Sadness

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 21 of 212 · 20 per page

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Sabes que puedes quedarte por siempre —dice Danni—. De verdad. Mi universidad no es mala. Puedes transferirte. —Gracias —le digo—. Pero necesito regresar. Sé que tengo que hacerlo. Solo que no he querido pensar al respecto. —No quieres verlo. Me encuentro con sus ojos, sus lentes con borde negro cayendo por su nariz, de nuevo. —No quiero ser quien era cuando me fui —aclaro. —No lo eres. —Recarga su codo sobre el mostrador, descansando la barbilla en su mano—. Tienes permitido estar herida. Pero no le permitiste derrumbarte — señala—. Eso es lo que nos hace fuertes. No lo has llamado, y nos hemos divertido. No arruinó tu verano, porque no se lo permitiste. Sí. Nos emborrachamos en el estanque, cantando mala música mientras conducíamos por el pueblo en su Pontiac Sunbird convertible del ’92, y tuvimos unas fiestas de piscina donde me reí un poco. —Y no es como si me hubiera rastreado tampoco, entonces... —le digo—. Supongo que ambos sabíamos que era tiempo prestado. Era solo una aventura. Él tenía razón. Una aventura. Una buena historia que me divertirá mirando en retrospectiva cuando ya no lo ame, y pueda apreciarlo por el sexo que fue. Siento sus ojos sobre mí, porque sabe que estoy mintiéndome a mí misma, pero como una amiga, me permite zambullirme en mi engaño. A veces se necesitan mentiras para sobrevivir, porque la verdad lastima demasiado. Quizás transferirme sea una buena idea después de todo. Me levanto. —La impresora necesita papel —le digo. Y sin mirarla, camino a la oficina de atrás, apartando el ardor de mis ojos antes que lo vea. No voy a llorar. No pudo esconderme por siempre aquí, después de todo. Northridge es mi hogar, mi familia está ahí, y tengo que regresar a la escuela en algún momento. Puedo hacerlo. —Hola —dice Danni alegremente a alguien—. Bienvenido a The Blue Palms. Me río. The Blue Palms son un conjunto de palmeras neones afuera que no son reales y ciertamente no son originarias de Virginia. Pero me gustan los colores

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Her hands had trembled and her mouth had gone dry when he’d answered. She should have hung up right away. Instead, haunted by the idea that he thought Harvard had turned her into an elitist, she’d said, “Just so you know … I hate snobs!” She regretted it the second the words were out of her mouth. “Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?” he asked. When she didn’t respond he said, “Victoria?” “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Do me a favor … don’t call again.” By the time she said, “I won’t,” he’d hung up the phone. [image file=Image00006.jpg] That night Caitlin danced for her decked out in full flamenco—red and black dress cut down to reveal the tops of her breasts, a slit up to her crotch, her hair pulled back, a flower tucked behind her ear—heels and castanets clicking. A fiery, seductive dance that ended with her body on the floor … hands outstretched to her audience of one. When the music stopped Caitlin waited for her to make the next move. Finally, Vix cleared her throat and said, “I think we should go out …” “You’re sure?” “I’m sure.” “So that was Caitlin,” Maia said when Vix got back from the Carlyle on Sunday afternoon. She and Paisley were painting the kitchen cabinets a deep blue. “It doesn’t take a shrink to see she’s jealous of us … of Paisley and me. She doesn’t want anyone in your life to be more important than her.” “You saw all that in ten minutes?” Vix asked, tossing her overnight bag on her bed. “I saw it the second she walked in. And the way she turned up her nose at the wine Paisley offered …” “Caitlin’s complicated,” Vix said, changing into a T-shirt and sweatpants. “We’re all complicated,” Maia said. “And we’ve all had friends like her.” “I don’t think so,” Vix said, coming into the kitchen where she picked up a paintbrush, dipped it into the tray of blue paint, and got to work. “Oh, please …” Maia said. “There’s a Caitlin in every junior high. You have to get over her and get on with your life.” “I am getting on with my life.” PaisleySHE HAS TO SAY , she admires Victoria for her loyalty to the Phantom Friend, as well as for having the guts to tell Bru she wasn’t ready. They never talk about him. The subject is off limits. Victoria says it’s easier that way. She realizes her crush on him was just a momentary thing. She’s way past imagining herself on a desert island with him, or any other island. Besides, there’s this guy who’s been pitching a sitcom to her boss … 36THE PLACE THEY SHARED in Chelsea had just one bathroom, a tiny kitchen, and eight hundred square feet of open space.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Nosotros, aferrándonos a Nick al aferrarnos el uno al otro. Ambos estábamos desesperados por un amigo verdadero. Él y yo lamentándonos por Nick, pero también yo alejándome de mi ex novio. Fue tan fácil sumergirse el uno en el otro y escapar. Tan fácil. ―Lo siento mucho, Jordan ―dice Pike―. ¿Estás bien? Lo miro fijamente. —Lo siento ―vacila, apartando la mirada―. Es estúpido preguntar esto ahora, supongo. No, no es estúpido en absoluto. Es agradable tener a alguien con quien hablar. ―Todo está bien. O lo estará ―digo―. Tiene que estarlo. Lanza su mirada hacia mí otra vez, y señalo hacia la piscina. ―Me senté en el fondo de una piscina oscura con los ojos cerrados hasta que no pude contener más mi respiración. Tiene que estar bien ahora, ¿cierto? ―pregunto. Resopla, curvando su boca en una sonrisa. Se levanta y estira su mano de nuevo, y esta vez la tomo. Me levanta, y nos dirigimos a la casa, pero noto que la vela todavía está encendida sobre la mesa de madera. Dirigiéndome ahí, me inclino sobre la mesa, cierro los ojos, y soplo, la vela se apaga. Retrocediendo, lo sigo por las escaleras. ―¿Puedo hacerte otra pregunta? ―dice. ―Claro. ―¿Por qué haces eso? ―Me mira. ―¿Qué? ―Lo de cerrar los ojos para soplar una vela ―explica―. Te he visto hacerlo unas cuantas veces. Me encojo de hombros, sin darme cuenta que lo había notado. Pensé que me había vuelto bastante buena haciéndolo