began, she sang along with a passionate abandon that made the rest of them laugh. She altered her tone to emulate the lead singer, a woman with a voice as hard as flint, sparking with rage.
Kit had heard the song before, probably on the car radio, but he hadn’t liked the aggression of the singer’s voice. It was the voice of a woman trying to be a man. But as he listened to his mother sing the song, he heard more than bitterness and anger, or even the vehement longing to be loved; he heard a strange, almost vengeful threat in the words.
Don’t you want somebody to love?
…
You better find somebody to love
.
So what if you didn’t? What then?
His mother raised the needle from the record when the song was over. She was out of breath from trying to match the emotion. “Grace Slick,” she said.
Jasper’s smile was sly. “I remember
that
summer, Lordy do I ever. I did not behave my age. Vivian almost left me.”
Kit’s mother returned his smile, but then she looked away. “I remember it, too.” She pushed the box toward him and said, “You choose something. Something I wouldn’t expect from you.”
“Jefferson
Airplane
,” sighed Jasper, shaking his head, looking pleased.
“Something else,” said Kit’s mother. “Play me something else. From another summer. No more summer of
love
, please.”
At three in the morning, he takes off his shoes and walks upstairs in his bare feet. Sandra’s sleep, unlike her conviction, is fragile.
Without brushing his teeth or undressing, Kit slips into Will’s room. Will, like his father, could sleep through a tornado. On the lower bunk, Kit shoves aside the stuffed animals gathered there in a sort of purgatory: too babyish to rank as sleeping companions yet spared, so far, from a box in the attic. A snowy owl, a parasaurolophus, Maurice Sendak’s Max, SpongeBob, and half a dozen of the amoebalike creatures known as Uglydolls. How much more specific and peculiar are the stuffed animals modern children collect than the ones Kit owned (generic bear, generic horse, generic mouse). “Over, Uglies,” whispers Kit as he pulls a fleece blanket out from under the menagerie, spilling several plush totemic beings onto the floor.
He lies down and pulls the blanket over his shoulder; still he shivers. To save money on heat (telling the children they are livinggreener lives), Kit sets the thermostat to sixty-five by day, fifty-five by night. In two and a half hours, the furnace will grumble back to life, begrudging them those ten degrees. Fanny complains that she can’t dress “like a girl” in a house this cold.
It is entirely Kit’s fault that he lost his job—or, really, failed to keep it. His students showered him with praise on their teacher evaluation forms (making him vulnerably smug), but he did not meet the deadline for his manuscript, the fattened-calf version of his Ph.D. thesis on the use of antlers in Inuit sculpture. He had collected permissions for all the illustrations—the art in the book would have been glorious—but he felt as if he’d said all he really wanted to say on this subject. What he wishes, in retrospect, is that he had taken what his colleagues (some condescendingly) would have called a “folkloric” approach, collecting stories along with the images. Bringing a culture’s oral and visual customs together is all the academic rage. By nature, Kit scorns anything remotely fashionable—but to what end? Purity? Integrity? Look at him.
Kit met Sandra on what he now thinks of as his youthful “driveabout.” He had stopped in Churchill to see the Eskimo Museum. The otherwise forlorn-looking town was crowded with tourists, yet the museum was virtually empty. For most of their time in the galleries, Kit and Sandra were the only visitors. Finally, they looked at each other and laughed. “Where is everybody?” said Kit.
“Bird-watching,” said Sandra. “Or beluga watching.”
“But not you.”
“And obviously not you.”
“I
Kit had heard the song before, probably on the car radio, but he hadn’t liked the aggression of the singer’s voice. It was the voice of a woman trying to be a man. But as he listened to his mother sing the song, he heard more than bitterness and anger, or even the vehement longing to be loved; he heard a strange, almost vengeful threat in the words.
Don’t you want somebody to love?
…
You better find somebody to love
.
So what if you didn’t? What then?
His mother raised the needle from the record when the song was over. She was out of breath from trying to match the emotion. “Grace Slick,” she said.
Jasper’s smile was sly. “I remember
that
summer, Lordy do I ever. I did not behave my age. Vivian almost left me.”
Kit’s mother returned his smile, but then she looked away. “I remember it, too.” She pushed the box toward him and said, “You choose something. Something I wouldn’t expect from you.”
“Jefferson
Airplane
,” sighed Jasper, shaking his head, looking pleased.
“Something else,” said Kit’s mother. “Play me something else. From another summer. No more summer of
love
, please.”
At three in the morning, he takes off his shoes and walks upstairs in his bare feet. Sandra’s sleep, unlike her conviction, is fragile.
Without brushing his teeth or undressing, Kit slips into Will’s room. Will, like his father, could sleep through a tornado. On the lower bunk, Kit shoves aside the stuffed animals gathered there in a sort of purgatory: too babyish to rank as sleeping companions yet spared, so far, from a box in the attic. A snowy owl, a parasaurolophus, Maurice Sendak’s Max, SpongeBob, and half a dozen of the amoebalike creatures known as Uglydolls. How much more specific and peculiar are the stuffed animals modern children collect than the ones Kit owned (generic bear, generic horse, generic mouse). “Over, Uglies,” whispers Kit as he pulls a fleece blanket out from under the menagerie, spilling several plush totemic beings onto the floor.
He lies down and pulls the blanket over his shoulder; still he shivers. To save money on heat (telling the children they are livinggreener lives), Kit sets the thermostat to sixty-five by day, fifty-five by night. In two and a half hours, the furnace will grumble back to life, begrudging them those ten degrees. Fanny complains that she can’t dress “like a girl” in a house this cold.
It is entirely Kit’s fault that he lost his job—or, really, failed to keep it. His students showered him with praise on their teacher evaluation forms (making him vulnerably smug), but he did not meet the deadline for his manuscript, the fattened-calf version of his Ph.D. thesis on the use of antlers in Inuit sculpture. He had collected permissions for all the illustrations—the art in the book would have been glorious—but he felt as if he’d said all he really wanted to say on this subject. What he wishes, in retrospect, is that he had taken what his colleagues (some condescendingly) would have called a “folkloric” approach, collecting stories along with the images. Bringing a culture’s oral and visual customs together is all the academic rage. By nature, Kit scorns anything remotely fashionable—but to what end? Purity? Integrity? Look at him.
Kit met Sandra on what he now thinks of as his youthful “driveabout.” He had stopped in Churchill to see the Eskimo Museum. The otherwise forlorn-looking town was crowded with tourists, yet the museum was virtually empty. For most of their time in the galleries, Kit and Sandra were the only visitors. Finally, they looked at each other and laughed. “Where is everybody?” said Kit.
“Bird-watching,” said Sandra. “Or beluga watching.”
“But not you.”
“And obviously not you.”
“I
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