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 60 of 212 · 20 per page

• From Rocket Men: The Daring Odyssey of Apollo 8 and the Astronauts Who Made Man’s First Journey to the Moon (2018)

  The prospect of leaving her son during his final year at home was deeply painful to Susan—her boys meant everything to her—but Frank needed her, so she packed up the car and went with him, much as she had done in the early years of their marriage. She was still plagued by depression, and her drinking had grown heavier. As always, she never showed any of that to Frank. Borman rose quickly up the ranks at Eastern. While he impressed management, Susan struggled to adapt to a life in a new city, far away from her children and her friends. After his senior year, Ed followed his brother to West Point. For Susan, Florida felt emptier than ever. In 1972, an Eastern Airlines jet crashed in an Everglades swamp on a flight from New York to Miami. The site was inaccessible by land, and rescue efforts were slow to mobilize. Unwilling to wait, Borman chartered a two-seat helicopter after midnight and flew with the pilot to search for the downed plane and survivors. The men found a tiny patch of solid ground on which to set down. Borman jumped from the chopper and into the waters of the swamp, which rose to his chest. All around, he heard moans and cries for help. He worked to unpin victims from wreckage, helped the injured into arriving rescue helicopters, searched with a woman for her missing baby. Working a system of flashlights, he set up a local flight control, guiding choppers in and out of the scene. He departed on one of the last rescue craft out of the area, flying to the hospital to monitor the treatment of survivors. Of the 176 passengers and crew aboard Flight 401, 98 died in the accident. Borman, who traveled constantly for work, was on assignment in New York in the fall of 1973 when he received a phone call telling him that Susan was very ill and advising him to return home immediately. It was past midnight, but he found an Eastern jet and jumped a ride on the empty plane. He had no idea what was wrong with his wife or how she was doing. It proved the longest and most helpless flight of his life. When he reached Susan’s bedside the next morning, it became clear she’d had a nervous breakdown. “I can’t live like this, Frank,” she told him. “I’m very sick but I’ll do whatever it takes to get better.” Borman didn’t know what to do. The doctor at Eastern Airlines did. “If you leave her here she’s never going to get better, because she’ll still be Mrs. Frank Borman of Eastern Airlines,” he told Borman. The doctor had already made arrangements for Susan to go to the Institute of Living in Hartford, Connecticut, for treatment of her alcohol addiction, and for intensive psychotherapy. On the flight to Hartford, Susan was nearly catatonic and didn’t speak.

• From Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (1982)

  Old Muriel had come back to town. I butted my cigarette and settled back into bed. “Well, I’m glad you asked. Come on to bed.” Muriel was taking off her sneakers. My stabs of jealousy were tempered by my lessening sense of guilt; for what, I could not say. I lay beside Muriel, listening to her gentle snoring, still not really sure of what I felt. I liked Toni, and what was even more important, I trusted her. Trusted her to take care of Muriel. I loved to see Muriel’s eyes alight. I recalled the disruption Lynn had caused in our lives last year. But this felt very different. I had learned a lot. Muriel certainly needed something. But another piece of myself turned over in the darkness, filled with a great sadness. I suddenly thought about my last year at home. One morning going into my parents’ bedroom to get the iron in the pre-dawn hours before I left for school. Turning in the dimness of the early-morning light, I was startled suddenly to find my mother’s open eyes silently regarding me as I crept around quietly. I sensed that she had been awake for a long while, listening to me going about my adolescent business in the quiet apartment. Our eyes met for a moment, and it was the only time that I felt the full weight of my mother’s pain at the hostilities forever between us. That moment was short and sharp and incredibly poignant. I stood there with my hand on the bedroom doorknob. No word passed between us, but I suddenly remembered the day I first menstruated, and I felt like I was about to cry. I tucked the iron under my arm and closed the door softly behind me. In the dim glow from the Seventh Street streetlamps, I turned my head to regard Muriel’s sleeping face. What did my mother think about at night now that I had gone away? More and more of my own energies were being focused elsewhere. I thought of life between Muriel and me, certainly not as idyllic, but as something precious to both of us that we were still committed to build. And besides, we had said forever . Muriel seemed to gain a new lease on life. She began to sleep better, and she spent less and less time on the couch in the middle room. Soon, big brusque Toni became a part of our lives, with her gymnastic jackets and her lacy RN cap perched incongruously on her aggressive head. She would come over on Sunday afternoon bringing homemade blintzes and charts from school, upon which we would try to diagram the interpersonal relationships possible in our future world of women.