rápidamente y sin que nadie me viera. ―Solo una peculiaridad. ―Lo sigo por la puerta mosquitera―. Los deseos de cumpleaños no siempre se hacen realidad, así que no pierdo la oportunidad cuando soplo una vela. —Hola, ¿puedes recogerme a las dos? —Coloco el teléfono entre mi oreja y mi hombro mientras cuento el efectivo y lo pongo en la caja—. Ash no vino. Su bebé está enfermo, y no tengo quien me lleve. —Sí, sí —dice Cole—. Por supuesto. Estaré allí. Después de nuestra última pelea, las cosas progresaron exactamente como lo predije. Llegó borracho y relajado a casa, se metió en la cama, y nos acurrucamos. Las cosas casi han vuelto a la normalidad, o lo que es nuestra normalidad, en cualquiera caso, lo suficiente como para que no me importara cuando trató de llevarme a la ducha esta mañana. Sin embargo, cuando entramos a nuestro baño, descubrimos que su padre había arrancado el lavamanos y había comenzado a arrancar las baldosas de la ducha, nuestro baño era lo siguiente en su lista de renovación. ¿Cómo habíamos dormido con todo eso? ¿Y a qué hora se levantó esta mañana? —Terminaré a las dos —repito, cerrando la caja registradora. —Sí, lo tengo. Te amo. —También te amo —respondo y cuelgo.

• From City of Night (1963)

  Along an area of perhaps two blocks, one block of sand wide from the parking lot to the ocean, the initiates of the world I lived in gathered from the early morning (a face sometimes emerging eerily out of the fog in the first sudden blaze of oceansun) into the late sun-clinging afternoon. All the representatives of that world are here: the queens in extravagant bathing suits, often candy-striped, molded to the thin bodies—tongued sandals somehow worn like slippers; the masculine-acting, looking homosexuals with tapered bodies and brown skins exhibiting themselves lying on the sand, trunks rolled down as far as possible—or going near the ocean as if undecided whether to dive in, posing there bikini-ed, flexing their bodies, walking the long stretch of beach, aware of the eyes which may be focused on them; the older men who sit usually self-consciously covered as much as the beach-weather allows, hoping perhaps for that evasive union, more difficult to find now—ironically now, when the hunger is more powerful, the shrieking loneliness more demanding; the male-hustlers, usually not in trunks, usually shirtless, barefooted, levis-ed, the rest of their clothes wrapped beside them, awaiting whatever Opportunity may come at any moment, clothes, therefore easily accessible for moving quickly for whatever reason. Periodically, throughout the day, the representatives of that world, now centered on the beaches, will move to the small sandwich shop across the parking lot, looking back to see if anyone has followed them there. But, mostly, they will move into the bar a block away: and this is Sally’s bar. As the magic-tanning sun diminishes, Sally’s bar on weekends is crammed with oiled malebodies rubbing sensually against each other, hands openly exploring. Forced laughter drowns the vomiting of the jukebox. I had seen in Lance’s look—in that look as, perhaps, he tried to expiate his guilt and calm the haunting vengeance of a sad old man—I had seen that faint glimmer of compassion, for Dean—and therefore, now, the barest hint of a capacity to attempt to love—someone!... That look had frightened me. And I fled from it. And during those summer-beach days, I drove myself furiously: sometimes making it and quickly returning to the beach, leaving again with someone else: faces confused with others, the hurried intimacy remembered perhaps days or weeks later. Those summerdays spent mostly in Santa Monica, I would hear often of a youngman named Glen—a smallish blond youngman I would see every day on the beach. A few summers ago, he had been one of the most desirable hustlers on the beach: “Simply everyone,” a score told me, “wanted Glen—then—but, now—well, everyone’s used to him: There are so many new faces each summer. If Glen were smart, he’d move somewhere else, where they dont know how old he is. At first, Glen was strictly trade. Now—well—... He’ll do everything!”

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  42 THEY SAY WHEN you’re about to die your whole life passes before your eyes like a movie run in slow motion. That night, at Caitlin’s prenuptial dinner at The Black Dog, Vix feels her whole life passing before her and wonders if maybe this is it. If this is how it’s all going to end, standing in Caitlin’s shadow, celebrating her marriage to Bru. Maia and Paisley are wrong. Caitlin isn’t someone to get over. She’s someone to come to terms with, the way you have to come to terms with your parents, your siblings. You can’t deny they ever happened. You can’t deny you ever loved them, love them still, even if loving them causes you pain. A commemorative T-shirt is handed out to every guest entering the party, featuring a screened picture of the bride and groom looking over their shoulders, each of them smiling broadly, a shared towel covering their naked backsides. The caption reads: Caitlin and Bru—July 31, 1990 Nice of them to choose Vix’s twenty-fifth birthday for their wedding date. “That way you’ll never forget our anniversary,” Caitlin told her. As if ... Earlier that day, Abby stopped by her room at the B&B where she and Lamb have put up some of their guests. “Can I come in?” she asked, knocking on Vix’s door. Vix threw on her robe. When she opened the door Abby hugged her. “Oh, Vix ... I hope this isn’t too hard for you.” “I’ve been through worse,” Vix said. Abby walked around the room straightening the sea-shell picture on the wall, touching the lamp, picking up the flashlight from the bedside table. “Do you think she knows what she’s doing?” “I don’t know,” Vix said. Abby clicked the flashlight on and off a couple of times. “Will he be enough for her? Will the island be enough? Or is she just playing some game?” “I don’t know that either.” Abby dropped the flashlight on the bed and took Vix’s hand. “How about you ... will you be all right tonight?” “I’ll be fine.” “And tomorrow ... at the wedding?” Vix nodded. “Don’t worry.” Abby kissed her. “That’s my girl.”

