must promise me, Miss Astley, that you will go.’ I promised it. Then I hitched the baby a little higher at my shoulder, and Florence turned away. I didn’t look to see what her expression was, now. I only smiled; and then I put my lips to Cyril’s head - he smelt rather sour - and kissed him. How thankful I was then, that I had lied about Diana! What did it matter, that I was not all that I pretended? I had been a regular girl once; I could be regular again - being regular, indeed, might prove a kind of holiday. I thought back over my recent history, and gave a shudder; and then I glanced at Florence, and was glad - as I had been glad once before - that she was rather plain, and rather ordinary. She had taken out a handkerchief, and was wiping at her nose; now she was calling out to Ralph, to put the kettle on the stove. My lusts had been quick, and driven me to desperate pleasures: but she, I knew, would never raise them.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  She’s glad the Countess convinced her to come here. She hasn’t felt so relaxed since … she can’t remember when. The anger she carries around with her most days, that extra weight on her shoulders, has lifted since she’s been on this island. Yes, she feels more like herself. Her old self. Too bad Ed can’t see her laughing and talking as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. She just wishes Victoria wouldn’t look at her that way. The same way she’d looked at her mother, sizing up the situation, trying to figure out Darlene’s mood. That Abby is a lucky woman! Lamb is an attractive man, and well-to-do. How long since she’s allowed herself to feel attracted to a man other than Ed? She can’t remember that either. She’s going to fix herself up for dinner at their house tonight. She’ll wear her new white shirt, cinch her belt a little tighter, use the lipstick that came free with her sunblock. She’s still a woman. She still has feelings and desires. 12THE COUNTESS addressed Lamb as Dear Boy . “Dear Boy, it’s been far too long!” she said, kissing him on the lips. He called her Charlotte . Vix had never thought of the Countess as having a regular name. Drinks were set up on the porch. The Countess belted down two vodka and tonics. When she lit up, Abby didn’t say a word, even though no one was allowed to smoke in the house. When she began to cough, Lamb and Abby looked concerned. But it wasn’t until the coughing racked her body, leaving her gasping, that Vix was convinced she was going to keel over and die. Abby probably thought the same thing because she jumped up and grabbed the phone, ready to dial 911. But Tawny remained calm, waving them away, administering medication to the Countess. After, the Countess laughed, which almost sent her into a second attack. “When my time comes, scatter my ashes in the mountains, have a drink, tell yourselves ‘She lived well … she had a few laughs.’ No religious mumbo jumbo for me, Dear Boy. Remember that. Tawny has my instructions.” A few minutes later the Countess decided she’d like to take a walk. But when Tawny started to get up she said, “Lamb will escort me. You stay here with Abby.” Then she beckoned to Vix. “Victoria, come with us.” You didn’t argue with the Countess. Vix did as she was told. LambA VISION POPS into his head. He’s four or five and he barges into the bathroom to get his tugboat because his nurse is going to give him a bath in the kitchen sink. He’s startled to find someone soaking in his tub, the tub where he and Dorset are usually bathed. He remembers too late he’s supposed to knock when the bathroom door is closed. Grandmother will scold him for forgetting. But the lady in the tub doesn’t mind. She’s smiling.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  She put a hand to her collar, and blinked into the wind. ‘You must do as you like,’ she said. Then she pulled the door shut, leaving the parlour chill behind her, and I saw her shadow on the lace at the window as she walked away. After she had gone my leaden limbs seemed all at once, and quite miraculously, to lighten. I rose, and braved again the chilly privy; then I found the slice of bacon that had been put aside for me, and took a piece of bread and a bunch of cress, and ate my breakfast standing at the kitchen window, gazing sightlessly at the unfamiliar view beyond it. After that I rubbed my hands, and glanced about me, and began to wonder what to do. The kitchen, at least, was warm, for someone - Ralph, presumably - had lit a small fire in the range, early on, and the coals were only half consumed. It did seem a shame to waste their lovely heat - and it could not hurt, I told myself, to boil up some water for a bit of a wash. I opened a cupboard door, looking for a pan to set upon the hob, and came across a flat-iron; and seeing this I thought: They wouldn’t mind, surely, if I warmed that, too, and gave my battered frock a little press... While I waited for these things to heat I wandered back into the parlour, to separate the armchairs that had made my bed, and set the blankets in a tidy pile. This done, I did what I had been at first too bewildered, and then too sleepy, to do the night before: I stood and had a proper look around. The room, as I have said, was a very small one - far smaller, certainly, than my old bedroom at Felicity Place - and there were no gas-jets in it, only oil-lamps and candlesticks. The furniture and decorations were, I thought, a rather curious mixture.

