BooksBarbecue
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 made the boys’ snacks with the skills I learned back then, laying the pieces of bread on the counter in rows, spreading the butter all at once. I remembered my old boss at the sandwich shop, telling me how the butter formed a barrier, so the fillings wouldn’t leak. They were always very stressed, those bosses, and I floated under their feelings, blank-­faced, lazy. I felt a bit like that now, delivering the sandwiches to the boys on the sofa; Jake was always telling me I shouldn’t feed them there, that it would attract vermin. And he was right – I had started to hear scratching in the walls, or the floorboards: I could never figure out where it came from. I spread out cloths on the boys’ laps, put the sandwiches down, told them not to drop crumbs.

I was going back into the kitchen when my phone rang. It made a kind of quiet bleating, easy to ignore, but I moved towards it with something like urgency, thinking of Jake, wondering what train he was on. I had become used to the worst-­case scenario, the 7.15, the children already in bed, his supper under a plate, the house and me alone, waiting for him. But I still hoped for the best, for the 5.45, for his burst of outside-­world energy, just as the bath was running, as the dishwasher needed to go on. Daddy for bedtime, I would grin at the boys when we heard the particular blast of the front door, and their cheeks would rise up with joy.

I say that I was thinking of Jake, and his train, when I heard the phone ring, but I know it is possible that I am only inserting that now, as a perfect contrast to what followed. I missed the call – it seemed to ring so briefly – and saw that it was an unknown number on the screen. A collection of numbers instead of a name always seemed hostile to me, the sign of people ringing for money or favours. I turned the phone over, reached into the fridge for a packet of chicken, switched the oven on. It started again, the lamb-­like building of single high notes, so close to my hand now, no ignoring it. I turned it over, saw it was my voicemail, lifted it to my ear.

~

This is it: the last moment. The children are watching television. The sun has gone, the garden nothing but rectangular darkness at the back door. I look at myself: I look at her.

She turns the dial, the oven is on, back-­lit as a theatre, a wave of hot breath. The phone, lifted. She doesn’t know. She knows hardly anything. Her skin is clear, unlined: she is only midway through her thirties. Not beautiful. Not exceptional in any way. But she has this: her lack of knowledge, stretching from this moment into forever, hers.

~

3

3