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  So she didn’t want to think about Tim Castellano’s Package or how warm and sunny it must be in L.A., or why she was killing herself at school while Caitlin was running around in something white, making it with movie stars. “It’s so weird out here. There’s so much insecurity. You wouldn’t believe how insecure most of these people are.” She took a breath. “Why are you sniffling that way? Do you have a cold?” “Everybody here has colds.” “You should transfer to a school out here. It’s eighty-something today. Then we could room together. It would be like the old days.” “I’m a junior, Caitlin. You don’t transfer at the end of your junior year.” “I forgot.” “Anyway, it’ll be spring soon.” “Not soon enough from the sound of your voice.” Another big breath. “So, how’s Bru?” “I don’t know.” “What do you mean you don’t know?” She wasn’t going to tell her they were taking time off, that she’d heard from Trisha he’d already found another woman, Star, the owner of the health food store. “I mean I have two papers due and I’ve got a job working three nights a week so how am I supposed to find time for a social life?” “I’ll call you next week when you’re in a better mood, that is, if you think you’ll be in a better mood next week.” “Try me in two weeks.” “Fine. Two weeks.” SharkeyHE DOESN’T HAVE time to worry about her. He’s at the lab eighteen hours a day. Why’d she have to come to L.A. now? How about an introduction? his lab partner asks. I don’t think so . Come on … she’s your sister, isn’t she? She’s not available , he tells him. She puts out vibes, man … Forget about it! he says like he means it. Okay, sure … no problem . She lures him away for dinner one night, to some place on a hill with fancy prices. It’s been a long time since he’s been to a real restaurant. At this rate you’re going to fly through your money , he tells her. She finds that funny. You worry about money, Shark? Let’s put it this way. I don’t spend twenty-five bucks on a solo pizza . That’s sweet . Don’t play cute with me, Caitlin. I’m your brother, remember? Are you trying to tell me something? Get a job … go back to school. Do something with your life . I am doing something, Sharkey. It’s just different from what you’re doing . 32VIX AGREED to go home with Maia over spring break, to the white clapboard house in Morris Township with the pool and the tennis court. She found Maia’s family warm and welcoming, intellectually stimulating. So how come Maia was always complaining? “They’re controlling,” she told Vix. “And the sibling rivalry is so intense.” She and Maia took a drive to the shore, to Maia’s cousin’s house.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Staples. He could feed it just a page at a time. Watching him, Vix sometimes wondered what would happen if you could do that with real life. Revise and shred. She dropped a few notes to Caitlin, saying she was thinking of her and hoping it was going okay with Donny. Earl had already lost two of his closest friends and was sure his own days were numbered. She didn’t share that with Caitlin. She tried not to think of it herself. She brought in her first major client, a cutting-edge fashion designer. When Vix asked how she had heard of her, the designer said, “Caitlin Somers.” “You know Caitlin?” “We met in Milan. I was an apprentice at Gucci. Caitlin did some modeling for us. We got to be friendly. I ran into her in Seattle. She told me to look you up now that I’ve got my own shop ... says you’re the best. You are, aren’t you?” Gus CAITLIN CALLS HIM on June 5, screaming, Goddamn it, Gus, you’re a reporter, aren’t you? Why aren’t you doing something about this massacre? The massacre’s in China, he reminds her, but even if it weren’t, what do you think I can do? I’m not talking about Tiananmen Square, you fucking idiot! I’m talking about here. People are dying. Does that mean anything to you? Okay ... let’s start again, he says. What’s the point? She slams down the phone. What was that all about? Should he call someone? Abby and Lamb? No. No need to upset them. Maybe Vix? But what would he say?