• From City of Night (1963)

  After a short pause, he asked me—again bluntly: “Do you always go for money—only?” “Yes,” I lied. How impossibly difficult it seemed to explain to him that it was the mere proffering of the sexmoney that mattered; the unreciprocated sex: the manifestations that I was really Wanted. “Oh?” he asked, as if something in the way I had reacted so quickly has made him doubt it, perhaps, too—certainly—the fact that I hadnt asked him for money, that he had given it. “Somehow, listening to you with those two in the bar—and having seen you with others—I got the impression that the money they gave you wasnt the important thing—that you were, maybe, compulsively playing a game.” His words annoyed me. Yet I can stop them by merely walking out on him. Nothing keeps me here, I keep insisting to myself. Still, I remain lying on the bed. There is a new relief in the knowledge that he has overheard me in the bar with those other two—beyond the adopted pose—when I had acknowledged my own terror. Knowing that, he had nevertheless sought me out. At the same time, my senses seem completely alive, tingling, after the resurrective sleep. What could be false, momentary sobriety—which, if false, could hammer me into drunkenness with just one more drink—makes me feel reckless. It could be, too, the noises outside, the recurrent anticipation—beyond the fears—of rejoining the people sweeping along the streets madly. It could be that like a child before a luscious dessert, Im savoring the anticipation before the actual taste—trying to stretch the time before I’ll be in the midst of the steadily growing, thunderous frenzy.... Perhaps this man, Jeremy, senses my doubts as to why I remain in this room with him. In an almost amused tone, he said: “Did you think that if I knew—since you didnt know that I had overheard you in that bar—that if I knew what you were really like—or might be like—what you were trying to tell those two about yourself—that I’d lose interest in you?” “It’s happened before,” I said. “You saw it happen then. People want you for what you ‘appear’ to be—unconcerned, toughened. You learn that immediately when you hang around the streets.” “Thats where people looking for streetpeople naturally go,” he said. “And maybe it’s true that for them you become more masculine if you appear ‘tough’—or even dumb. Or maybe—as someone once told me—they feel that, although theyve paid you, theyre ‘better’—smarter. And it could be also that theyre searching for their seeming opposite: the seemingly insensitive street-youngmen—as they themselves might want to be in order not to get hurt....” And I remembered the man in Los Angeles who had almost begged me to rob him.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  I told another friend, and she read me some lines by a Lakota Sioux: “Sometimes I go about pitying myself. And all the while I am being carried on great winds across the sky.” That is so beautiful, I said; and I am so mentally ill. Those lines, however, offered the beginning of a solution. They made the first tiny crack in my prison wall. I was waiting for the kind of solution where God reaches down and touches you with his magic wand and all of a sudden I would be fixed, like a broken toaster oven. But this was not the way it happened. Instead, I got one angstrom unit better, day by day. Another piece of the solution came when a poem by Clive James, called “The Book of My Enemy Has Been Remaindered,” appeared one Sunday in The New York Times Book Review . “The book of my enemy has been remaindered,” it begins, “And I am pleased.” It helped more than words can say. Oh, what blessed relief for someone to be as jealous and spiteful as me and to make those feelings funny. I called everyone whose advice I had sought and read it to them. Everybody howled with recognition. Yet another piece of the solution dropped into place when my friend Judy said that the problem was trying to stop the jealousy and competitiveness, and that the main thing was not to let it fuel my self-loathing. She said it was nuts for me to try to be happy for this other writer. I cannot tell you how much this helped. I was raised in a culture that promotes this competitiveness, this insatiability, this fantasy of needing hundreds of thousands of dollars a year, and then, in the next breath, shames you for any feelings of longing or envy or fear that it will always be someone else’s turn. I was only doing what I had been groomed to do. So I started getting my sense of humor back. I started telling myself that if you want to know how God feels about money, look at whom she gives it to. This cheered me up no end, even though my closest friends have lots of money. I told myself that historically when people do too well too quickly, they are a Greek tragedy waiting to happen. I, who did not do too well too quickly and who was in fact not doing too well over time, was actually in the catbird seat. I was not going to end up the cocky heroine in an ugly hubris drama.