friends, but
the minute Cecily showed up in their neighborhood, the two girls
were inseparable, writing lengthy notes to each other, which
they folded into intricate designs before passing them in class.
Reading the same books (Judy Blume, and then Jane Austen).
Talking for hours on the phone. Cecily had been her best friend
for about three years, until they were both fourteen. Then her
friend contracted meningitis and died with terrifying
suddenness. Laura had been depressed for months afterward, to
the point that Joan insisted she get treatment.
"Did you ever
wish you had never met her? So that you wouldn't have to feel
all that pain when you lost her?"
"No, not at
all."
"You have so many
memories of the times you spent with her, that those experiences
more than make up for the pain?"
"Yes, that's
true."
"And if you had
discovered that Cecily had flaws in her character--even if she
did things that hurt you--do you think you would feel any
differently?"
"No, I wouldn't."
In fact, Cecily did have character flaws. She shoplifted, and
whenever she did it, Laura was gripped with guilt on the one
hand, and on the other, chilling fear that she would be caught
and punished too, since she was often present when Cecily
pocketed a candy bar, or a lipstick. And Cecily had hurt her by
ignoring her and pointedly making conversation with other girls
at school, after she haltingly explained her doubts about the
shoplifting. But none of that mattered next to the sheer joy of
knowing Cecily, and being known by her.
"Thanks, Pappy,"
she said.
8.The Honey-Sweet Scroll
On Monday,
sitting in the Porteous library, she found an edition of Horace
that was not listed in the catalog. The two volumes were the
perfect size for her hand, no more than ten inches tall, and
they were bound in a luscious, blue-green morocco with ornate
gold embellishments. Opening the first volume, she noted
reverently that this was John Pine's Horace of 1733-7. Not only
the sumptuous illustrations, but the text itself had been
laboriously engraved by Pine; among his patrons on the project
were Alexander Pope, George Frideric Handel, and William
Hogarth, and the book contained a dedication to Pope. She
flipped through each volume checking for marginalia, but none
seemed to be present, although there was a curious scattering of
tiny handwritten numbers and letters throughout, like footnote
markers. In spite of the beautiful bindings, the volumes were
scuffed and worn. The first volume had a sliver of the title
page clipped off the top, and the second volume had been bumped
so seriously that the spine was damaged and the last signature
had come loose. It appeared that the last several pages and the
flyleaves were missing, pages that might have contained clues to
the handwritten numbers and letters. She recorded the location
of each of these; now she needed to find out where Mr. Porteous
had obtained this set, and who might have owned it previously.
She closed the volumes and caressed the leather bindings,
holding them close to her face and inhaling deeply.
"I sometimes do
that," said a voice from the other side of the table. Startled,
Laura hugged the books protectively to her chest, and then
looked up. Ellen Porteous was standing opposite her in a rose
colored velour hoodie and matching pants. Today her hair was
gathered in a ponytail, and she wore a pearlescent pink
lipstick, but the rest of her face was scrubbed clean. "Once I
dreamed that I ate a book."
Laura smiled.
"How did it taste?"
"Sweet."
"Then you're like
the prophet Ezekiel. God gave him a scroll to eat, and he said
it was like honey in his mouth."
"That's in the
Bible, isn't it? What's your name?" Her voice was rather low,
and husky sounding. She's the female personification of eros , Laura thought,
and
the minute Cecily showed up in their neighborhood, the two girls
were inseparable, writing lengthy notes to each other, which
they folded into intricate designs before passing them in class.
Reading the same books (Judy Blume, and then Jane Austen).
Talking for hours on the phone. Cecily had been her best friend
for about three years, until they were both fourteen. Then her
friend contracted meningitis and died with terrifying
suddenness. Laura had been depressed for months afterward, to
the point that Joan insisted she get treatment.
"Did you ever
wish you had never met her? So that you wouldn't have to feel
all that pain when you lost her?"
"No, not at
all."
"You have so many
memories of the times you spent with her, that those experiences
more than make up for the pain?"
"Yes, that's
true."
"And if you had
discovered that Cecily had flaws in her character--even if she
did things that hurt you--do you think you would feel any
differently?"
"No, I wouldn't."
In fact, Cecily did have character flaws. She shoplifted, and
whenever she did it, Laura was gripped with guilt on the one
hand, and on the other, chilling fear that she would be caught
and punished too, since she was often present when Cecily
pocketed a candy bar, or a lipstick. And Cecily had hurt her by
ignoring her and pointedly making conversation with other girls
at school, after she haltingly explained her doubts about the
shoplifting. But none of that mattered next to the sheer joy of
knowing Cecily, and being known by her.
"Thanks, Pappy,"
she said.
8.The Honey-Sweet Scroll
On Monday,
sitting in the Porteous library, she found an edition of Horace
that was not listed in the catalog. The two volumes were the
perfect size for her hand, no more than ten inches tall, and
they were bound in a luscious, blue-green morocco with ornate
gold embellishments. Opening the first volume, she noted
reverently that this was John Pine's Horace of 1733-7. Not only
the sumptuous illustrations, but the text itself had been
laboriously engraved by Pine; among his patrons on the project
were Alexander Pope, George Frideric Handel, and William
Hogarth, and the book contained a dedication to Pope. She
flipped through each volume checking for marginalia, but none
seemed to be present, although there was a curious scattering of
tiny handwritten numbers and letters throughout, like footnote
markers. In spite of the beautiful bindings, the volumes were
scuffed and worn. The first volume had a sliver of the title
page clipped off the top, and the second volume had been bumped
so seriously that the spine was damaged and the last signature
had come loose. It appeared that the last several pages and the
flyleaves were missing, pages that might have contained clues to
the handwritten numbers and letters. She recorded the location
of each of these; now she needed to find out where Mr. Porteous
had obtained this set, and who might have owned it previously.
She closed the volumes and caressed the leather bindings,
holding them close to her face and inhaling deeply.
"I sometimes do
that," said a voice from the other side of the table. Startled,
Laura hugged the books protectively to her chest, and then
looked up. Ellen Porteous was standing opposite her in a rose
colored velour hoodie and matching pants. Today her hair was
gathered in a ponytail, and she wore a pearlescent pink
lipstick, but the rest of her face was scrubbed clean. "Once I
dreamed that I ate a book."
Laura smiled.
"How did it taste?"
"Sweet."
"Then you're like
the prophet Ezekiel. God gave him a scroll to eat, and he said
it was like honey in his mouth."
"That's in the
Bible, isn't it? What's your name?" Her voice was rather low,
and husky sounding. She's the female personification of eros , Laura thought,
and
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