said that even living flowers have an underneath, and he would’ve understood.
After Cymbeline sent the letter to Leroy, the one in which she told him that her darkroom was beyond repair, her old Seneca camera ruined, and that she had packed his paints, palettes, easels, his printing press, knives, and brushes, along with the rest of their household belongings (almost impossible without Mary Doyle’s help, paradoxically, since Mary Doyle was the reason for the move), that she was moving everyone and everything to a house outside San Francisco to be closer to his parents, a necessity with her late state of pregnancy, expressing her doubt at being able to take care of things when he was gone, but that he shouldn’tworry, Leroy wrote back to say that he was perturbed . . . that you would so arbitrarily, capriciously give up our little home seems a great misfortune to me . . . you have no consideration—as usual—for where I come in.
The day before the movers were due, Cymbeline was in her darkroom to collect the random glass plates that still sat, pristine and perched on her desk, her worktables, the seat of an old chair with the back burned off, waiting to be placed in an empty barrel.
When she reached for the first plate, her stomach seized in a false contraction, causing the muscle to flex to the hardness of stone and the plate to drop from her hand. It was nothing, just the usual late-pregnancy occurrence, though it still left her breathless as she waited for the moment to pass. Looking at the broken glass that actually didn’t seem out of place in the mess of her darkroom, she suddenly felt the crushing weight of everything coming down on her. Instead of reaching for the broom, she carefully, deliberately edged yet another glass plate off the table. And another, then another, then another, then another, then another. She took her time as she moved from table to counter, gently sliding more plates to shatter on the floor. Another, then another, then another, then another, then another. Like fallen stars, smashed into a billion little pieces.
A LITTLE DOG IN PEARLS OR MACHINE WORKER IN SUMMER
Amadora Penelope Allesbury was born to very comfortable circumstances in an English home that valued tradition (but only to a point), moderate adventure, a good laugh at the world and at oneself, and independence for girls. To that end, Amadora’s parents gave her a family name (Penelope) and a first name (an Italian name having to do with “love”) that people often suspected she chose for herself (she didn’t). Frankly, it sounded as if Amadora should be Isadora, and it would be just like a girl trying to be different to change the Is to an Am. It was also true of Amadora’s upbringing that, while her father favored independence and individuality in girls, he was less forthcoming on the subject of it in women.
Maybe it would be more to the point to say that he wasn’t sure how he felt about female suffrage in general, but when he thought about his two daughters, Amadora and her younger sister, Violette, he wanted them to be happy.
Both girls had a series of governesses who they tormented out of boredom. Eventually, the girls were sent to a very modern all-female school that placed more emphasis on a girl’s physical well-being than on her intellectual development, based on the philosophy that exercise and fresh air were all a scholar required.
Their sojourn at that school ended when the students were divided into Girl Scout–type patrols, learning all manner of outdoor skills (campfire cooking, fishing, animal tracking, shelter fabrication), which quickly devolved into something less arcadian and more sinister. Warring patrols started stealing each other’s water, knives, and compasses before moving on to pulling hair and throwing a punch or two.
When asked later about it, Amadora would say it was actually fairly exciting, though she declined to get involved. She watched, she said, from the vantage point
After Cymbeline sent the letter to Leroy, the one in which she told him that her darkroom was beyond repair, her old Seneca camera ruined, and that she had packed his paints, palettes, easels, his printing press, knives, and brushes, along with the rest of their household belongings (almost impossible without Mary Doyle’s help, paradoxically, since Mary Doyle was the reason for the move), that she was moving everyone and everything to a house outside San Francisco to be closer to his parents, a necessity with her late state of pregnancy, expressing her doubt at being able to take care of things when he was gone, but that he shouldn’tworry, Leroy wrote back to say that he was perturbed . . . that you would so arbitrarily, capriciously give up our little home seems a great misfortune to me . . . you have no consideration—as usual—for where I come in.
The day before the movers were due, Cymbeline was in her darkroom to collect the random glass plates that still sat, pristine and perched on her desk, her worktables, the seat of an old chair with the back burned off, waiting to be placed in an empty barrel.
When she reached for the first plate, her stomach seized in a false contraction, causing the muscle to flex to the hardness of stone and the plate to drop from her hand. It was nothing, just the usual late-pregnancy occurrence, though it still left her breathless as she waited for the moment to pass. Looking at the broken glass that actually didn’t seem out of place in the mess of her darkroom, she suddenly felt the crushing weight of everything coming down on her. Instead of reaching for the broom, she carefully, deliberately edged yet another glass plate off the table. And another, then another, then another, then another, then another. She took her time as she moved from table to counter, gently sliding more plates to shatter on the floor. Another, then another, then another, then another, then another. Like fallen stars, smashed into a billion little pieces.
A LITTLE DOG IN PEARLS OR MACHINE WORKER IN SUMMER
Amadora Penelope Allesbury was born to very comfortable circumstances in an English home that valued tradition (but only to a point), moderate adventure, a good laugh at the world and at oneself, and independence for girls. To that end, Amadora’s parents gave her a family name (Penelope) and a first name (an Italian name having to do with “love”) that people often suspected she chose for herself (she didn’t). Frankly, it sounded as if Amadora should be Isadora, and it would be just like a girl trying to be different to change the Is to an Am. It was also true of Amadora’s upbringing that, while her father favored independence and individuality in girls, he was less forthcoming on the subject of it in women.
Maybe it would be more to the point to say that he wasn’t sure how he felt about female suffrage in general, but when he thought about his two daughters, Amadora and her younger sister, Violette, he wanted them to be happy.
Both girls had a series of governesses who they tormented out of boredom. Eventually, the girls were sent to a very modern all-female school that placed more emphasis on a girl’s physical well-being than on her intellectual development, based on the philosophy that exercise and fresh air were all a scholar required.
Their sojourn at that school ended when the students were divided into Girl Scout–type patrols, learning all manner of outdoor skills (campfire cooking, fishing, animal tracking, shelter fabrication), which quickly devolved into something less arcadian and more sinister. Warring patrols started stealing each other’s water, knives, and compasses before moving on to pulling hair and throwing a punch or two.
When asked later about it, Amadora would say it was actually fairly exciting, though she declined to get involved. She watched, she said, from the vantage point
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