• From Rocket Men: The Daring Odyssey of Apollo 8 and the Astronauts Who Made Man’s First Journey to the Moon (2018)

  One day in 1969, as he was trying to figure out his post-NASA future, Borman’s phone rang. On the line was a man who said, “At the behest of Ross Perot, I have invested a million dollars in your name.” Perot wanted Borman to work for him by developing televised town hall forums in which the public could vote from home on issues of the day. The money, as the man said, had already been deposited. Borman was intrigued. Susan was not. “You will not do that,” she told her husband. “He’ll own you. You don’t know anything about this.” Borman gave back the money. He’d never made more than about thirty thousand dollars a year. Susan, who always received compliments on her fashionable wardrobe, would keep buying her clothes through secondhand stores and the Junior League thrift shop in Houston. More than ever, Frank was grateful for Susan’s wisdom and good judgment. And he made a lifelong friend of Perot in the process. After retiring from the Air Force in 1970, Borman joined Eastern Airlines, a position that required him to move to Miami. By now, his son Fred was at West Point, but seventeen-year-old Ed was a senior in high school and still living at home. Eastern wanted Borman to attend a three- month management program at Harvard Business School, a sure sign they had big plans for the former astronaut. Borman believed he needed Susan by his side in order to do his job well, so he asked his parents to stay with Ed for the year in Houston, and asked Susan to move with him to Miami. The prospect of leaving her son during his final year at home was deeply painful to Susan—her boys meant everything to her—but Frank needed her, so she packed up the car and went with him, much as she had done in the early years of their marriage. She was still plagued by depression, and her drinking had grown heavier. As always, she never showed any of that to Frank. Borman rose quickly up the ranks at Eastern. While he impressed management, Susan struggled to adapt to a life in a new city, far away from her children and her friends. After his senior year, Ed followed his brother to West Point. For Susan, Florida felt emptier than ever. In 1972, an Eastern Airlines jet crashed in an Everglades swamp on a flight from New York to Miami. The site was inaccessible by land, and rescue efforts were slow to mobilize. Unwilling to wait, Borman chartered

• From Rocket Men: The Daring Odyssey of Apollo 8 and the Astronauts Who Made Man’s First Journey to the Moon (2018)

  The next day, Governor Robert McNair called the episode “one of the saddest days in the history of South Carolina,” but he blamed the violence on “Black Power advocates.” At a time when hundreds of Americans were dying every week in Vietnam, the Orangeburg Massacre, as it would be called, soon faded from the headlines. But the future it foretold for 1968 was only just starting to crystallize. — During a background briefing ten days into the Tet Offensive, U.S. Secretary of State Dean Rusk erupted at reporters who were pressing him with tough questions. “Whose side are you on?” Rusk demanded. The press was offended that Rusk would challenge their loyalties, but the reality was that the country was deeply divided about the war. Much of the difference in opinion fell along generational lines; older people tended to trust the government, younger people tended to question everything. (In fact, by 1968, a common expression among the counterculture was “Never trust anyone over thirty.” And it was around that age that political opinions seemed to divide.) Thousands of roadside billboards admonished BEAUTIFY AMERICA, GET A HAIRCUT. By late February, the Tet Offensive had ended. By all accounts, it was a resounding American military victory. Yet that was not the message delivered by Walter Cronkite to the nation during his February 27 newscast. The CBS anchor had traveled to Vietnam during the Tet Offensive to see things for himself. Cronkite rarely offered his opinion. Now, he spoke candidly, and viewers hung on every word: “To say that we are mired in stalemate seems the only realistic, yet unsatisfactory, conclusion...it is increasingly clear to this reporter that the only rational way out then will be to negotiate, not as victors, but as an honorable people who lived up to their pledge to defend democracy, and did the best they could. “This is Walter Cronkite. Good night.” When President Johnson saw the broadcast, he is said to have told those around him, “If I’ve lost Cronkite, I’ve lost the country.” On the same day that Cronkite addressed the nation, twenty-five-year- old Frankie Lymon was found dead on the floor of his grandmother’s New

• From Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (1982)

