envied everything of Clary’s. And Clary didn’t do anything to make Nell feel better. She scarcely looked at Jeremy and Hannah, and when she did look at them, it was with a sort of scientific scrutiny, as if the babies were bugs or some other kind of slightly bizarre form of life. Nell cried that night when she went to sleep, because she felt old and somehow forlorn.
The next year, when Marlow and Nell were separated and then divorced, Nell didn’t know whether to contact Clary or not. Clary was Marlow’s daughter, after all, not hers. People tended to choose sides during a divorce, and it was only right that Clarywould choose her own father. Blood tells, Nell thought. Besides, Clary had made it pretty clear that she had no interest in Nell or her messy children.… Nell did not call. That Christmas Nell sent Clary a card and pictures of the children and received a card and a cool message in return. But the summer after that, one long evening when Nell was wandering around picking up the toys that the children she babysat had strewn across every possible surface of the house, she began to think of Clary, of the good times they had had together. On impulse, she called Clary and they talked for an hour, spilling out the news of the past year, getting to know each other again. They began to write, to call. Finally, their friendship faced what Nell would always in the back of her mind call the rat test.
The summer that Hannah was four and Jeremy was six, Nell had done a thoroughly modern thing: She had left her children with her ex-husband, their father, and driven down to spend a weekend with her ex-stepdaughter.
By this time, Clary had given up on gypsy moths, or rather the government grant ran out and she had gone to work at a lab at Rutgers. She lived in a small apartment in Piscataway, New Jersey, with a roommate named Sally, who was a waitress at a local bar because she couldn’t get a job teaching school. Sally and Clary were both pretty, single, and clever; they had worked their life together into a sort of chic comedy routine. They slopped around in baggy painter’s pants and tiny striped cotton shirts, drank countless beers, bopped around their apartment singing Devo songs. Nell sat in their living room drinking beer and just watching, thinking. Here was Clary, who had been thirteen when they first met; here was Clary, who had started having periods the first summer she stayed with Marlow and Nell; here was Clary now, a grown woman, a sexual sophisticate, a competent lab technician. Clary and Sally taught Nell to play a game called asshole dice. They drank more beer. Around midnight they decided to smoke some grass, but Nell declined and said she wanted to go to bed. It was not that she cared whether they smoked or not, it was just that whenever she had tried grass she had anxiety attacks. She didn’t need grass anyway, tonight; she was already in a strange enough land. Here she was visiting her ex-stepdaughter, who had been thirteen and was now twenty-two, and she, Nell, didn’t feel any older at all. Here she was visiting her ex-stepdaughter, who had spent part of the evening telling Nell about her latest lover’s strong and weakpoints in graphic detail. Here she was visiting her ex-stepdaughter, who told her that she would sleep on the living room sofa so that Nell could have her bedroom.
“The rats won’t bother you,” Clary said. “They make a little noise at night, but you’ll get used to it.”
Clary worked with lab rats at Rutgers and had taken two home as pets. Carlos was a white rat with pink eyes, Sophia gray and white with black eyes. They were not large rats, but they were live rats, complete with long buck teeth and very long, skinny, rubbery tails. They lived in a cage at the foot of Clary’s bed. They had an exercise wheel and other toys.
Rats were intelligent, Clary said, more intelligent, more affectionate, than gerbils or hamsters. They made great pets. Nell told Clary she
The next year, when Marlow and Nell were separated and then divorced, Nell didn’t know whether to contact Clary or not. Clary was Marlow’s daughter, after all, not hers. People tended to choose sides during a divorce, and it was only right that Clarywould choose her own father. Blood tells, Nell thought. Besides, Clary had made it pretty clear that she had no interest in Nell or her messy children.… Nell did not call. That Christmas Nell sent Clary a card and pictures of the children and received a card and a cool message in return. But the summer after that, one long evening when Nell was wandering around picking up the toys that the children she babysat had strewn across every possible surface of the house, she began to think of Clary, of the good times they had had together. On impulse, she called Clary and they talked for an hour, spilling out the news of the past year, getting to know each other again. They began to write, to call. Finally, their friendship faced what Nell would always in the back of her mind call the rat test.
The summer that Hannah was four and Jeremy was six, Nell had done a thoroughly modern thing: She had left her children with her ex-husband, their father, and driven down to spend a weekend with her ex-stepdaughter.
By this time, Clary had given up on gypsy moths, or rather the government grant ran out and she had gone to work at a lab at Rutgers. She lived in a small apartment in Piscataway, New Jersey, with a roommate named Sally, who was a waitress at a local bar because she couldn’t get a job teaching school. Sally and Clary were both pretty, single, and clever; they had worked their life together into a sort of chic comedy routine. They slopped around in baggy painter’s pants and tiny striped cotton shirts, drank countless beers, bopped around their apartment singing Devo songs. Nell sat in their living room drinking beer and just watching, thinking. Here was Clary, who had been thirteen when they first met; here was Clary, who had started having periods the first summer she stayed with Marlow and Nell; here was Clary now, a grown woman, a sexual sophisticate, a competent lab technician. Clary and Sally taught Nell to play a game called asshole dice. They drank more beer. Around midnight they decided to smoke some grass, but Nell declined and said she wanted to go to bed. It was not that she cared whether they smoked or not, it was just that whenever she had tried grass she had anxiety attacks. She didn’t need grass anyway, tonight; she was already in a strange enough land. Here she was visiting her ex-stepdaughter, who had been thirteen and was now twenty-two, and she, Nell, didn’t feel any older at all. Here she was visiting her ex-stepdaughter, who had spent part of the evening telling Nell about her latest lover’s strong and weakpoints in graphic detail. Here she was visiting her ex-stepdaughter, who told her that she would sleep on the living room sofa so that Nell could have her bedroom.
“The rats won’t bother you,” Clary said. “They make a little noise at night, but you’ll get used to it.”
Clary worked with lab rats at Rutgers and had taken two home as pets. Carlos was a white rat with pink eyes, Sophia gray and white with black eyes. They were not large rats, but they were live rats, complete with long buck teeth and very long, skinny, rubbery tails. They lived in a cage at the foot of Clary’s bed. They had an exercise wheel and other toys.
Rats were intelligent, Clary said, more intelligent, more affectionate, than gerbils or hamsters. They made great pets. Nell told Clary she
Similar Books
