house, even in the most curious places such as flowerpots and under sofa cushions.
The boys—she thinks of them as boys—have stacked the dishwasher more skillfully than she in her worn-out state could ever manage, and prepared the hot soapy water and cool rinse water in the sinks for the glasses.
“We could just save them for the next load in the dishwasher,” Joyce has said, but Tommy has said no.
“You wouldn’t think of putting them in the dishwater if you weren’t out of your right mind with all you had to do today.”
Jay washes and Joyce dries and Tommy puts away. He still remembers where everything goes in this house. Out on the porch Matt is having a strenuous conversation with a man from the department. Apparently he’s not so drunk as the plentiful hugs and prolonged farewells of a short time ago would indicate.
“Quite possibly I am not in my right mind,” says Joyce. “At the moment my gut feeling is to pitch these all out and buy plastic.”
“Postparty syndrome,” says Tommy. “We know all about it.”
“So who was that girl in the black dress?” says Joyce. “The one who walked out on the game?”
“Christie? You must mean Christie. Christie O’Dell. She’s Justin’s wife, but she has her own name. You know Justin.”
“Of course I know Justin. I just didn’t know he was married.”
“Ah, how they all grow up,” says Tommy, teasing.
“Justin’s thirty,” he adds. “She’s possibly older.”
Jay says, “Definitely older.”
“She’s an interesting-looking girl,” says Joyce. “What’s she like?”
“She’s a writer. She’s okay.”
Jay, bending over the sink, makes a noise that Joyce cannot interpret.
“Inclined to be rather aloof,” Tommy says. He speaks to Jay. “Am I right? Would you say that?”
“She thinks she’s hot shit,” Jay says distinctly.
“Well, she’s just got her first book published,” Tommy says. “I forget what it’s called. Some title like a how-to book, I don’t think it’s a good title. You get your first book out, I guess you are hot shit for a while.”
Passing a bookstore on Lonsdale a few days later, Joyce sees the girl’s face on a poster. And there is her name, Christie O’Dell. She is wearing a black hat and the same little black jacket she wore to the party. Tailored, severe, very low in the neck. Though she has practically nothing there to show off. She stares straight into the camera, with her somber, wounded, distantly accusing look.
Where has Joyce seen her before? At the party, of course. But even then, in the midst of her probably unwarranted dislike, she felt she had seen that face before.
A student? She’d had so many students in her time.
She goes into the store and buys a copy of the book. How Are We to Live . No question mark. The woman who sold it to her says, “And you know if you bring it back Friday afternoon between two and four, the author will be here to sign it for you.
“Just don’t tear the little gold sticker off so it shows you bought it here.”
Joyce has never understood this business of lining up to get a glimpse of the author and then going away with a stranger’s name written in your book. So she murmurs politely, indicating neither yes nor no.
She doesn’t even know if she will read the book. She has acouple of good biographies on the go at the moment that she is sure are more to her taste than this will be.
How Are We to Live is a collection of short stories, not a novel. This in itself is a disappointment. It seems to diminish the book’s authority, making the author seem like somebody who is just hanging on to the gates of Literature, rather than safely settled inside.
Nevertheless Joyce takes the book to bed with her that night and turns dutifully to the table of contents. About halfway down the list a title catches her eye.
“Kindertotenlieder.”
Mahler. Familiar territory. Reassured, she turns to the page indicated. Somebody, probably the author herself, has
The boys—she thinks of them as boys—have stacked the dishwasher more skillfully than she in her worn-out state could ever manage, and prepared the hot soapy water and cool rinse water in the sinks for the glasses.
“We could just save them for the next load in the dishwasher,” Joyce has said, but Tommy has said no.
“You wouldn’t think of putting them in the dishwater if you weren’t out of your right mind with all you had to do today.”
Jay washes and Joyce dries and Tommy puts away. He still remembers where everything goes in this house. Out on the porch Matt is having a strenuous conversation with a man from the department. Apparently he’s not so drunk as the plentiful hugs and prolonged farewells of a short time ago would indicate.
“Quite possibly I am not in my right mind,” says Joyce. “At the moment my gut feeling is to pitch these all out and buy plastic.”
“Postparty syndrome,” says Tommy. “We know all about it.”
“So who was that girl in the black dress?” says Joyce. “The one who walked out on the game?”
“Christie? You must mean Christie. Christie O’Dell. She’s Justin’s wife, but she has her own name. You know Justin.”
“Of course I know Justin. I just didn’t know he was married.”
“Ah, how they all grow up,” says Tommy, teasing.
“Justin’s thirty,” he adds. “She’s possibly older.”
Jay says, “Definitely older.”
“She’s an interesting-looking girl,” says Joyce. “What’s she like?”
“She’s a writer. She’s okay.”
Jay, bending over the sink, makes a noise that Joyce cannot interpret.
“Inclined to be rather aloof,” Tommy says. He speaks to Jay. “Am I right? Would you say that?”
“She thinks she’s hot shit,” Jay says distinctly.
“Well, she’s just got her first book published,” Tommy says. “I forget what it’s called. Some title like a how-to book, I don’t think it’s a good title. You get your first book out, I guess you are hot shit for a while.”
Passing a bookstore on Lonsdale a few days later, Joyce sees the girl’s face on a poster. And there is her name, Christie O’Dell. She is wearing a black hat and the same little black jacket she wore to the party. Tailored, severe, very low in the neck. Though she has practically nothing there to show off. She stares straight into the camera, with her somber, wounded, distantly accusing look.
Where has Joyce seen her before? At the party, of course. But even then, in the midst of her probably unwarranted dislike, she felt she had seen that face before.
A student? She’d had so many students in her time.
She goes into the store and buys a copy of the book. How Are We to Live . No question mark. The woman who sold it to her says, “And you know if you bring it back Friday afternoon between two and four, the author will be here to sign it for you.
“Just don’t tear the little gold sticker off so it shows you bought it here.”
Joyce has never understood this business of lining up to get a glimpse of the author and then going away with a stranger’s name written in your book. So she murmurs politely, indicating neither yes nor no.
She doesn’t even know if she will read the book. She has acouple of good biographies on the go at the moment that she is sure are more to her taste than this will be.
How Are We to Live is a collection of short stories, not a novel. This in itself is a disappointment. It seems to diminish the book’s authority, making the author seem like somebody who is just hanging on to the gates of Literature, rather than safely settled inside.
Nevertheless Joyce takes the book to bed with her that night and turns dutifully to the table of contents. About halfway down the list a title catches her eye.
“Kindertotenlieder.”
Mahler. Familiar territory. Reassured, she turns to the page indicated. Somebody, probably the author herself, has
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