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  On the Sunday following the merchant’s departure, dear cousin John presented himself at Saint-Denis. He was freshly shaven, smelling of soap; even his tonsure had been clipped. Everyone in the house saw him, and welcomed him. Even the serving-boys greeted him. But who was most pleased to see him? You have guessed. I will come straight to the point. The wife had agreed that, in exchange for the hundred francs, she would spend the night with him. She promised that she would give him value for money; and so she did, throughout the night. The monk was exhausted, but he was happy. He left at dawn, wishing a merry good day to the entire household. No one had the least suspicion of him. So he rode off to the monastery, as free from rumour as any innocent. There we will lose sight of him for the moment. The merchant, having successfully completed his business at the fair in Bruges, came back home to Saint-Denis. He was greeted fondly by his wife, and together they celebrated his return. He told her that the price of merchandise had been so high that he had been forced to take out a loan of two thousand gold sovereigns; now he was obliged to travel to Paris in order to raise the money. He had some cash, of course, but he needed to raise the rest from his friends. When he arrived in Paris, his first thought was of his dear cousin. So in the expectation of good wine and good conversation he called upon John in his monastery. He had no intention of asking him for money. He just wanted to catch up on all the gossip, and make sure that his friend was still in rude health. John welcomed him very warmly, and asked about his affairs. Peter replied that he had done well enough, thanks be to God, and had made a profit. ‘There is just one problem,’ he said. ‘I have to raise two thousand sovereigns by next week. Once I have repaid that, I will be laughing.’ ‘I am so pleased that you have come back to us in good health,’ the monk replied. ‘If I were a rich man, I would gladly give you two thousand sovereigns. I haven’t forgotten your kindness to me the other day, when you lent me one hundred francs. But I have repaid you. Two days ago I brought back the money and gave it to your wife. I put it down on your counter. She knows all about it. I gave her a double entry.’ He coughed. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go. Our abbot is about to leave town, and I have to ride with him. Give your wife my fondest regards, won’t you? What a darling! Farewell, dear cousin, until we meet again.’

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  And now my father had made them look like decadent zombies. I thought we were ruined. But my older brother came home from school that week with a photocopy of my father’s article that his teachers in both social studies and English had passed out to their classes; John was a hero to his classmates. There was an enormous response in the community: in the next few months I was snubbed by a number of men and women at the tennis club, but at the same time, people stopped my father on the street when we were walking together, and took his hand in both of theirs, as if he had done them some personal favor. Later that summer I came to know how they felt, when I read Catcher in the Rye for the first time and knew what it was like to have someone speak for me, to close a book with a sense of both triumph and relief, one lonely isolated social animal finally making contact. I started writing a lot in high school: journals, impassioned antiwar pieces, parodies of the writers I loved. And I began to notice something important. The other kids always wanted me to tell them stories of what had happened, even—or especially—when they had been there. Parties that got away from us, blowups in the classroom or on the school yard, scenes involving their parents that we had witnessed—I could make the story happen. I could make it vivid and funny, and even exaggerate some of it so that the event became almost mythical, and the people involved seemed larger, and there was a sense of larger significance, of meaning. I’m sure my father was the person on whom his friends relied to tell their stories, in school and college. I know for sure that he was later, in the town where he was raising his children. He could take major events or small episodes from daily life and shade or exaggerate things in such a way as to capture their shape and substance, capture what life felt like in the society in which he and his friends lived and worked and bred. People looked to him to put into words what was going on. I suspect that he was a child who thought differently than his peers, who may have had serious conversations with grown-ups, who as a young person, like me, accepted being alone quite a lot. I think that this sort of person often becomes either a writer or a career criminal. Throughout my childhood I believed that what I thought about was different from what other kids thought about. It was not necessarily more profound, but there was a struggle going on inside me to find some sort of creative or spiritual or aesthetic way of seeing the world and organizing it in my head. I read more than other kids; I luxuriated in books. Books were my refuge.

