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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

I thought I could remember a similar time from my childhood, a solid sameness, every day almost identical. Even then, things struck: once, in the early years of primary school, one of my friends’ fathers shot himself in the head. He did it in his study. Somehow I knew the exact location; my mother must have told me. At school, there was hushed sympathy, poor Vicky, a sense of plunging tragedy. At home, there were dark streaks of anger, staining blurs of disbelief. Selfish bastard, someone said. I remember the kitchen tiles, and this phrase, the two things becoming one, the yellow curve of a tile’s flowers suddenly selfish, its square shape a bastard.

Outside the bathroom door I could hear someone changing the music, putting on a Christmas album. Mary was asking loudly if they should reheat the mulled wine. She called my name, once, then stopped, interrupted by a murmur. I had brought my wine into the toilet with me; it was cool enough to glug now; I drained the cup. I peed, even though I didn’t really need to, just to do something, to feel relief pass through my body. I stood up, looked into the mirror. If I splashed my face, my foundation would come off. My mascara would run. I put my fingers under the cold water, and laid them under my eyes, the coolness calming, complete.

I realized that I was acting as though I had been crying. This is what I – and everyone else – had assumed I would be doing in here, away from them. But I felt more like taking my clothes off, having a shower, for hours and hours, coming out wrapped in a towel, my skin as soft and wrinkled as wet paper. By then, everyone would be gone.

23

23

When I emerged from the bathroom – maybe half an hour later – it seemed to be a completely different party. The people that were left – no Mary, I noted, and no Antonio – were all drunk. Someone had turned the Christmas music off, put a nineties playlist on, and now the rooms were draped with nostalgia, with a wave of bittersweet, irretrievable emotion.

In the garden, there were groups smoking, talking with the high-­reaching voices of children. They had forgotten, maybe, that they had babysitters to go back to, that in the middle of the night their five-­year-­olds would climb into their beds with hot cheeks. They thought they were still in the standing-­around part of their lives, when time had no particular boundaries, no absolute restrictions.