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Back The Harpy Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. The Harpy
  2. Also by Megan Hunter
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. The Harpy
  8. Part I
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. Part II
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. Part III
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. 32
  43. 33
  44. 34
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. 38
  49. 39
  50. Part IV
  51. Acknowledgments
  52. Back Cover

Three. I’d said it out loud, after he did. It made a kind of neat sense, something religious about its structure. Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Peter betrayed Jesus three times. A familiar number, for a good Christian girl like me. I remember being allowed to ring the bell, in church: three times, I was told.

Now, I shifted in bed, and my stomach lurched, threatened to rise up out of my throat. Why should I be the one who feels sick? The thought came to me as though spoken from above, or from a tiny microphone inside my head. Surely, I agreed with the voice, it should be Jake who was being emptied, who had a hand reaching inside him, pulling everything out. Or if not him, Vanessa, gripping her belly, crying out. Or both of them, separately, wailing, swearing. If there was anything that could be compared to the agony of childbirth – which neither of them had experienced – it was surely an upset stomach. Gastric flu. The body at war with itself, the illusion of comfort broken forever.

~

At university, I chose to study Classics, of course: I chose as much of it as I could.

Sometimes, when I was meant to be doing something else, I would look for pictures of her in the library.

Twisted face, claws instead of hands. A certain roundness in her cheeks, her eyes heavily hooded: even then, there was a thump of recognition.

Originally, I read, the harpy was not a monster at all. She signified storms, thunder. Just bad weather, nothing more.

~

15

15

Instead of helping Jake get the boys ready that morning, I stayed in bed.

I’m ill, I shouted down the stairs, and it was enough. Paddy and Ted both came to the door, one by one, to wave, not to kiss, so no germs were passed on. I heard the thuds and cracks and clanging of the three of them preparing to leave the house. Jake called out a goodbye, from the bottom of the stairs, but didn’t come up. Maybe he’s forgotten, I thought. Maybe he was drunk after all. But in the middle of the morning, there was a text.

I had been numbly watching old episodes of an American sitcom on my laptop, the simplicity of screen lives taunting me, their fresh faces, the blessed closure of every episode. My stomach washed and gurgled as I moved my hand over it, an underwater world, shifting beneath my skin.

I didn’t read the text straight away. I saw Jake’s name and turned the phone over. I looked back to the laptop, to a couple in a diner, arguing over coffee. Was anything that Jake said worth reading? I had the invalid’s sense that bed was a place you could live in, that there was a possibility of permanence in this state, my body damp and receptive to itself, my mind stretched thin by boredom, light entertainment.