a sentence in Flannery’s direction about being one of the last left to hold out that made Flannery briefly proud, like a pioneer.
There were a few other abandoned souls wandering the barren, purgatorylike landscape, but they tended to avoid each other instinctively, as if they might contaminate one another with their outcast status. Some were legitimate folk, professors or grad students, but she recognized undergraduates, too. Flannery found herself suspicious, wondering, What are you doing here? Don’t people like you? Don’t you have anywhere to go?—which made her realize they must wonder the same about her.
It was the emptiness, after so much fullness, that Flannery cherished. She had been so overstuffed these months. Impressions and changes and newnesses were leaking out of her all over—there just wasn’t room in her for all of them. Even from the glowing heart of everything—from the untouchably hot place of her thoughts about Anne—Flannery felt the relief of a vacation. She had done the best she could do: she had written words for Anne. That was all she had. Now she could settle back into herself, and her private dreams, and sleep.
When the phone rang one day, Flannery was startled. She was unsure who it might be, and also whether, wrapped as she now was in solitude, she’d still know how to speak.
“Hello?” Her voice was rusty.
“Flannery?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Anne. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Oh.”
She gripped the phone tightly, close to her ear. “Hi. What’s up?” As if nothing had happened. As if she’d written not a line. As if she were an innocent spinster, padding around her quiet rooms alone, doing the occasional bit of flowered embroidery.
“I think you’d better come to New York.”
F lannery did not know New York except as a movie and a myth. And as a mysterious, emphatic address on nighttime TV ads, when you were asked to send your checks and orders to New York, New York, the repetition reminding you that you were nowhere, obviously, and everyone who was anyone was in New York. New York. As if you were too stupid to have gotten it the first time.
On her way to college a few months earlier—in the old days, when she was still a dumb youngster—Flannery had encountered the city only in the chaos of its airport, in a red-eye glare of post-flight bleariness, when she was moving through a bewildering stagger of accents and languages. She was looking for a bus service enigmatically called a “limo,” which connoted images of sleek, dark-windowed cars, when all it turned out to refer to was a big blue van and an irascible driver, who threw her bags into the back before speeding her and a half-dozen sleepy others to a state she’d heard of, vaguely, but had never quite been able to spell.
The train she rode now was an overlit jostle of tabloid readers and hunched watchers through the grimy windows, and the occasional late, pinstriped commuter with a neatly folded New York Times. Flannery had books with her, of course, but her nerves were too raw for her to open them, and she couldn’t stop looking everywhere around her, staring at the faces, searching the colorless blighted stops en route for anything like the glory and glamour she’d imagined.
She never did see it. Flannery didn’t even recognize the city as the train approached it. It was not as though the Statue of Liberty waved you in with her welcoming torch (like those bright-batoned men at the airport)—or that Flannery would recognize the Empire State Building, for example, if it was right in front of her. Perhaps it was; she certainly saw a cluster of high buildings in the distance, but they swiftly disappeared as the train dipped into a rancid tunnel, when the standing and coat-donning of those around her tipped her off that they were nearly there.
The train stopped with a shudder. People gathered their bags and proceeded to hurry one another onto the platform.
Flannery, imitating everyone
There were a few other abandoned souls wandering the barren, purgatorylike landscape, but they tended to avoid each other instinctively, as if they might contaminate one another with their outcast status. Some were legitimate folk, professors or grad students, but she recognized undergraduates, too. Flannery found herself suspicious, wondering, What are you doing here? Don’t people like you? Don’t you have anywhere to go?—which made her realize they must wonder the same about her.
It was the emptiness, after so much fullness, that Flannery cherished. She had been so overstuffed these months. Impressions and changes and newnesses were leaking out of her all over—there just wasn’t room in her for all of them. Even from the glowing heart of everything—from the untouchably hot place of her thoughts about Anne—Flannery felt the relief of a vacation. She had done the best she could do: she had written words for Anne. That was all she had. Now she could settle back into herself, and her private dreams, and sleep.
When the phone rang one day, Flannery was startled. She was unsure who it might be, and also whether, wrapped as she now was in solitude, she’d still know how to speak.
“Hello?” Her voice was rusty.
“Flannery?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Anne. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Oh.”
She gripped the phone tightly, close to her ear. “Hi. What’s up?” As if nothing had happened. As if she’d written not a line. As if she were an innocent spinster, padding around her quiet rooms alone, doing the occasional bit of flowered embroidery.
“I think you’d better come to New York.”
F lannery did not know New York except as a movie and a myth. And as a mysterious, emphatic address on nighttime TV ads, when you were asked to send your checks and orders to New York, New York, the repetition reminding you that you were nowhere, obviously, and everyone who was anyone was in New York. New York. As if you were too stupid to have gotten it the first time.
On her way to college a few months earlier—in the old days, when she was still a dumb youngster—Flannery had encountered the city only in the chaos of its airport, in a red-eye glare of post-flight bleariness, when she was moving through a bewildering stagger of accents and languages. She was looking for a bus service enigmatically called a “limo,” which connoted images of sleek, dark-windowed cars, when all it turned out to refer to was a big blue van and an irascible driver, who threw her bags into the back before speeding her and a half-dozen sleepy others to a state she’d heard of, vaguely, but had never quite been able to spell.
The train she rode now was an overlit jostle of tabloid readers and hunched watchers through the grimy windows, and the occasional late, pinstriped commuter with a neatly folded New York Times. Flannery had books with her, of course, but her nerves were too raw for her to open them, and she couldn’t stop looking everywhere around her, staring at the faces, searching the colorless blighted stops en route for anything like the glory and glamour she’d imagined.
She never did see it. Flannery didn’t even recognize the city as the train approached it. It was not as though the Statue of Liberty waved you in with her welcoming torch (like those bright-batoned men at the airport)—or that Flannery would recognize the Empire State Building, for example, if it was right in front of her. Perhaps it was; she certainly saw a cluster of high buildings in the distance, but they swiftly disappeared as the train dipped into a rancid tunnel, when the standing and coat-donning of those around her tipped her off that they were nearly there.
The train stopped with a shudder. People gathered their bags and proceeded to hurry one another onto the platform.
Flannery, imitating everyone
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