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Back Ladies of the House Save as PDF
Chapters (59)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Praise
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. January
  7. One
  8. Two
  9. Three
  10. Four
  11. Five
  12. February
  13. Six
  14. Seven
  15. Eight
  16. Nine
  17. Ten
  18. Eleven
  19. Twelve
  20. March
  21. Thirteen
  22. Fourteen
  23. Fifteen
  24. Sixteen
  25. April
  26. Seventeen
  27. Eighteen
  28. Nineteen
  29. Twenty
  30. Twenty-One
  31. Twenty-Two
  32. Twenty-Three
  33. Twenty-Four
  34. Twenty-Five
  35. May
  36. Twenty-Six
  37. Twenty-Seven
  38. Twenty-Eight
  39. Twenty-Nine
  40. Thirty
  41. Thirty-One
  42. June
  43. Thirty-Two
  44. Thirty-Three
  45. Thirty-Four
  46. Thirty-Five
  47. Thirty-Six
  48. Thirty-Seven
  49. Thirty-Eight
  50. Thirty-Nine
  51. Forty
  52. July
  53. Forty-One
  54. Epilogue
  55. Acknowledgments
  56. Author’s Note
  57. Ladies of the House - Reader’s Guide
  58. Questions For Discussion
  59. Excerpt

I got ahold of Atlas on the phone that afternoon. He’d had to fly to London last week, only a day after our interview. His father had needed him. I was on Cricket’s couch, a copy of the Post scattered around me. We’d read the article first online, Cricket, Wallis, and I, shortly after dawn. Immersed in Atlas’s words about me, I had the sensation of standing in a waterfall. There was pressure on my shoulders, but it was a welcome force. I felt the power of the world, but also freedom and wholeness. Cricket had remained mostly silent, neither compliments nor scolding, and then had gone off on an “errand.” That was five hours ago.

“How are you holding up?” Atlas asked after I’d heaped praise on his prose.

“I have so many voice mails that I need to listen to. Wallis is in the next room watching my name trend.” Through my sister’s open door, I saw her stretched out on her stomach on her bed, her eyes scanning her computer. She’d turned on music, orchestral, dramatic. “I’m girding myself to open my email.”

“The noise is going to get louder,” Atlas said. “But—hey—did you see that picture of you that was printed? You look regal. One day someone will paint you in oil.”

“Now you’re lying.” L.K. had worked magic on my hair, but I’d been far from regal. My outfit was nothing special, but my legs looked—I won’t say shapely—not unattractive, at least. And the photographer had managed to capture my eyes, clear, thoughtful, contemplating the future. I removed the phone from my ear; another call was trying to get through: unknown number. And look, sixteen new texts. I ignored them all, for now, and savored the few remaining minutes before Atlas had to run and help his father in the bath.

After we hung up, Wallis emerged from her room in an oversize sweater and what appeared to be a pair of Cricket’s old jeans, so out of fashion they were in again. She tugged at her cuffs so they covered most of her hands and walked to the living room window, lifted the edge of the curtain. “The cop car is outside,” she observed.

“Cricket called them before she left.” I sipped from my mug of tea. I’d fixed it, thinking it would relax me, but I had let it steep too long and had to dump in volumes of sugar to compensate. I’d be up on my feet and doing laps around the apartment in a minute. “I think she wanted us to be protected. Where is she, anyway? Have you heard from her?”