  My mother’s voice was strangely muffled by her tears. These were the years leading up to the Second World War, when Depression took such a terrible toll, and of Black people in particular. Even though we children could be beaten for losing a penny coming home from the store, my mother fancied a piece of her role as lady bountiful, a role she would accuse me bitterly of playing years later in my life whenever I gave something to a friend. But one of my earlier memories of World War II was just before the beginning, with my mother splitting a one-pound tin of coffee between two old family friends who had come on an infrequent visit. Although she always insisted that she had nothing to do with politics or government affairs, from somewhere my mother had heard the winds of war, and despite our poverty had set about consistently hoarding sugar and coffee in her secret closet under the sink. Long before Pearl Harbor, I recall opening each cloth five-pound sack of sugar which we purchased at the market and pouring a third of it into a scrubbed tin to store away under the sink, secure from mice. The same thing happened with coffee. We would buy Bokar Coffee at the A&P and have it ground and poured into bags, and then divide the bag between the coffee tin on the back of the stove, and the hidden ones under the sink. Not many people came to our house, ever, but no one left without at least a cupful of sugar or coffee during the war, when coffee and sugar were heavily rationed. Meat and butter could not be hoarded, and throughout the early war, my mother’s absolute refusal to accept butter substitutes (only “other people” used margarine, those same “other people” who fed their children peanut butter sandwiches for lunch, used sandwich spread instead of mayonnaise and ate pork chops and watermelon) had us on line in front of supermarkets all over the city on bitterly cold Saturday mornings, waiting for the store to open so we each could get first crack at buying our allotted quarter-pound of unrationed butter. Throughout the war, Mother kept a mental list of all the supermarkets reachable by one bus, frequently taking only me because I could ride free. She also noted which were friendly and which were not, and long after the war ended there were meat markets and stores we never shopped in because someone in them had crossed my mother during the war over some precious scarce commodity, and my mother never forgot and rarely forgave.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  The Empress Josephine, wife of Napoleon Bonaparte, won dominance conquest of his for the space over her husband early on through a calculated coquetry. Later on, though, of eight whole months, that no scandal did ever hap all she held on to that power through her constant—and not so innocent—use that time, and no ill, of tears. Seeing someone cry usually has an immediate effect on our emo- 292 • The Art of Seduction inconvenience, nor any tions: we cannot remain neutral. We feel sympathy, and most often will do surprise or discovery at all. anything to stop the tears—including things that we normally would not For indeed the two sisters do. Weeping is an incredibly potent tactic, but the weeper is not always so had so good an understanding between them and innocent. There is usually something real behind the tears, but there may did so generously lend a also be an element of acting, of playing for effect. (And if the target senses hand to each other and so this the tactic is doomed.) Beyond the emotional impact of tears, there is obligingly play sentinel to one another, that no ill hap something seductive about sadness. We want to comfort the other person, did ever occur. And he and as Tourvel discovered, that desire quickly turns into love. Affecting sad-swore to me, being my very ness, even crying sometimes, has great strategic value, even for a man. It is a intimate friend as he was, that never in his days of skill you can learn. The central character of the eighteenth-century French greatest liberty had he novel Marianne, by Marivaux, would think of something sad in her past to enjoyed so excellent make herself cry or look sad in the present. entertainment or felt keener Use tears sparingly, and save them for the right moment. Perhaps this ardor or better appetite for it than in the said might be a time when the target seems suspicious of your motives, or when prison— which truly was a you are worrying about having no effect on him or her. Tears are a sure right good prison for him, barometer of how deeply the other person is falling for you. If they seem albeit folk say no prison can be good. And this annoyed, or resist the bait, your case is probably hopeless. happy time did continue for In social and political situations, seeming too ambitious, or too con-the space of eight months, trolled, will make people fear you; it is crucial to show your soft side. The till the truce was made betwixt the Emperor and display of a single weakness will hide a multitude of manipulations. Emo-Henri II., King of France, tion or even tears will work here too. Most seductive of all is playing the whereby all prisoners did victim. For his first speech in Parliament, Benjamin Disraeli prepared an leave their dungeons and

• From Rocket Men: The Daring Odyssey of Apollo 8 and the Astronauts Who Made Man’s First Journey to the Moon (2018)

  York City apartment. Lymon had been a teenage singing sensation, part of the doo-wop group the Teenagers, and had been the angelic lead voice on songs like “Why Do Fools Fall in Love?” which he’d helped write at age thirteen. As his boyish voice deepened, he faded from public favor. Depression led to a heroin addiction, but by 1968, he claimed he was clean and hoped America would give him another chance. Police who found his body discovered a needle nearby. When news broke of his passing, people around the country pulled out their old Teenagers records and listened to Frankie ask, “Why do birds sing so gay? And lovers await the break of day?” To so many of them, the nineteen-fifties sounded like a very long time ago. — In 1967, President Johnson had appointed a commission, chaired by Illinois governor Otto Kerner, to study the race riots that had erupted in several American cities since 1965. On the last day of February 1968, the Kerner Commission issued its report, along with this conclusion: “Our nation is moving toward two societies, one black, one white—separate and unequal.” By March 1, after a month of news about the Tet Offensive, President Johnson’s approval ratings had dropped by double digits. Infused with new energy, supporters of peace candidate Eugene McCarthy, a quiet, intellectual senator from Minnesota, campaigned almost nonstop in advance of the New Hampshire primary. Most of them were young and fervently antiwar; many even cut their hair and put on smart clothes to be “Clean for Gene.” McCarthy was a long-shot candidate, but some thought he might get enough votes to avoid embarrassment. On March 12, the day of the New Hampshire primary, McCarthy did much better than that. When the results came in, he’d tallied just 410 votes fewer than the president, a stunning near-upset. Immediately, New York senator Robert Kennedy announced that he would enter the race. Overnight, it seemed that an indestructible American president had turned to clay. Nineteen days after the New Hampshire primary, President Johnson delivered an address to the nation on live television. At the end, he announced: “I shall not seek, and I will not accept, the nomination of my