• From City of Night (1963)

  She glides through the bar now, easily, past the bunched groups; nodding to the others—not aloofly, but, rather, as if she herself is aware of the unreality of her person; and they stare at her in a kind of bewildered awe. She moves like fog, as if some invisible wind is carrying her along toward Sylvia. Now, closely, I can see the queen’s haunting green eyes. And I feel a great sadness because of the doom so inexorably stamped on that beautiful face. “How do you feel now, Kathy?” Sylvia asked her softly. “Oh, Im always all right,” Kathy answered. Even her voice has a quality of unreality. “Im fine.... Sylvia, what time is it, honey?” Without looking at her watch, Sylvia said: “It’s five o’clock.” But I knew it was much later. “I dont mean what time. Did I say that? I mean what day?” Sylvia answered. She reached out to touch the queen, but she brought her hand quickly back. “That late in the week?” Kathy sighs. “That early,” Sylvia laughed unconvincingly. “Oh, well,” Kathy said indifferently. The smile hasnt left her face. “Youre new in the Quarter, arent you, baby?” she asked me. “I dont come out very often any more.” She seemed to be looking through me, as if everyone within the span of her vision is as unreal as she herself. “New people all the time, some come back, some never do.” She asked Sylvia, “Is Jocko back in town yet?” “Yes. He was here earlier.” “Good,” said Kathy. “I like him.... What time did you say it is?” she asked again, vaguely. Sylvia answered, this time correctly. But Kathy seemed not to have noticed the difference. “Excuse me,” she breathed—and she disappeared as unreally as she had appeared. “Shes beautiful,” I said. Illogically, as if mysteriously it explained the queen’s beauty, Sylvia said: “Her family threw her out, years ago; they even offered to pay her to stay away.” She added proudly: “But Kathy wouldnt take their money. Shes lived in a little hellhole in the Quarter ever since then—on her own.... Those blackouts she has—... Shes dying,” she said abruptly. A subtle odor—Kathy’s perfume—lingered long after she was gone. Like the memory of someone’s death. Like flotsam from the world’s seas, the vagrants of America’s blackcities are washed into New Orleans. And Svlvia scrutinized each new face of the invading waves as if all—or perhaps one miraculous one among them—would bring her the answer to an obsessive question—would... perhaps... redeem her for the very fact of her own bar.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Qué mañana sea mejor que hoy. Y soplo, casi inmediatamente oliendo el fuerte aroma del humo que flota en el aire por la mecha apagada. Siempre es el mismo deseo. Cada vela. Cada vez. Quiero una vida de la que no tenga que tomar nunca vacaciones. Esa es mi meta. Excepto por el fósforo que apagué en el teatro. Pedí algo diferente esa noche. Cuando abro los ojos, veo a Pike observándome. Rápidamente se endereza y se da la vuelta. Y mientras salgo de la cocina y me dirijo hacia las escaleras en la sala de estar, dejo mi revista en el extremo de la mesa junto al sofá. Ahora alguien vive aquí. Parpadeo despertándome, mis párpados están pesados y lentos mientras la habitación oscura aparece a la vista. Todavía está oscuro. Normalmente no me levanto antes de las cinco y media. Por qué estoy… No, espera. Gruño, abro los ojos un poco más y noto el tenue resplandor que baila en la pared de mi dormitorio. Gotas de lluvia. Ah, mierda, no está oscuro. Está nublado. Me tumbo de espaldas y entrecierro los ojos al techo mientras espero un momento y escucho. Y luego, casi de inmediato, lo escucho. El repiqueteo de pequeños golpes rebotando en las canaletas de la lluvia. Dejo escapar un suspiro. Maldita sea. No es bueno. Me pongo las palmas sobre los ojos y froto el sueño antes de mirar el reloj en mi mesita de noche. Cinco y veintinueve. Sí. Como un reloj. Dejé de necesitar un despertador hace años, mi cuerpo simplemente se acostumbró a despertar a la misma hora todos los días. Aun así, lo configuro, por las dudas. Al acercarme, tanteo el interruptor en el costado y lo presiono en dos puntos, apagando la alarma antes que suene. La lluvia realmente podría retrasarnos hoy. No necesito estar en el sitio hasta dentro de una hora y media, pero la mitad de los muchachos probablemente intentarán llamar, pensando que no podremos trabajar un día completo de todos modos, así que bien podrían quedarse en la cama. Sin embargo, no va a suceder. Hoy haremos algo, cualquier cosa, porque no tengo ganas de evitar el mal humor de mi hijo y sus ceños fruncidos durante todo el día si me quedo en esta casa. Prefiero estar en el trabajo. Cuando era más joven, era diferente. Era mío. Hacíamos cosas juntos y hablábamos y él quería estar cerca de mí, pero ahora… Ella lo ha cambiado. Mi hijo es lo único que alguien podría usar en mi contra, y hombre, su madre sabía cómo usar eso. Lo movía como una pieza de ajedrez hasta que él creyó todo lo que salió de su boca, que ella era la víctima en cada situación, y yo era el enemigo. Ella no podía equivocarse, y yo no podía hacer nada bien.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Arqueo mi cuello, mirando por la ventana y lo veo a él y un par de sus amigos rodear el viejo VW de mi abuela, por el que pagó el papá de Cole para que lo trajeran aquí, ya que ahora no funciona. No podía dejarlo en el departamento, y parece que Cole finalmente va a cumplir su promesa de arreglarlo, para que pueda tener un auto. El chisporroteo de la carne friéndose en la sartén golpea mis oídos, y me giro, volteando las hamburguesas. Una mancha de grasa golpea mi antebrazo, y hago una mueca por el dolor. Sé que Cam está aquí para ver cómo estoy. Viejos hábitos y eso. Mi hermana solo es cuatro años mayor, pero fue la madre que nuestra madre no quería ser. Me quedé en el parque de casas rodantes hasta que me gradué de la escuela secundaria, pero Cam se fue cuando tenía dieciséis años y ha estado sola desde entonces. Solo ella y su hijo. Echo un vistazo al reloj, viendo que son poco más de las cinco. Mi sobrino ya debe estar con la niñera, y ella debe estar en camino al trabajo. —Entonces, ¿dónde está