in concentration and wrote it in large, blocky letters, as big as her pride, as filled with emotion as a scratchy pen on rough paper could make it.
Artemas lay on his bunk in a bare little room with nothing but khaki-green walls and hard furniture, a place of such unremitting ugliness that every day he realized more of his own emptiness. He opened the plain little envelopereverently, touching it with fingers made callused from the chores and duties of a cadet. Mrs. Mackenzie’s neat, looping handwriting was so pretty, in contrast to his surroundings.
There will always be a place for you here. When you are feeling bad and don’t know that anyone loves you, don’t forget that we do. You will be fine if you remember that you can make yourself whatever you want to be, no matter what people do to you. Your gift will always be part of our family, and so will you .
Lily’s childishly exuberant name was scrawled at the bottom.
From then on he wrote to her, short, simple notes on the school’s stationery or his own notepaper, a nice card when he had a chance to buy one. Mrs. MacKenzie wrote back, telling him about ordinary, funny things that happened on the farm, always with Lily’s signature at the bottom, and never hinted that their life was anything but the fantasy he wanted it to be.
Four
The Schulhorns had made their money in newspapers, but the fortune was so old that the last Schulhorn who’d actually worked in the business was a forgotten twig in the family tree. Now, the Schulhorns lived off their investments. Never touch your principal , Mr. Schulhorn said to Father. Artemas doubted Mr. Schulhorn had been near a principle in years.
He and Mother had been in college together, though Mother had been kicked out for some mysterious dishonor no one discussed. The Schulhorns lived on one of their family estates outside Philadelphia. Artemas detested spending part of his summer vacation with them, but it was better than staying at home, where Uncle Charles found ways to badger him and humiliate the younger ones. Uncle had nosed around at school and learned about Artemas running away last year. You’ll never be anything but a loser , he told Artemas smugly. Just like your father .
The walls of the Schulhorns’ downstairs gallery were full of animal heads and stuffed birds. Father and Mr. Schulhorn were both hunters; Hemingway’s bastard clones, Mother called them. Mother liked to hunt, too, but she preferred to do it on horseback, chasing rabbits and foxeswith her hounds. Shooting things was no challenge, she said. She enjoyed a good fight.
Across the garden terrace, Mrs. Schulhorn shrieked with laughter. Artemas forgot his brooding thoughts in a rush of confusion and loathing. She was Mr. Schulhorn’s third wife, and he probably hadn’t picked her for her personality. Father and Mother were always putting their hands on her, rubbing her shoulders, patting her lower back.
Once, in a hallway with no one else around, she’d cornered Artemas. “You’re uptight to be such a good-looking kid,” she said. “Always so righteous and quiet, always judging people behind those gray eyes, aren’t you? I’m twenty-three, but you look at me as if I’m some snotty brat.”
Slit-eyed with amusement, she grasped him between the legs. Her breath, sweet with mint and liquor, had warmed his mouth, though she never kissed him. He stood there quivering in disgust and blinding arousal while she rubbed him with the palm of her hand. His knees buckled a little, his lungs strained for air, and it only took a few seconds for him to realize that he was going to come right there, in his tailored shorts. The rush of heat and moisture was humiliating but irresistible, and he felt trapped. He opened his mouth to say something—“Stop” and “Please,” with garbled meaning—but it was over before he could sort the two thoughts out.
“You aren’t a saint, kid,” she said with a laugh, and walked away.
Out on the long veranda
Artemas lay on his bunk in a bare little room with nothing but khaki-green walls and hard furniture, a place of such unremitting ugliness that every day he realized more of his own emptiness. He opened the plain little envelopereverently, touching it with fingers made callused from the chores and duties of a cadet. Mrs. Mackenzie’s neat, looping handwriting was so pretty, in contrast to his surroundings.
There will always be a place for you here. When you are feeling bad and don’t know that anyone loves you, don’t forget that we do. You will be fine if you remember that you can make yourself whatever you want to be, no matter what people do to you. Your gift will always be part of our family, and so will you .
Lily’s childishly exuberant name was scrawled at the bottom.
From then on he wrote to her, short, simple notes on the school’s stationery or his own notepaper, a nice card when he had a chance to buy one. Mrs. MacKenzie wrote back, telling him about ordinary, funny things that happened on the farm, always with Lily’s signature at the bottom, and never hinted that their life was anything but the fantasy he wanted it to be.
Four
The Schulhorns had made their money in newspapers, but the fortune was so old that the last Schulhorn who’d actually worked in the business was a forgotten twig in the family tree. Now, the Schulhorns lived off their investments. Never touch your principal , Mr. Schulhorn said to Father. Artemas doubted Mr. Schulhorn had been near a principle in years.
He and Mother had been in college together, though Mother had been kicked out for some mysterious dishonor no one discussed. The Schulhorns lived on one of their family estates outside Philadelphia. Artemas detested spending part of his summer vacation with them, but it was better than staying at home, where Uncle Charles found ways to badger him and humiliate the younger ones. Uncle had nosed around at school and learned about Artemas running away last year. You’ll never be anything but a loser , he told Artemas smugly. Just like your father .
The walls of the Schulhorns’ downstairs gallery were full of animal heads and stuffed birds. Father and Mr. Schulhorn were both hunters; Hemingway’s bastard clones, Mother called them. Mother liked to hunt, too, but she preferred to do it on horseback, chasing rabbits and foxeswith her hounds. Shooting things was no challenge, she said. She enjoyed a good fight.
Across the garden terrace, Mrs. Schulhorn shrieked with laughter. Artemas forgot his brooding thoughts in a rush of confusion and loathing. She was Mr. Schulhorn’s third wife, and he probably hadn’t picked her for her personality. Father and Mother were always putting their hands on her, rubbing her shoulders, patting her lower back.
Once, in a hallway with no one else around, she’d cornered Artemas. “You’re uptight to be such a good-looking kid,” she said. “Always so righteous and quiet, always judging people behind those gray eyes, aren’t you? I’m twenty-three, but you look at me as if I’m some snotty brat.”
Slit-eyed with amusement, she grasped him between the legs. Her breath, sweet with mint and liquor, had warmed his mouth, though she never kissed him. He stood there quivering in disgust and blinding arousal while she rubbed him with the palm of her hand. His knees buckled a little, his lungs strained for air, and it only took a few seconds for him to realize that he was going to come right there, in his tailored shorts. The rush of heat and moisture was humiliating but irresistible, and he felt trapped. He opened his mouth to say something—“Stop” and “Please,” with garbled meaning—but it was over before he could sort the two thoughts out.
“You aren’t a saint, kid,” she said with a laugh, and walked away.
Out on the long veranda
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