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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

We’re carrying on with it, aren’t we? My voice was reedy against the sound of the sea, the yells of the boys.

Jake blew out his breath, tugged at the grass again.

Yes, he said quietly. The word crept across the sand with the wind.

Yes, he said again, louder this time, more convincing. I think we should. He turned to me, not smiling or frowning, his face entirely open, his gaze steady. I saw myself reflected in his eyes, miniaturized. Harmless.

There are so many different ways to make a family: to keep making it, day after day. And this was ours: the plan was real, had already begun, was as tangible as our hands in the sand, the small boys we had created from nothing. Trips away had always made our lives feel malleable, easy to change, a toy world, lit from above. In this place – with the sea behind us, the marshes in front, the landscape stretching to the horizon – things were, at last, wide and simple: a man and a woman, our legs folded under us, our children playing in front of our eyes.

Part II

II

~

I have never strangled an animal, but I have eaten dead ones, over and over and over again. I have wrapped my hands around a classmate’s arm, twisted, as though wringing out damp washing, watching redness spread underneath. I have read many books about a girl murderer, a child whose eyes were invisible in photographs, two pits I couldn’t see the ends of.

I have stood in the kitchen with my face folding, my nose sharper, my brow lowered, my changing turned to the wall.

~

19

19

It was nearly Christmas; I knew the next one would have to wait. What we were doing had no place in the boys’ cyclical sense of time, the reassurance of the same ornament coming out of the box, the same song being sung at school. There was no tradition for our actions, no precedent; we were making it up as we went along. Certain boundaries had been established: they would all be surprises, we had agreed, like the first. He wouldn’t know what was coming.

I was saying no a lot, declining invitations to drinks, carol singing, book club socials. I spent most evenings by myself, pretending to work. I had some new hobbies, it seemed, interests that were nothing to do with my life, made no money, contributed negatively to the smooth running of our household. Jake was often home late, having texted me carefully – too carefully – with all the details of his train mishaps: signal failures, leaves, bodies on the line. I put the boys to bed as early as I could, went upstairs to my warmly lit desk, to the open mouth of a search engine.