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  “I know how to handle this.” She retreats, understandably. “I’m not epileptic,” you say. “No, just an emotional quadriplegic.” “I couldn’t believe it,” you say. “How’s it going? Can you believe she said that?” You start to laugh again. “Take a breather, Coach.” Tad deposits you in a Mies van der Rohe chair. “You think that’s funny,” Tad says, “wait till you hear this.” “What?” “Odysseus, right? You remember who he is?” “How could I forget?” “I finally figured out where I saw him before.” “With his hand on Amanda’s ass.” “No. Listen to this. I have this account at the agency. No need to name names. But there’s this old babe in Atlanta who runs a company and comes up to New York two or three times a year for a face lift and free meals on the agency’s expense account. Naturally, she expects company for the evenings. So we provide this service through a little outfit called ‘Dial a Hunk.’ Male escort service, very top drawer. And when I say escort I am being uncharacteristically discreet. Anyway, about a year ago we dialed a hunk and voilà Odysseus.” “Don’t try to cheer me up.” “It’s true. I had to go out with these freaks two nights running, and needless to say the Allagash Express was derailed. The agency paid for his services, which definitely did not include witty conversation.” When you start to laugh, Tad says, “Careful.” But it’s under control. “Dial a Hunk.” “That’s it.” “Dial a Fucking Hunk.” “Now that, ” Tad says, “is funny. The wily Odysseus.” “Amanda’s finally got the right number,” you say, wishing you found it funnier. You wish this laughter could lift you out of your heavy body and carry you beyond this place, out through an open window and up over the city until all this ugliness and pain were reduced to a twinkling of faraway lights. “I don’t know,” you say. “Actually, it’s not that funny. It’s just pathetic.” “Don’t pour good sympathy after bad,” Tad says. “Where’s Stevie?” “That’s another sob story. You want to steer clear of that, Coach.” “Why?” “Stevie, aka Steve, had his third operation a few weeks ago. Convincing, isn’t he?” “You expect me to believe that?” You replay images of Stevie in your mind. “Bullshit.” “Would I lie? Ask Jimmy Q if you don’t believe me. What do you think the scarf around the neck is for? You can’t remove an Adam’s apple.” You have no idea whether Tad is serious or not, having been taken in by him on numerous occasions. Your curiosity about Stevie’s chromosomes is by now exhausted. It is too late in the night to care. “I was going to tell you.” “Thanks.” You stand up. “Take it easy, Coach.” He puts his arm around your shoulders.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  I put my controller down and leaned back on our foam couch and was asleep. As I drifted off, I heard the Colonel say, “I can’t be mad at you, you harmless skinny bastard.” eighty-four days before THREE DAYS LATER, the rain began. My head still hurt, and the sizable knot above my left temple looked, the Colonel thought, like a miniaturized topographical map of Macedonia, which I had not previously known was a place, let alone a country. And as the Colonel and I walked over the parched, half-dead grass that Monday, I said, “I suppose we could use some rain,” and the Colonel looked up at the low clouds coming in fast and threatening, and then he said, “Well, use it or not, we’re sure as shit going to get some.” And we sure as shit did. Twenty minutes into French class, Madame O’Malley was conjugating the verb to believe in the subjunctive. Que je croie. Que tu croies. Qu’il ou qu’elle croie. She said it over and over, like it wasn’t a verb so much as a Buddhist mantra. Que je croie; que tu croies; qu’il ou qu’elle croie. What a funny thing to say over and over again: I would believe; you would believe; he or she would believe. Believe what? I thought, and right then, the rain came. It came all at once and in a furious torrent, like God was mad and wanted to flood us out. Day after day, night after night, it rained. It rained so that I couldn’t see across the dorm circle, so that the lake swelled up and lapped against the Adirondack swing, swallowing half of the fake beach. By the third day, I abandoned my umbrella entirely and walked around in a perpetual state of wetness. Everything at the cafeteria tasted like the minor acid of rainwater and everything stank of mildew and showers became ludicrously inappropriate because the whole goddamned world had better water pressure than the showers. And the rain made hermits of us all.

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  Sebastian stood for a moment, his face an impassive mirror of his father’s as the two men stared each other down, the animosity between them palpable. Olivia tugged on his arm to draw his attention back to her father. He took a deep breath. “Mr. Lambert. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I thank you for the hand of your daughter, whom I treasure.” Her father raked Sebastian with a more penetrating gaze. She knew what he saw—a tall, massively built male with the tan and muscles of a manual laborer. With the long hair and icy expression, Sebastian was intimidating. “Are you satisfied with this union?” her father asked gruffly. “I was able to ascertain some of the character of the man I thought was the earl, but this man next to you is a stranger to me.” She gave a tremulous smile. “I am most pleased, Father. Merrick has been wonderful.” Her father shot her a skeptical glance. “I researched Sebastian Blake thoroughly before signing the marriage agreements. He was known to be a scapegrace in his youth, an incorrigible. But the man I met was polished and civilized.” Unspoken was the notion that Sebastian was none of those things, but she heard it nevertheless. And so did her husband. Olivia winced, her heart aching. She hugged Sebastian’s arm closer. “We can procure an annulment, Livy,” her father persisted. “I want you to be happy.” “No annulment,” she said firmly, feeling Sebastian’s body become taut as a bow. “If I know my son,” the marquess drawled, “it is far too late for an annulment. Don’t whine, Lambert. You bought your daughter an earl, and she acquired one. No harm done.” Olivia gasped at the insult, instantly reminded of how cruel the peerage could be to those they deemed beneath them. Her feelings meant nothing to this man. She meant nothing. To him, she was no more than a breeding mare and a fat purse. Despite her lifelong pursuit of indifference, she couldn’t deny that the marquess’s callousness stung. Sebastian glanced at her. Attuned to her feelings by weeks of deep intimacy, he leapt to her defense. “Damn you!” he snarled. “Were you that desperate for an heir to your precious title? To send Carr to my wife . . .” He took a step toward his father, who hadn’t the sense to move away. “I’d have killed you both if he’d touched her in my name. I’ve a mind to kill you anyway.” “Sebastian, no!” Olivia cried as she saw his hands clench into fists. “He’s not worth it.” The marquess dismissed his son’s fury with an imperious wave of his hand. “You had no knowledge you were even married. You showed no interest in the Dunsmore lands, the tenants, or your duty to the title. Something had to be done.” Sebastian laughed, a hard, bitter sound. “Those are your responsibilities until you die.”

