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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

You can hurt me back. Three times – then we’ll be even?

Jake had always written his texts in full sentences, full words. He signed off with a single kiss: always one, never two or three. He was consistent in that way, I used to remind myself when we were first together. He didn’t – as I did – get carried away in the realm of four or five kisses. He was always himself. Now, there were no kisses, but there was something else, something that seemed better: a promise, a plan. A way to make things right.

~

As I got older, I moved closer and closer to her: BA, Masters, years of a PhD, narrowing, winnowing, until the harpy was my only subject.

I gathered the scraps I could. A man-­killer. A monstrous form. Golden wings. Golden hair. Perfect body, the feet of a bird. A face made ugly by anger. Frightening. Seductive.

The more I read, the less clear I became. And yet: I needed to know everything, to work out the truth.

~

16

16

I got out of bed as soon as I’d read the text, pulled on some jeans and a jumper. I would go to the market, I decided. I would make something fresh and delicious for supper, something everyone would love. Recently, every meal had been boring, expected: the same thing on the same day. It used to be normal: my grandmother made fish every Friday, chops every Wednesday. But now, I knew our meals should express the world itself, be varied and fascinating, an adventure on the plate. My grandmother never liked too many herbs, or spicy food, was known to ask for a boiled egg, like a child. Her taste buds were grown in blandness, in the stodge and slurp of a childhood of over-­cooked vegetables, lumpen, inexpertly made pastry.

Her mother – my great-­grandmother – couldn’t cook at all. She was a suffragette. According to my mother, she set fire to a department store, then ran from the police across the rooftops of London. She barely cleaned, or cooked. She liked to read for the whole day, to lie around in her dressing gown until her children came home from school.

Lazy! my grandmother called her. Self-­indulgent. In rebellion, she tried to be a perfect housewife, cooked her husband gluey meat stews and potatoes, scoured and disinfected, gave birth to child after child. When she used to comb my tangled hair, she would pull it; she would shout. She yelled and swore and banged the hairbrush on the sink in frustration, making the mirror shake.

I used to imagine her anger as a parasite that lived in her stomach, that passed through the wall of her womb to my mother, who passed it to me.

~

She became my days: all I did with my life, for years, was read about her, people rustling, light leaving the library around me.