el padre? —me pregunta. —Todavía en el trabajo, supongo. Sin embargo, pronto estará en casa. Paso las hamburguesas de la sartén al plato y saco los panecillos, abriendo el paquete. —¿Es amable? —pregunta finalmente, sonando vacilante. Estoy de espaldas a ella, por lo que no puede ver mi molestia. Mi hermana es una mujer que no tiene pelos en la lengua. El hecho que esté cuidando su tono dice que probablemente tenga pensamientos que no quiero escuchar. Como por ejemplo: ¿Por qué diablos no solo acepto el trabajo mejor pagado, que su jefe me ofreció el otoño pasado, para poder quedarme en mi apartamento? —Parece agradable. —Asiento, lanzándole una mirada—. Un poco callado, creo. —Tú eres callada. Le lanzo una sonrisa, corrigiéndola. —Hablo en serio. Hay una diferencia. Se ríe y se sienta derecha, tirando del dobladillo de su top blanco sin mangas, el sujetador de encaje rojo debajo muy visible. —Alguien tenía que ser serio en nuestra casa, supongo. “En nuestra casa” al crecer, quiere decir.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Sometimes, in the afternoons or late at night, he and I would leave Kitty and Flora fussing over the costumes and take a stroll through the dim and silent theatre, just for the pleasure of it. He had, somehow, acquired copies of all the keys to all the Britannia’s dusty, secret places - the cellars and the attics and the ancient property-rooms - and he would show me hampers full of costumes from the shows of the ‘fifties, papier-mâché crowns and sceptres, armour made of foil. Once or twice he led me up the great high ladders at the side of the stage, into the flies: here we would stand with our chins upon the rails, sharing a cigarette, gazing at the ash as it fluttered through the web of ropes and platforms to the boards, sixty feet below us. It was quite like being at Mrs Dendy’s again, with all our friends around us - except, of course, that Walter wasn’t one of them. He came only occasionally to the Brit, and hardly at all to Stamford Hill; when he did, I couldn’t bear to see him so ill at ease, and so found business of my own to keep me occupied elsewhere, and left Kitty to deal with him. She, I noticed, was as awkward and self-conscious as he when he came calling, and seemed to prefer his letters to his person - for he sent his news to her by post, these days, so drastically had our old friendship dwindled. But she said she did not mind, and I understood she didn’t wish to talk of something that was painful to her. I knew it must be very hard for her, to think that Walter had guessed her secret, and hated it. Chapter 11 T he lady’s name, I learned in time, was Diana: Diana Lethaby. She was a widow, and childless, and rich, and venturesome, and thus - though on a considerably grander scale - as accomplished in the habits of self-pleasure as myself, and quite as hard of heart. In that summer of 1892 she would have been eight-and-thirty - younger, that is, than I am now, though she seemed terribly old to me then, at twenty-two. Her marriage had been, I think, a loveless one, for she wore neither wedding-ring nor mourning-ring, nor was there any picture of Mr Lethaby in any room in that large, handsome house. I never asked after him, and she never questioned me about my past. She had created me anew: the old dark days before were nothing to her. And they must become nothing to me, of course, now that we had settled our bargain. On that first, fierce morning of my time in her house, she had me kiss her again, then bathe, then re-don my old guardsman’s uniform; and as I dressed, she stood a little to one side and studied me.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Solo necesito recoger mis cosas —le indico y giro de regreso a las escaleras. Pero me detiene de nuevo. —Jordan. —Mira, lo que sea, ¿está bien? —Lo detengo, girando de nuevo hacia él —. De todos modos no debería estar aquí, y tampoco es como si Cole estuviera aquí la mitad del tiempo, así que permíteme que corte por lo sano y recoja mis cosas. Da un paso adelante. —¿A dónde irás? Casi quiero llorar. —A casa de mi padre. En Meadow Lake —respondo—. No soy tu problema, ¿está bien? Ahí. Está hecho. No necesito fingir que no tengo otras opciones. Me marcho. Odio la idea de volver a ese parque de casas rodantes de mierda, pero no será para siempre. Sobreviviré. Me muevo de nuevo hacia las escaleras, pero él habla, casi apresurado. —Por favor —dice rápidamente, deteniéndome—. Ven aquí un minuto. Tengo algo que quiero mostrarte. Debe ver la sospecha en mis ojos, porque lo pide de nuevo, esta vez más firme y con más resolución. —Por favor —dice—. Solo un minuto. Se gira, dirigiéndose a la cocina, y por un momento dudo antes de seguirlo. No quiero ser curiosa, pero lo soy. Entro en la cocina y lo veo atravesar el cuarto de lavado adjunto y hacia la puerta trasera. ¿Qué hay en el patio trasero que quiere que vea? La puerta mosquitera se cierra, respiro profundamente y me enderezo mientras lo sigo. Permanece junto a una parcela rectangular de tierra, que hace veinticuatro horas simplemente era parte del patio. Ahora, el césped ha desaparecido. Hay un borde delimitando el perímetro, y tierra rica y negra apareció en el recuadro. Hay una manguera enganchada a algún tubo de PVC, que está incrustado en la tierra con surtidores de aspersión a diferentes intervalos. Mira en mi dirección, casi como si estuviera nervioso por mi reacción. —¿Qué es esto? —pregunto. Mira detrás de él y luego de nuevo hacia mí. —Es un jardín —responde—. Estaba esperando que quisieras ayudarme con él. Estoy sin palabras. El corazón me está latiendo con tanta fuerza, y el sol se siente tan caliente. ¿Cómo…? Pero luego recuerdo. Sabe que me encanta el paisajismo. Sabe que leí todas esas revistas. Sabe lo que me gusta. Un dolor alcanza mi corazón. ¿Hizo todo esto en un día? Pero no me voy a enternecer por él. Endurezco mi voz: —¿Desde cuándo querías un jardín? Se acerca a mí, y cruzo los brazos sobre mi pecho, preparando mi armadura. —Jordan, fui un imbécil —asegura—. Salté a una conclusión, porque lo pasé mal y soy viejo y amargado. Espero un mísero comportamiento de todo el mundo. —Se detiene y frunce el ceño—. Pero fui yo quien tuvo un comportamiento horrible. Eres diferente y realmente lo arruiné. No sucederá de nuevo. No puedo creer que haya dicho esas cosas. Se está volviendo borroso y no puedo evitar que se me llenen los ojos de lágrimas, a pesar que estoy apretando los dientes.