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  The Rescuer. We are often drawn to people who seem vulnerable or weak—their sadness or depression can actually be quite seductive. There are people, however, who take this much further, who seem to be attracted only to people with problems. This may seem noble, but Rescuers usually have complicated motives: they often have sensitive natures and truly want to help. At the same time, solving people's problems gives them a kind of power they relish—it makes them feel superior and in control. It is also the perfect way to distract them from their own problems. You will recognize these types by their empathy—they listen well and try to get you to open up and talk. You will also notice they have histories of relationships with dependent and troubled people. Rescuers can make excellent victims, particularly if you enjoy chivalrous or maternal attention. If you are a woman, play the damsel in distress, giving a man the chance so many men long for—to act the knight. If you are a man, play the boy who cannot deal with this harsh world; a female Rescuer will envelop you in maternal attention, gaining for herself the added satisfaction of feeling more powerful and in control than a man. An air of sadness will draw either gender in. Exaggerate your weaknesses, but not through overt words or gestures—let them sense that you have had too little love, that you have had a string of bad relationships, that you have gotten a raw deal in life. Having lured your Rescuer in with the chance to help you, you can then stoke the relationship's fires with a steady supply of needs and vulnerabilities. You can also invite moral rescue: you are bad. You have done bad things. You need a stern yet loving hand. In this case the Rescuer gets to feel morally superior, but also the vicarious thrill of involvement with someone naughty. The Roué. These types have lived the good life and experienced many pleasures. They probably have, or once had, a good deal of money to finance their hedonistic lives. On the outside they tend to seem cynical and jaded, but their worldliness often hides a sentimentality that they have struggled to repress. Roués are consummate seducers, but there is one type that can easily seduce them—the young and the innocent. As they get 158 • The Art of Seduction older, they hanker after their lost youth; missing their long-lost innocence, they begin to covet it in others.

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  “Leave him to me.” Julienne narrowed her eyes. “Even if that were true, I’ve already agreed to accompany Lord Fontaine to a literary luncheon tomorrow.” Lucien’s lips tightened grimly. “The day after, then.” She nodded. “If you can arrange to garner my brother’s approval, I would love to go on a picnic with you, Lucien.” She knew what he wanted. He wished to say good-bye, and she was touched he wanted to make it a memorable event. He cared for her, perhaps more than he knew, but he would never change, and she would never ask him to. Eventually he would resent her for the marital restrictions imposed on his lifestyle. No matter how much he desired her, desire alone would never be enough to bridge the gulf between them. However, she refused to think about that now. Instead she threw herself into the dance and allowed Lucien Remington, notorious libertine, to sweep her away. For this moment at least, she could pretend all of her dreams had come true. Chapter Ten He was very handsome. Julienne acknowledged that fact for the hundredth time as she studied Lord Fontaine furtively beneath her lashes. And quite charming. She glanced around the long table where they sat in Lady Busby’s London residence. Most of the other women in the room were eyeing him covetously. But Julienne could dredge up no pleasure in the day. All she desired was to be enjoying a picnic with Lucien. “Is the food not to your taste, Lady Julienne?” Fontaine asked solicitously. She smiled. “Everything is wonderful. I’m just not very hungry.” She glanced at his plate. “Liar,” he teased. “You want a bite of my scone.” He broke off a piece with his long, elegant fingers, swiped some softened butter on it with a knife, and brought it to her mouth. She parted her lips automatically, and he popped the morsel inside. She blushed, knowing everyone at the table had duly noted the intimate gesture. “I sense a scandalous side to you, my lord.” He grinned. “Does that disturb you?” “You know it doesn’t, or you wouldn’t indulge me with it.” “’Tis one of the reasons why I like you so well, Julienne.” He took a deep breath. “There is something I wish to discuss with you, but now is not the appropriate time. Perhaps tomorrow I could take you for a drive in the park?” Julienne knew exactly what he wished to discuss with her, and she knew what her answer would be. But first she had one more opportunity to spend time with Lucien. “I’m afraid I must decline. I have plans tomorrow.” She saw the troubled frown and sought to allay his concern. “But the following day would be lovely.” He nodded. “Of course. I look forward to it.”

