Read Online The Monsters of Templeton by Lauren Groff - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lauren Groff
Tags: Fiction, Historical, Fantasy, Sagas, Family Life, Large Type Books, Marine Life, Animals, Nature, Single Women, Ghost, Sea monsters, Large tyep books, Women genealogists
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Clarissa sighed. "I really feel," she said, "like a colonial woman. Isn't that strange?"
I looked at her expensive duck boots, three-hundred-dollar jeans, and grinned.
But then I said what I had been thinking about, which was just as strange. I said that when we as a society ran out of oil, the hobbyhorse of my econ professor that fall, when all social structure broke down and we could no longer supply ourselves with goods in the way we had developed, I felt comforted that all we had to do was go to the Farmers' Museum to learn all those forgotten, essential arts. "It's a self-contained world," I said to Clarissa, so excited I couldn't see the face she was making. "There's a whole body of forgotten knowledge here. They make everything: shoes, barrels, wheels, brooms, linens. We can learn animal husbandry and herbal medicine, you name it. Like a little backup generator of culture we've got here. When all of civilization ends, we can just come to Templeton."
It was only after I delivered my little speech that I looked at Clarissa and saw the fury on her face. "Why do you always have to ruin things like that," she said, and she leapt into the snowdrift beside the porch and went wading off, the little red pompoms on her hat waggling furiously at me.
When it was time for us to head back to school, my mother took Clarissa's little face in her hands and peered down into it.
"There is a room here for you whenever you need one," she said.
"Vi," I said, horrified. "Clarissa's got her own family."
Vi didn't look at me but rather kissed Clarissa on the forehead.
And she said something so softly I could not quite hear it, that sounded like "Well, an orphan knows an orphan."
Later, in the car, as we passed into Massachusetts, I stared out at the glittering icy road. "Clarissa," I said. "Want to tell me what that all was about? What Vi said?"
And she said nothing at first, for at least fifteen miles. And then she lit a cigarette, even though it was forbidden in my car, blew the smoke out a crack in the window, and said, "She was right." Staring out her passenger window, she told me that she'd been the only child of aging professors, the child of their old age, the center of their attention. And then, when she was almost sixteen, they went on a family trip to Norway, and her father pulled the rented Volvo to the side of Goblin's Pass to get a picture. As her parents stood on the brink admiring the view, she climbed behind a tree to take a tinkle.
When she emerged, they were gone. The camera was placed at the edge of the fjord. The last picture was their two faces, smiling before the crevasse, taken by her father from an arm's length.
"Mom? Dad?" Clarissa called out uncertainly, and nobody ever answered her. She began to scream, louder and louder, and the echo that returned and returned was distant and mocking.
When the rocks below were searched, nothing was found. When she went back to the house in Connecticut, nothing was missing. She had their life insurance policies, she sold the house and most of the furniture, she had plenty of money. But her parents were the only children of only children, and so she had nowhere to go on holidays, she said.
Then she turned to me as we pulled into the parking lot behind the dorms. "You fucking tell anyone, and I kill you, okay?" she said. "Dead. An extremely painful and tragic death, understand? Garroting. Possible flaying involved, if I'm pissed enough." Parked there, we watched a boy trying to stuff an enormous duffel through the door of the dorm, his breath in the cold rising like a furze around his head.
"All right," I said at last. "Why?"
"I'm nobody's pity case," she said, and gave me a little pinch on the arm. "Ever. Not even yours. Head case, maybe," she said, and smiled weakly at her joke.
Clarissa had graduated, ended up as a journalist, though her career choice at first surprised me. But there was something about her smallness, her huge personality, her bright clothing and
I looked at her expensive duck boots, three-hundred-dollar jeans, and grinned.
But then I said what I had been thinking about, which was just as strange. I said that when we as a society ran out of oil, the hobbyhorse of my econ professor that fall, when all social structure broke down and we could no longer supply ourselves with goods in the way we had developed, I felt comforted that all we had to do was go to the Farmers' Museum to learn all those forgotten, essential arts. "It's a self-contained world," I said to Clarissa, so excited I couldn't see the face she was making. "There's a whole body of forgotten knowledge here. They make everything: shoes, barrels, wheels, brooms, linens. We can learn animal husbandry and herbal medicine, you name it. Like a little backup generator of culture we've got here. When all of civilization ends, we can just come to Templeton."
It was only after I delivered my little speech that I looked at Clarissa and saw the fury on her face. "Why do you always have to ruin things like that," she said, and she leapt into the snowdrift beside the porch and went wading off, the little red pompoms on her hat waggling furiously at me.
When it was time for us to head back to school, my mother took Clarissa's little face in her hands and peered down into it.
"There is a room here for you whenever you need one," she said.
"Vi," I said, horrified. "Clarissa's got her own family."
Vi didn't look at me but rather kissed Clarissa on the forehead.
And she said something so softly I could not quite hear it, that sounded like "Well, an orphan knows an orphan."
Later, in the car, as we passed into Massachusetts, I stared out at the glittering icy road. "Clarissa," I said. "Want to tell me what that all was about? What Vi said?"
And she said nothing at first, for at least fifteen miles. And then she lit a cigarette, even though it was forbidden in my car, blew the smoke out a crack in the window, and said, "She was right." Staring out her passenger window, she told me that she'd been the only child of aging professors, the child of their old age, the center of their attention. And then, when she was almost sixteen, they went on a family trip to Norway, and her father pulled the rented Volvo to the side of Goblin's Pass to get a picture. As her parents stood on the brink admiring the view, she climbed behind a tree to take a tinkle.
When she emerged, they were gone. The camera was placed at the edge of the fjord. The last picture was their two faces, smiling before the crevasse, taken by her father from an arm's length.
"Mom? Dad?" Clarissa called out uncertainly, and nobody ever answered her. She began to scream, louder and louder, and the echo that returned and returned was distant and mocking.
When the rocks below were searched, nothing was found. When she went back to the house in Connecticut, nothing was missing. She had their life insurance policies, she sold the house and most of the furniture, she had plenty of money. But her parents were the only children of only children, and so she had nowhere to go on holidays, she said.
Then she turned to me as we pulled into the parking lot behind the dorms. "You fucking tell anyone, and I kill you, okay?" she said. "Dead. An extremely painful and tragic death, understand? Garroting. Possible flaying involved, if I'm pissed enough." Parked there, we watched a boy trying to stuff an enormous duffel through the door of the dorm, his breath in the cold rising like a furze around his head.
"All right," I said at last. "Why?"
"I'm nobody's pity case," she said, and gave me a little pinch on the arm. "Ever. Not even yours. Head case, maybe," she said, and smiled weakly at her joke.
Clarissa had graduated, ended up as a journalist, though her career choice at first surprised me. But there was something about her smallness, her huge personality, her bright clothing and
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