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Estirándome, enciendo la radio. Cualquier cosa para distraerme. No sé por qué estoy tan irritable hoy. No, sí lo sé. Desperté con Lindsay al teléfono. Es la última persona con la que quiero tratar a primera hora de la mañana. No es difícil pasar por alto lo feliz que era a la edad de Cole y Jordan, divertirme con todo lo que pudiera tener en mis manos y no forzarme a pensar demasiado en las decisiones que estaba tomando. Pero no mucho después de conocer a Lindsay, la factura de toda esa diversión caducó. Hice un niño con una niña que apenas conocía. Una mentirosa patológica y alguien que manipula como si fuera un maldito deporte. Y cuando me fui, lo dejé con ella. Cole nunca tuvo una oportunidad. La llevé a la corte, por supuesto, tratando de obtener la custodia, pero los jueces de esa época a menudo veían a la madre como la mejor opción, y ella sabía cómo apelar por simpatía. Quería a Cole, porque Cole significaba una manutención. Y ciertamente me sacó eso. Era como estar en prisión, tener que llevarlo con ella después de mis fines de semana con él. Ella retuerce las cosas en nudos, y eso es lo que le hizo a él. Para cuando tenía diez años, se ponía delante de ella si necesitaba decirle algo, y yo siempre estaba equivocado. Para cuando tenía catorce años, dejó de querer visitarme cada dos fines de semana, y ahora, apenas nos conocemos. Ni siquiera llamaba a menos que necesitara dinero. Sacudo la cabeza, despejándola. —¿Quieres poner una cinta? —sugiero a Jordan. No la miro a los ojos, pero puedo ver su cabeza moverse en mi dirección. —¿Una cinta? ¿Como una cinta de casete? De repente, su mirada se dirige al estéreo de mi auto y sus ojos se abren, la sorpresa ilumina su rostro. Casi me río. ¿No lo notó de camino hacia aquí? —¿Eso es una casetera de verdad? —dice. Alarga la mano y toca la radio del auto viejo como si fuera un jarrón precioso y presiona Abrir. Aparece una cinta de casete transparente con letras blancas que nunca escuché. La quita, la ahueca en su mano y lee el título. —Guns N 'Roses. —Se lleva la mano a la boca, como si estuviera a punto de llorar—. Oh, Dios mío. Lanzándose hacia la guantera, la abre y mira fijamente la fila de cintas ordenadamente dispuestas. —Deep Purple —lee—, Rolling Stones, Bruce Springsteen, John Mellencamp, ZZ Top… Luego, parece detectar algo que realmente la emociona, porque se acerca y saca el estuche negro de Def Leppard. —¿Hysteria? —exclama, leyendo el título del álbum—. Ya no hacen ese álbum. ¡Todo lo que puedes conseguir es la versión en vivo! Alzo las cejas, no estoy seguro de por qué todo esto es tan emocionante.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  She was silent. She herself was sad that anxiety and doubt could so easily close her being to a possession she wanted. Even if it were to be the last, she wanted it. But because she feared it might be the last, her being closed, and she was deprived of real union with him. And without the orgasm experienced together, there was no union, no absolute communion between the two bodies. Afterwards, she knew, she would be tortured as she had been other times. She would be left unsatisfied, with the imprint of his body on hers. She would re-enact the scene in her mind, see him bending over her, see how their legs appeared when they were tangled together, see how over and over again his penis penetrated her, how he fell away when it was over, and she would experience the stirring hunger again, and be tormented with desire to feel him deep inside of her body. She knew the tension of unsatisfied desire, the nerves unbearably awake, keen, naked, the blood in turmoil, everything set for a climax that did not take place. Afterwards she could not sleep. She felt cramps along her legs, making her shake like a restless racehorse. Obsessional erotic images pursued her all through the night. “What are you thinking of?” said Pierre, watching her face. “Of how sad I will be when I leave you, after not being really yours.” “There is something else on your mind, Elena, something that was there when you came, something I want to know.” “I’m concerned about your depression and have asked myself if you missed your activity and were wishing to return to it.” “Oh, that was it. That was it. You were preparing for my leaving again. But that was not in my mind. On the contrary. I have seen friends who will help me prove that I was not active, that I was only a café revolutionist. Do you remember the character in Gogol? The man who talked day and night but never moved, acted? That is me. That is all I have done—talk. If this can be proved, then I can stay and be free. That is what I am struggling for.” What an effect these words had on Elena!—as great as her fears had had on her sensual being, arresting her impulses, dominating them. It frightened her. She now wanted to lie on Pierre and have him take her. She knew that his words were sufficient to release her. He may have divined this, for he continued his caresses for a long time, waiting for the touch of his fingers on her moist skin to arouse his desire again. And much later, as they lay in the dark, he took her again, and then she had to hold back the intensity and quickness of her orgasm so as to have it with him, and they both cried out, and she wept with joy.