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  It was okay by you as long as she didn’t take it seriously. When she started bringing home all this money it seemed even more okay. Once a week she said she was going to quit. She hated the photographers, the hustlers and the hype. She hated the models . She felt guilty making all this money on her looks, in which she didn’t believe anyway. You asked her if she thought being a secretary was fun. You told her to stick with it long enough to salt away some money, and then she could do whatever she wanted. You thought it was kind of kinky that she was doing this as long as she was slumming, as long as she wasn’t really a model. You both joked about the real models, the ones who developed ulcers over pimples and thought menopause set in at twenty-five. You both despised people who thought an invitation to X’s birthday bash at Magique was an accomplishment equal to swimming the English Channel. But you went to X’s birthday bash anyway, with your tongues in your cheeks, and while Amanda circulated you snorted some of X’s very good friend’s private stash of pink Peruvian flake in the upstairs lounge. Her agent used to lecture her, telling her that as a professional she had to take it more seriously, stop getting ten-dollar haircuts and start going to the right places. Amanda was amused. She did a fine imitation of this agent, a modeling star of the fifties who had the manner of a dorm mother and the heart of a pimp. Over the months, though, you started eating at better restaurants and Amanda started getting her hair cut on the Upper East Side. The first time she went to Italy for the fall showings, she cried at the airport. She reminded you that in a year and a half you had never spent a night apart. She said to hell with it, she would skip Italy, screw modeling. You convinced her to go. She called every night from Milan. Later on these separations did not seem so traumatic. You postponed your honeymoon indefinitely because she had to do the spring collections three days after the wedding. You were busy with your own work. There were nights you got home after she was asleep. You looked at her across the breakfast nook in the morning and it often seemed that she was looking through the walls of the apartment building halfway across the continent to the plains, as if she had forgotten something there and couldn’t quite remember what it was. Her eyes reflected the flat vastness of her native ground. She sat with her elbows on the butcher-block table, twisting a strand of hair in her fingers, head cocked to one side as if she were listening for voices on the wind. There was always something elusive about her, a quality you found mysterious and unsettling.

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  “Good morning, Father.” She pressed kisses to each of his rosy cheeks, then moved to the small table and chairs in the corner. When the footman set her plate and juice on the table, she dismissed him with a smile. “You look positively lovesick,” her father commented. “Are you that pleased with your husband?” “I . . . yes.” She had been, before he broke her heart, but she would never tell her father that. There was no way he could have foreseen what would occur when he endeavored to marry her into a title. And truly, wasn’t this mess her own fault? She had known how Sebastian was when she’d determined to keep him. Only her own foolishness had allowed her to hope for more. “I have to say, I had my doubts when I first saw him,” Jack admitted. “I know his type, wild and unruly. Not the sort of spouse a father would choose for his only daughter. But after speaking with him this morning—” Her pulse leapt. “You spoke with him this morning?” “Yes. We ate breakfast together. He doesn’t appear to be the scapegrace I first thought, though he has the looks for it. His handling of the situation last evening impressed me. He appears to be very protective of you, possessive even. I like that. He’s also astonishingly well versed in seamanship, seems not the least put-out with my work in trade, and . . . well, anyway, I found I liked him much better than that cousin of his, the one I thought was Lord Merrick.” Olivia stifled a groan at the reminder. As if she hadn’t enough problems of her own to attend to, she was now inextricably bound to the rest of the Blake family, and what she’d seen of the brood so far left a marked distaste in her mouth. “Did Merrick mention his plans to you?” Her father folded his paper and looked at her curiously. “He said he left you a note. Didn’t you read it?” She was out the door in a moment, shouting for the butler. He came running out, panting with the effort to make haste. But he knew nothing of a note, so she lifted her skirts and ran up the stairs. She found a chambermaid making the freshly changed bed. “Morning, milady,” the young servant greeted with a quick curtsy. “Did you find a note for me?” The girl nodded and moved to the end table, returning with a slip of folded parchment. Olivia murmured her thanks and retired to her room to read the missive in private. It was simple and heartbreaking. Trust me. I will return. Yours, S She sank to the floor and cried. Chapter Six London, England, June 1813

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  Again she was caught by the resemblance between Carr and Sebastian. They were very similar, both boasting shining black hair and startlingly blue eyes. But the resemblance was merely superficial. Carr was more like an exuberant puppy, while Sebastian was more of a panther on the prowl. Olivia rolled her shoulders back and forced a smile, since most eyes were on her. Her relentless pursuit of the height of fashion had been a large part of her success, an expensive accomplishment achieved through her husband’s largesse. She sighed audibly. She would gladly have given up everything if it would have won her Sebastian’s love. But it was too late for that now. “Lady Merrick, I believe this next set has been reserved for me.” Olivia turned. “I believe you are correct, Monsieur Robidoux.” The dashing Frenchman bowed elegantly over her proffered hand. His golden beauty had won him wide regard with the members of the ton. It did nothing for her, but she flashed him her best smile. He grinned as he escorted her to the gathering line of dancers. “You are even more ravishing tonight than usual, my lady.” She arched a brow. “Thank you, monsieur.” Robidoux had been brazenly forward with her since arriving in London a month ago, suggesting strolls through the gardens or drives in the park, all of which she refused. She braced herself at every meeting, his determination to be alone with her making her decidedly uncomfortable. “Lady Merrick,” he purred in his unctuous voice. “The Dunsmore title is an old and respected one, I’ve been told. And yet the earl who inherits it is not in attendance. In fact, no one has seen hide nor hair of the man in over five years.” She laughed—part in amusement, part in exasperation. The gossips were rife with speculation about the whereabouts of her husband. After all, it was odd for a missing man to suddenly acquire a wife. It was because of this unusual circumstance that Dunsmore’s assistance had been necessary to establish her credibility. “I assure you, Lord Merrick is not a figment of my imagination.” Robidoux’s fingers tightened on hers. “A beautiful woman should never be neglected.” She suppressed an unladylike snort. The man’s advances were growing tiresome. “I am not neglected, Monsieur Robidoux.” “Where is your husband then? I would very much like to make his acquaintance.” “And so you shall, in good time.” The country dance began, and she released a relieved breath. The Frenchman’s smile held no charm as they traversed the length of the line. “Perhaps you’d care to take a stroll in the gardens with me when the set is over?” he asked before they separated. “No, thank you.”