• From City of Night (1963)

  perhaps) to break up derisively in laughter, and he lets me go — the cops driving me back to where they picked me up — and where, soon after I have stepped out of the copcar, I meet someone else with whom I’ll soon make it....

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  An hour passed before we finally tied Mom’s paintings on the top of the car, shoved whatever would fit into the trunk, and piled the overflow on the backseat and the car floor. Dad steered the Blue Goose through the dark, driving slowly so as not to alert anyone in the trailer park that we were, as Dad liked to put it, doing the skedaddle. He was grumbling that he couldn’t understand why the hell it took so long to grab what we needed and haul our asses into the car. “Dad!” I said. “I forgot Tinkerbell!” “Tinkerbell can make it on her own,” Dad said. “She’s like my brave little girl. You are brave and ready for adventure, right?” “I guess,” I said. I hoped whoever found Tinkerbell would love her despite her melted face. For comfort, I tried to cradle Quixote, our gray and white cat who was missing an ear, but he growled and scratched at my face. “Quiet, Quixote!” I said. “Cats don’t like to travel,” Mom explained. Anyone who didn’t like to travel wasn’t invited on our adventure, Dad said. He stopped the car, grabbed Quixote by the scruff of the neck, and tossed him out the window. Quixote landed with a screeching meow and a thud, Dad accelerated up the road, and I burst into tears. “Don’t be so sentimental,” Mom said. She told me we could always get another cat, and now Quixote was going to be a wild cat, which was much more fun than being a house cat. Brian, afraid that Dad might toss Juju out the window as well, held the dog tight. To distract us kids, Mom got us singing songs like “Don’t Fence Me In” and “This Land Is Your Land,” and Dad led us in rousing renditions of “Old Man River” and his favorite, “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” After a while, I forgot about Quixote and Tinkerbell and the friends I’d left behind in the trailer park. Dad started telling us about all the exciting things we were going to do and how we were going to get rich once we reached the new place where we were going to live. “Where are we going, Dad?” I asked. “Wherever we end up,” he said. • • • Later that night, Dad stopped the car out in the middle of the desert, and we slept under the stars. We had no pillows, but Dad said that was part of his plan. He was teaching us to have good posture. The Indians didn’t use pillows, either, he explained, and look how straight they stood. We did have our scratchy army-surplus blankets, so we spread them out and lay there, looking up at the field of stars. I told Lori how lucky we were to be sleeping out under the sky like Indians. “We could live like this forever,” I said. “I think we’re going to,” she said.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  payment. He made it sound like a business proposition, but a solid one, and after thinking it over, I agreed. When I told Dad about my plans, he asked if Eric made me happy and treated me well. “Because if he doesn’t,” Dad said, “I will by God kick his butt so hard, his asshole will be up between his shoulder blades.” “He treats me fine, Dad,” I said. What I wanted to say was that I knew Eric would never try to steal my paycheck or throw me out the window, that I’d always been terrified I’d fall for a hard-drinking, hell-raising, charismatic scoundrel like you, Dad, but I’d wound up with a man who was exactly the opposite. • • • All my belongings fit into two plastic milk crates and a garbage bag. I hauled them to the street, hailed a taxi, and took it across town to Eric’s building. The doorman, in a blue uniform with gold piping, hurried out from under the awning and insisted on carrying the milk crates into the lobby. Eric’s apartment had crossbeamed ceilings and a fireplace with an art deco mantel. I actually live on Park Avenue, I kept telling myself as I hung my clothes in the closet Eric had cleared out for me. Then I started thinking about Mom and Dad. When they had moved into their squat—a fifteen-minute subway ride south and about half a dozen worlds away—it seemed as if they had finally found the place where they belonged, and I wondered if I had done the same.