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Tomando mi bolso del sofá, lo abro, haciendo un inventario visual: Tarjetas, llaves, cartera, teléfono... Y lo cierro haciendo una comprobación mental y asegurándome que tomé el cargador de mi teléfono, mi rasuradora y mi champú del baño y cualquier otra ropa que quedara en la lavadora y secadora. Mierda. Olvidé reemplazar su esponja, ¿cierto? Oh, bueno... Finalmente respiro profundamente, dándome cuenta que lo tengo todo, supongo. Volviendo afuera, fijo una media sonrisa en mi rostro y enderezo la espalda. A la izquierda, Kyle Cramer entra en su casa con un par de niños que asumo son suyos, pero no hago contacto visual. No quiero que los vecinos husmeen. —Jordan... —comienza Pike. Pero lo interrumpo. —De nuevo, muchas gracias. Por todo. Me dirijo al asiento del conductor y abro la puerta, mi estómago hundiéndose con cientos de pequeñas bolas, cada una volviéndose más y más apretada. —Jordan —llama de nuevo—. El auto no está listo para irse. Se apagará cada vez que te detengas. Le lanzo una sonrisa temblorosa. —Lidiaré con ello. De verdad, ya estoy curada de espantos. No creo que me moleste mucho más. Estaré bien. Sacando mis llaves, me subo. —Gracias por todo el trabajo que ya hiciste en él. Definitivamente no tenías que hacer nada de eso. —Espera —dice rápidamente, pareciendo apresurado. Me detengo, incapaz de mirarlo, pero lo siento dar un paso adelante. Vacila como si estuviera buscando las palabras. Levanto la mirada. —Solo... —Sacude su cabeza, viéndose exasperado—. Mueve las cosas a la parte trasera de mi camioneta. Te llevaré. Abro la boca para discutir, pero me interrumpe. —Necesito terminar el VW —dice—. Tiene que quedarse aquí un par de días más. Y no protestes por ello. ¿De repente puedes permitirte un mecánico?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Parpadeo despertándome, mis párpados están pesados y lentos mientras la habitación oscura aparece a la vista. Todavía está oscuro. Normalmente no me levanto antes de las cinco y media. Por qué estoy... No, espera. Gruño, abro los ojos un poco más y noto el tenue resplandor que baila en la pared de mi dormitorio. Gotas de lluvia. Ah, mierda, no está oscuro. Está nublado. Me tumbo de espaldas y entrecierro los ojos al techo mientras espero un momento y escucho. Y luego, casi de inmediato, lo escucho. El repiqueteo de pequeños golpes rebotando en las canaletas de la lluvia. Dejo escapar un suspiro. Maldita sea. No es bueno. Me pongo las palmas sobre los ojos y froto el sueño antes de mirar el reloj en mi mesita de noche. Cinco y veintinueve. Sí. Como un reloj. Dejé de necesitar un despertador hace años, mi cuerpo simplemente se acostumbró a despertar a la misma hora todos los días. Aun así, lo configuro, por las dudas. Al acercarme, tanteo el interruptor en el costado y lo presiono en dos puntos, apagando la alarma antes que suene. La lluvia realmente podría retrasarnos hoy. No necesito estar en el sitio hasta dentro de una hora y media, pero la mitad de los muchachos probablemente intentarán llamar, pensando que no podremos trabajar un día completo de todos modos, así que bien podrían quedarse en la cama. Sin embargo, no va a suceder. Hoy haremos algo, cualquier cosa, porque no tengo ganas de evitar el mal humor de mi hijo y sus ceños fruncidos durante todo el día si me quedo en esta casa. Prefiero estar en el trabajo. Cuando era más joven, era diferente. Era mío. Hacíamos cosas juntos y hablábamos y él quería estar cerca de mí, pero ahora... Ella lo ha cambiado. Mi hijo es lo único que alguien podría usar en mi contra, y hombre, su madre sabía cómo usar eso. Lo movía como una pieza de ajedrez hasta

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  “Nothing at all. I felt as if I were a painting already. Or a statue. I looked down at my own body like some object, some impersonal object.” I WAS GROWING sad, sad with restlessness and hunger. I felt that nothing would happen to me. I felt desperate with desire to be a woman, to plunge into living. Why was I enslaved by this need of being in love first? Where would my life begin? I would enter each studio expecting a miracle which did not take place. It seemed to me that a great current was passing all around me and that I was left out. I would have to find someone who felt as I did. But where? Where? The sculptor was watched by his wife, I could see that. She came into the studio so often, unexpectedly. And he was frightened. I did not know what frightened him. They invited me to spend two weeks at their country house where I would continue to pose—or rather, she invited me. She said that her husband did not like to stop work during vacations. But as soon as she left he turned to me and said, “You must find an excuse not to go. She will make you miserable. She is not well—she has obsessions. She thinks that every woman who poses for me is my mistress.” There were hectic days of running from studio to studio with very little time for lunch, posing for magazine covers, illustrations for magazine stories, and advertisements. I could see my face everywhere, even in the subway. I wondered if people recognized me. The sculptor had become my best friend. I was anxiously watching his statuette coming to a finish. Then one morning when I arrived I saw that he had ruined it. He said that he had tried to work on it without me. But he did not seem unhappy or worried. I was quite sad, and to me it looked very much like sabotage, because it seemed spoiled with such awkwardness. I saw that he was happy to be beginning it all over again.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  It was easily granted, since John himself already held the post of bailiff in the monastery. He was used to travelling and supervising the farms and granges of the house. A day or two later he arrived at Saint-Denis, where he received a great welcome. Who was more cherished than ‘our dear cousin, John’? He brought a pitcher of Malmsey wine with him, from the monastery’s cellar, and some bottles of white wine. He brought with him, too, a brace of pheasants. So I will leave the merchant and the monk, for a day or two, to their meat and drink. On the third day the merchant, before travelling to Bruges, was obliged to take stock of his financial affairs. So Peter secluded himself in his counting house to work out the income and expenditure of the last year. He needed to know the amount of his profit. He brought out all of his boxes of money and account books, laying them down carefully on the exchequer board. He was so rich, in coin and credit notes, that he made sure that he locked the inner door before he got down to business. He did not wish to be disturbed by anyone. So he sat there, doing his sums, all morning. The monk had been awake since dawn, too. He had been walking up and down the garden, muttering the devotions of his morning office. The merchant’s wife came softly into the same garden, and greeted him demurely as she had so often done before. She had in her company a young girl who was in her care and under her charge. ‘Oh good John,’ she said, ‘what is the matter with you, rising so early?’ ‘My dear cousin,’ he replied, ‘five hours’ sleep a night is sufficient. Of course that may not be enough for the old or the infirm, or for those poor married men who lie dozing in bed all day like weary hares who have just escaped from the hounds. But, dear cousin, why do you look so pale? Can it be that your husband has been keeping you busy all night, with one thing or another? You need to rest. I can see that.’ Then he laughed out loud. But he also had the good grace to blush at his thoughts. The merchant’s wife shook her head. ‘God, who knows everything, knows this. That has nothing to do with it. As God gave me life, I swear that there is not a woman in France who is less interested in that sad game than me. Do you know the old song: “Alas and woe is me I am forlorn/ I curse the day that I was born”? But I dare not tell how things are with me. There are times when I think of leaving the country. Or of killing myself. I am so full of woe and fear.’ The monk stared at her in alarm.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  Is my dad here?” “Rex?” He turned to the man next to him. “Where’s that old polecat Rex?” “I seen him this morning at the Howdy House.” “Honey, you look like you could use a rest,” the bartender said. “Sit down and have a Coca-Cola on the house.” “No, thank you. I’ve got kites to fly and fish to fry.” I went to the Howdy House, which was a notch below Junior’s. It was smaller and darker, and the only food it served was pickled eggs. The bartender told me Dad had gone to the Pub, which was a notch below the Howdy House—almost pitch black, with a sticky bar top and no food at all. There he was, in the midst of a few other regulars, telling one of his air force stories. When Dad saw me, he stopped talking and looked at me the way he did every time I had to track him down in a bar. It was always an awkward moment for us both. I didn’t want to be fetching him any more than he wanted his ragamuffin daughter summoning him home like a wayward schoolboy. He looked at me in this cold, strange way for just a moment, then broke into a hearty grin. “Hey, Mountain Goat!” he shouted. “What the hell are you doing in this dive?” “Mom says you have to come home,” I said. “She does, does she?” He ordered a Coca-Cola for me and another shot of whiskey for himself. I kept telling Dad it was time to go, but he kept putting me off and ordering more shots, as if he had to gulp a whole bunch of them down before he could face home. He staggered off to the bathroom, came back, ordered one for the road, slammed the shot glass down on the bar, and walked to the door. He lost his footing trying to open it and sprawled on the floor. I tried to help him up, but he kept falling over. “Honey, you ain’t getting him nowhere like that,” a man behind me said. “Here, let me give you a lift home.” “I’d appreciate that, sir,” I said. “If it’s not out of your way.” Some of the other regulars helped the man and me load Dad into the bay of the man’s pickup. We propped Dad up against a tool chest. It was late afternoon in early spring, the light was beginning to fade, and people on McDowell Street were locking up their shops and heading home. Dad started singing one of his favorite songs. Swing low, sweet chariot Coming for to carry me home. Dad had a fine baritone, with strength and timbre and range, and despite being tanked, he sang that hymn like the roof-raiser it is. I looked over Jordan, and what did I see Coming for to carry me home? A band of angels coming after me Coming for to carry me home. I climbed in next to the driver.

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

  (My father’s oncologist once assured him, “You’re a very, very healthy fifty-five-year-old man, except, of course, for the brain cancer.”) We were lying on chaise longues, in T-shirts and shorts, eating miniature Halloween chocolate bars. Sam was pulling Pammy’s two-year-old daughter Rebecca around the garden in a little red wagon. “I’m a little depressed,” Pammy said. One day not long before, she had said that all she had to do to get really, really depressed was to think of Rebecca, and all she had to do to get really, really joyful was to think of Rebecca. “I’m actually quite depressed,” she said. “I don’t see why.” “What’s the silver lining here? I can’t seem to remember today.” “The silver lining is that you’re not going to have to see any more naked pregnant pictures of Demi Moore.” She looked at me for a moment with real wonder. “God,” she said, “that’s a lot—I hadn’t even thought of that.” And she was very funny again for the rest of the day, happy to be with the children and me. It was such a rare scene that you would think I would remember it forever. I used to think that if something was important enough, I’d remember it until I got home, where I could simply write it down in my notebook like some normal functioning member of society. But then I wouldn’t. I’d get home, remembering that I had thought of or heard the perfect image or lines to get my characters from the party in the old house on the hill to their first day on the new job, or to their childhood playhouse, or wherever it was that they seemed to think they were supposed to be next. And I’d stand there trying to see it, the way you try to remember a dream, where you squint and it’s right there on the tip of your psychic tongue but you can’t get it back. The image is gone. That is one of the worst feelings I can think of, to have had a wonderful moment or insight or vision or phrase, to know you had it, and then to lose it. So now I use index cards. One of the things that happens when you give yourself permission to start writing is that you start thinking like a writer. You start seeing everything as material.