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  You do not resist as one of the men with a wire hanging out of his ear takes your arm and says “Let’s go.” You follow him down the row of seats and apologize to the people whose knees you are bumping. Once he gets you into the main aisle, he grips your arm uncompromisingly. The two robots escort you out through the lobby. You are temporarily engulfed by a band of Japanese tourists following a guide with a pink flag and ideographic lapel badge. Your escorts are talking into microphones attached to their sleeves. “Agitator apprehended. Proceeding to lobby.” Before shoving you out the door, one of the men leans down and says, “We don’t want to see you here again.” It is a blue, sunny day—much too sunny for you, thanks. Fortunately, for once you have not forgotten your Ray-Bans. The lunchtime crowd churns Park Avenue. You expect people to gaze at you, horror-stricken, yet nobody pays any attention. On the corner a fat man in a Yankees cap is selling pretzels from a pushcart. A woman in a fur coat holds her right arm erect, hoping to conjure a taxi. A bus roars past. Cautiously, as if you were entering a swimming pool for the first time in years, you ease yourself into the ranks of pedestrians. “Things happen, people change,” is what Amanda said. For her that covered it. You wanted an explanation, an ending that would assign blame and dish up justice. You considered violence and you considered reconciliation. But what you are left with is a premonition of the way your life will fade behind you, like a book you have read too quickly, leaving a dwindling trail of images and emotions, until all you can remember is a name. LINGUINE AND SYMPATHYAfter dark you return to the scene of your former crimes to gather up loose odds and ends. Since the magazine went to press this morning, you can assume everyone will have gone home. You feel strange walking into the building, an infidel penetrating the temple. Your hangover from the Waldorf doesn’t help. As you come out of the elevator on twenty-nine, the first person you see is the Ghost. The elevator doors close behind you. He stands in the middle of the reception area, head tilted to one side like a robin listening for worms, and says hello. You feel compelled to turn around and run. Your mere presence seems shameful, especially after last night. The longer you wait, the harder it becomes to speak. It’s as if he’s deaf and you’re dumb. “Evening,” you say in a weird, flickering voice. He nods his head. “I’m sorry to hear you’re leaving us,” he says. “If ever you need a good reference …” “Thank you. Thanks very much.” “Goodbye.” He turns and rolls off toward Collating. More than anything yet, this strange encounter makes you feel the sadness of leaving. You check the mirror at the corner of the hall.

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  Sometimes the sound of his Christian name in an underling’s mouth is sacrilege to his ears. At other times his sense of hale fellowship is offended by a formal address. So this time you nod and say hello. “I’ve always wanted to ask someone from Fact,” he says as he takes up his position in front of the urinal, “does Clara piss in the Men’s Room or the Ladies’?” Now you’ve got the cue. “I don’t believe she pisses.” “Marvelous,” he says. It’s taking him a while to get going at the urinal. To fill in the silence he asks “So how do you like it down there?” as if you had joined the staff last week. “All in all, I’d rather be in Fiction.” He nods and tends to business for a while, then says, “You write, don’t you?” “That seems to be a matter of opinion.” “Hmmmm.” He shakes and zips. At the door he turns and fixes you with a serious look. “Read Hazlitt,” he says. “That’s my advice. Read Hazlitt and write before breakfast every day.” Advice to last a lifetime. Your advice to Walter Tyler is to give it an extra shake or two if he wants to return to his office with dry chinos. You make for the elevator. Some troll you have never seen sticks his head out of an office door and immediately retracts it. Rounding the corner, you narrowly miss running down the Ghost. The Ghost cocks his head to one side, peering, his eyelids fluttering. You say good afternoon and identify yourself. “Yes,” he says, as if he knew all along who it was. He likes to give the impression that his reclusiveness is an advantage, that he knows more than you could ever expect to. You’ve only seen him once before, this legend, this man who has been working on a single article for seven years. You excuse yourself and slide past. For his part, the Ghost glides away silently, as if on wheels. You escape the building without incident. Your jacket, small ransom, is back in the Department. It is a warm, humid afternoon. Spring, apparently. Late April or early May. Amanda left in January. There was snow on the ground the morning she called, a whiteness that turned gray and filthy by noon and then disappeared down the sewer grates. Later that morning the florist called about the bouquet you ordered for her return. Everything becomes symbol and irony when you have been betrayed. You slip into a bar on Forty-fourth, a nice anonymous Irish place where no one has anything on his mind except drinking and sports. On a big video screen at the far end of the long wooden bar is some kind of sporting event. You take a stool and order a beer, then turn your attention to the screen. Basketball. You didn’t realize basketball was in season this time of year, but you like the soothing back-and-forth movement of the ball.

