envision the new arrangement perfectly well. But she was too proud. She was, quite obviously, the variable in the equation. One day Julia would tire again and move to eject her; her X would be replaced by someone elseâs Y or Z. Asa would protest, perhaps, but then he would agree. Oh, he would agree. But even imagining this injury was not the worst. The worst was to acknowledge how greedy she had been, how like Julia she actually was. One lover had not been enough for her. The only difference between her and Julia was that she wasnât clever enough to have orchestrated the setup; sheâd had to be swept into it, led.
âGo to her,â Lore said. She was frightfully calm, except for the urgent need to have Asa leave the apartment, vanish from her sight. She was silently nearly hysterical in her desire to push him out the door. She wished there were more locks to lock: a hundred locks to lock behind him. As soon as she was alone she fell into a deep sleep, and in the morning she went to work as usual, thinking and feeling as little as possible. On her return she set about methodically destroying every memento of their lives together: photos from parties and evenings at home, the crafts-fair art, books Asa or Julia had introduced her to, any clothing bought or worn in their presence, even refrigerator clippings and scribbles on notepads. She left behind the plates and glasses, the kitchen tools. A few of her oldest items of clothing and her toiletries were all she threw into her suitcase. She was leaving with no more than she had brought with her to the city something over four years ago. In between had been a dream so vivid and compelling it had seemed real, but it was no surprise to wake up and find that she was alone again. She knew how to live lightlyâshe had always lived lightly. Her mother had lived lightly. People like them never accumulated much.
Eleven minutes. The smell of rubbing alcohol, new gauze. Lore looks up. A hallucination of sorts, for nothing has been opened, nothing moved; Franckline is sitting patiently at the computer desk, filling out paperwork.
No, people like them never accumulated much, only culled a little corner of the world to call their own, then moved on when trouble pushed them aside. Greenwich Village, Lockport, Hobbes Cornersâmore than one house there, but in each Loreâs mother bent over the lilies in the stony yard. She sat at the sewing machine, sewing Loreâs skirts for school. Two females, doing what females do: getting by. Had Lore missed having a father? friends had sometimes asked. Julia had asked. Lore always said no. As a child she had not been quite sure what fathers were for. Money, one would think. But her friends with fathers at home seemed to live not very differently than she and her mother did. Possibly worseâmen tended to spend on hunting and bowling outings, and drink.
When Loreâs mother was dying and doped up on morphine, she spoke about being a dancer in New York City. Some sort of troupe that contained girlfriends named Celeste and Patty. Bright-red skirts and castanets. There was no way to know if this had really happened, or if it was a fantasy brought on by the drugs. Her mother spoke slurrily of picking blueberries by a country lake, of finding at a flea market an embroidered blouse threaded with ribbons. âThe place was so crowded and dirty,â she said. âBut I found what I wanted.â
How naive Lore had been, despite being the daughter of a father no one spoke of, despite the strange, incomplete conversations at her motherâs deathbed; how again and again she was caught up short by the discovery that other people had stories they didnât tell, or told stories that werenât entirely true. How mostly you got odd chunks torn from the whole, impossible truly to understand in their damaged form. She glances at Franckline. Who is she, what are her stories, what does she tell and not tell? Once upon a
âGo to her,â Lore said. She was frightfully calm, except for the urgent need to have Asa leave the apartment, vanish from her sight. She was silently nearly hysterical in her desire to push him out the door. She wished there were more locks to lock: a hundred locks to lock behind him. As soon as she was alone she fell into a deep sleep, and in the morning she went to work as usual, thinking and feeling as little as possible. On her return she set about methodically destroying every memento of their lives together: photos from parties and evenings at home, the crafts-fair art, books Asa or Julia had introduced her to, any clothing bought or worn in their presence, even refrigerator clippings and scribbles on notepads. She left behind the plates and glasses, the kitchen tools. A few of her oldest items of clothing and her toiletries were all she threw into her suitcase. She was leaving with no more than she had brought with her to the city something over four years ago. In between had been a dream so vivid and compelling it had seemed real, but it was no surprise to wake up and find that she was alone again. She knew how to live lightlyâshe had always lived lightly. Her mother had lived lightly. People like them never accumulated much.
Eleven minutes. The smell of rubbing alcohol, new gauze. Lore looks up. A hallucination of sorts, for nothing has been opened, nothing moved; Franckline is sitting patiently at the computer desk, filling out paperwork.
No, people like them never accumulated much, only culled a little corner of the world to call their own, then moved on when trouble pushed them aside. Greenwich Village, Lockport, Hobbes Cornersâmore than one house there, but in each Loreâs mother bent over the lilies in the stony yard. She sat at the sewing machine, sewing Loreâs skirts for school. Two females, doing what females do: getting by. Had Lore missed having a father? friends had sometimes asked. Julia had asked. Lore always said no. As a child she had not been quite sure what fathers were for. Money, one would think. But her friends with fathers at home seemed to live not very differently than she and her mother did. Possibly worseâmen tended to spend on hunting and bowling outings, and drink.
When Loreâs mother was dying and doped up on morphine, she spoke about being a dancer in New York City. Some sort of troupe that contained girlfriends named Celeste and Patty. Bright-red skirts and castanets. There was no way to know if this had really happened, or if it was a fantasy brought on by the drugs. Her mother spoke slurrily of picking blueberries by a country lake, of finding at a flea market an embroidered blouse threaded with ribbons. âThe place was so crowded and dirty,â she said. âBut I found what I wanted.â
How naive Lore had been, despite being the daughter of a father no one spoke of, despite the strange, incomplete conversations at her motherâs deathbed; how again and again she was caught up short by the discovery that other people had stories they didnât tell, or told stories that werenât entirely true. How mostly you got odd chunks torn from the whole, impossible truly to understand in their damaged form. She glances at Franckline. Who is she, what are her stories, what does she tell and not tell? Once upon a
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