Read Online The Hundred-Year House by Rebecca Makkai - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rebecca Makkai
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have it. You can publish it, sell it, it’s yours.”
“Huh. Christ.”
“I just want the Parfitt stuff.”
What he asked Leland to do was call Gracie pretending to be with the Adler Ross Foundation. Adler Ross was the architect of the place, just famous enough for someone to care about his attics. Leland was going to be sad and sweet and claim this was the last attic he needed to photograph to complete the records. He’d take pictures of the windows, throw around some jargon, get out of there. “It’s reconnaissance,” Doug said. “You just see if there are file cabinets. And if everything’s going well, maybe ask if you can move one to get a better picture, then you say, ‘God, these are heavy, what’s in these things,’ right? And meanwhile you’re watching what key she uses on the attic door, where she puts it when she’s done.”
“This is insane, Doug. I’m not a good liar.”
“Marianne Moore. Marianne Moore’s undiscovered poem about her secret affair with Mickey Mantle.”
“Well, yeah. Okay. True.”
21
Z ee had waited patiently through the whole summer session, through one sweltering reception on the president’s lawn, and the first two weeks of class. She finally let herself go to the science building computer lab to type up the letter. She sat with her back to the windows and typed in eight-point font, then blew it up only for proofreading.
Dear Dean Shaumber and Prof. Blum,
I write on behalf of myself and two other female students who feel disturbed by the photos on Dr. Cole’s computer. We are sure you are familiar with the photos, as they are common knowledge. Although he closes that file when we enter the office, it is unnerving to know he has been looking at the photos, and that he is in a state of mind to degrade women.
We simply wish him to consider the effect this behavior has on those women who visit his office. We are also upset about his continual use of the word “coed,” but this is old news and we understand nothing is going to be done about it, and furthermore we and the other students we have spoken to are far more disturbed about the pornography.
Respectfully submitted by three women who wish to remain anonymous.
Zee went back and forth on the spelling of effect , but figured the three imaginary girls would be imaginary English majors, and would get it right. She left two copies in the printer trays where they could be found by students, then stuck one copy in Shaumber’s mailbox and one in Blum’s.
This last she did right in front of Chantal, but there were plenty of other papers in there already. She turned calmly and asked Chantal to make some copies. Her mother had always maintained, back in the days when Zee and her father had played hide-and-seek around the house, her father as gleeful as any eight-year-old, that plain sight was the best place to hide. They’d talk Gracie into hiding, and when they found her she’d been sitting in the kitchen right where they’d left her, smoking a Virginia Slim. “But it took you five minutes!” she’d say when they complained. That was in the days before her mother put on airs, back when the estate was just a ramshackle shell for a regular, sloppy family, entire guest rooms given over to Zee’s Lego configurations. Friends from the art world—George’s reviews eventually went beyond the local scene, and the house became a pit stop for artists passing through Chicago—would play Mastermind with Zee at the table while Gracie cooked eggs. The only formality was her father’s predilection for folding the dinner napkins into sailboats on special occasions. Things hardened after his death. It was later that year—Zee was still twelve—when her mother saw her take a spoonful of chocolate frosting from the container and said, “That’s how girls get fat.” Her mother had gotten a manicure, had wallpapered the bathrooms, had joined the Presbyterian church, all new things Zee didn’t understand except to know
“Huh. Christ.”
“I just want the Parfitt stuff.”
What he asked Leland to do was call Gracie pretending to be with the Adler Ross Foundation. Adler Ross was the architect of the place, just famous enough for someone to care about his attics. Leland was going to be sad and sweet and claim this was the last attic he needed to photograph to complete the records. He’d take pictures of the windows, throw around some jargon, get out of there. “It’s reconnaissance,” Doug said. “You just see if there are file cabinets. And if everything’s going well, maybe ask if you can move one to get a better picture, then you say, ‘God, these are heavy, what’s in these things,’ right? And meanwhile you’re watching what key she uses on the attic door, where she puts it when she’s done.”
“This is insane, Doug. I’m not a good liar.”
“Marianne Moore. Marianne Moore’s undiscovered poem about her secret affair with Mickey Mantle.”
“Well, yeah. Okay. True.”
21
Z ee had waited patiently through the whole summer session, through one sweltering reception on the president’s lawn, and the first two weeks of class. She finally let herself go to the science building computer lab to type up the letter. She sat with her back to the windows and typed in eight-point font, then blew it up only for proofreading.
Dear Dean Shaumber and Prof. Blum,
I write on behalf of myself and two other female students who feel disturbed by the photos on Dr. Cole’s computer. We are sure you are familiar with the photos, as they are common knowledge. Although he closes that file when we enter the office, it is unnerving to know he has been looking at the photos, and that he is in a state of mind to degrade women.
We simply wish him to consider the effect this behavior has on those women who visit his office. We are also upset about his continual use of the word “coed,” but this is old news and we understand nothing is going to be done about it, and furthermore we and the other students we have spoken to are far more disturbed about the pornography.
Respectfully submitted by three women who wish to remain anonymous.
Zee went back and forth on the spelling of effect , but figured the three imaginary girls would be imaginary English majors, and would get it right. She left two copies in the printer trays where they could be found by students, then stuck one copy in Shaumber’s mailbox and one in Blum’s.
This last she did right in front of Chantal, but there were plenty of other papers in there already. She turned calmly and asked Chantal to make some copies. Her mother had always maintained, back in the days when Zee and her father had played hide-and-seek around the house, her father as gleeful as any eight-year-old, that plain sight was the best place to hide. They’d talk Gracie into hiding, and when they found her she’d been sitting in the kitchen right where they’d left her, smoking a Virginia Slim. “But it took you five minutes!” she’d say when they complained. That was in the days before her mother put on airs, back when the estate was just a ramshackle shell for a regular, sloppy family, entire guest rooms given over to Zee’s Lego configurations. Friends from the art world—George’s reviews eventually went beyond the local scene, and the house became a pit stop for artists passing through Chicago—would play Mastermind with Zee at the table while Gracie cooked eggs. The only formality was her father’s predilection for folding the dinner napkins into sailboats on special occasions. Things hardened after his death. It was later that year—Zee was still twelve—when her mother saw her take a spoonful of chocolate frosting from the container and said, “That’s how girls get fat.” Her mother had gotten a manicure, had wallpapered the bathrooms, had joined the Presbyterian church, all new things Zee didn’t understand except to know
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