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  “I guess I’ll walk after all.” “Asshole.” He leaves rubber. You start north, holding a hand over your eyes. Trucks rumble up Hudson Street, bearing provisions into the sleeping city. You turn east. On Seventh Avenue an old woman with a hive of rollers on her head walks a German shepherd. The dog is rooting in the cracks of the sidewalk, but as you approach he stiffens into a pose of terrible alertness. The woman looks at you as if you were something that had just crawled out of the ocean trailing ooze and slime. An eager, tentative growl ripples the shepherd’s throat. “Good Pooky,” she says. The dog makes a move but she chokes it back. You give them a wide berth. On Bleecker Street you catch the scent of the Italian bakery. You stand at the corner of Bleecker and Cornelia and gaze at the windows on the fourth floor of a tenement. Behind those windows is the apartment you shared with Amanda when you first came to New York. It was small and dark, but you liked the imperfectly patched pressed-tin ceiling, the claw-footed bath in the kitchen, the windows that didn’t quite fit the frames. You were just starting out. You had the rent covered, you had your favorite restaurant on MacDougal where the waitresses knew your names and you could bring your own bottle of wine. Every morning you woke to the smell of bread from the bakery downstairs. You would go out to buy the paper and maybe pick up a couple of croissants while Amanda made the coffee. This was two years ago, before you got married. Down on the West Side Highway, a lone hooker totters on heels and tugs at her skirt as if no one had told her that the commuters won’t be coming through the tunnels from Jersey today. Coming closer, you see that she is a man in drag. You cross under the rusting stanchions of the old elevated highway and walk out to the pier. The easterly light skims across the broad expanse of the Hudson. You step carefully as you approach the end of the rotting pier. You are none too steady and there are holes through which you can see the black, fetid water underneath. You sit down on a piling and look out over the river. Downriver, the Statue of Liberty shimmers in the haze. Across the water, a huge Colgate sign welcomes you to New Jersey, the Garden State. You watch the solemn progress of a garbage barge, wreathed in a cloud of screaming gulls, heading out to sea. Here you are again. All messed up and no place to go. THE DEPARTMENT OF FACTUAL VERIFICATIONMonday arrives on schedule. You sleep through the first ten hours. God only knows what happened to Sunday. At the subway station you wait fifteen minutes on the platform for a train. Finally a local, enervated by graffiti, shuffles into the station.

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  THE NIGHT SHIFT Michael is hungry and you are thirsty; a foray is proposed and seconded. All of uptown seems to be headed downtown for Saturday night. Everyone on the sidewalk looks exactly seventeen years old and restless. At Sheridan Square a ragged figure is tearing posters off the utility poles. He claws at the paper with his fingernails and then stomps it under his feet. “What is he, political?” Michael says. “No, just angry.” You walk down into the Lion’s Head, past all the framed dust jackets of all the writers who have ever gotten drunk here, heading for the back room where the lights are low. When you sit down, James, long-haired and black, jumps up on the table; the house cat. “I never really liked her much, to tell you the truth,” Michael says. “I thought she was fake. If I ever see her I’m going to rip her lungs out.” You introduce Michael to Karen, the waitress, and she asks you how the writing is going. You order two double vodkas. She tosses down a couple of menus and ducks around the corner. “At first,” you say, “I couldn’t believe she left me. Now I can’t believe we got married in the first place. I’m just starting to remember how cold and distant Amanda was when Mom got sick. She seemed to resent Mom’s dying.” “Do you think you’d have married her if Mom hadn’t been sick?” You have made such a point of not dwelling on the incidents associated with your mother’s death, almost denying that it was a consideration at all. You were living with Amanda in New York and marriage wasn’t high on your list of priorities, although on Amanda’s it was. You had your doubts about in sickness and in health till death do us part. Then your mother was diagnosed and everything looked different.

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  You pick up another picture, a boy with a fishing rod holding a trout, cabin and woods in the background. “Old boyfriend?” Meg shakes her head. She slides across the couch and takes the picture, studying it earnestly. “My son,” she says. “Son?” Megan nods, looking at the picture. “This was taken a couple of years ago. He’s thirteen now. I haven’t seen him in almost a year, but he’s coming for a visit as soon as school lets out.” You don’t want to appear too inquisitive. This sounds like a dangerous subject. You haven’t heard about a son before. Suddenly Megan seems much less scrutable than you had imagined. She reaches across your chest to put the picture back on the end table. You can feel her breath on your cheek. “He lives with his father in northern Michigan. It’s a good place for a boy to grow up. They do boy things—hunting and fishing. His father’s a logger. When I met him he was an aspiring playwright who couldn’t get his plays produced. It was hard. We were broke and it seemed like everyone else had money. And I wasn’t the greatest wife in the world. Jack—that’s my ex-husband—didn’t want his son growing up in the city. I didn’t want to leave. Of course I didn’t want my son to leave either, but when the decision was made I was in Bellevue stupefied with Librium. Obviously in no position to fight for custody.” You don’t know what to say. You are embarrassed. You want to hear more. Megan sips her wine and looks out the window. You wonder how painful this is for her. “Did your husband commit you?” “He didn’t have much choice. I was raving. Manic depression. They finally figured out a few years ago it was a simple chemical deficiency. Something called lithium carbonate. Now I take four tablets a day and I’m fine. But it’s a little late to become a full-time mother again. Anyway Dylan—that’s my son—has a wonderful stepmother and I see him every summer.” “That’s awful,” you say.