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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

Then one day, as easily as it appeared, the message was gone. As the boys left the house, on their little bikes, I did not imagine the moment they would fall from them, their skulls cracking open on the pavement. I did not picture the time when Jake would look away from Ted in the swimming pool, just for a second, the lifeguard distracted, the dark shape of a small body disappearing under the water.

I could see it clearly, at last: the children would, almost certainly, be fine. And if they weren’t, it wouldn’t be my fault. This must, I realized, be what normal mothers feel. All the ones who are very happy, with their tasteful clothes and missionary-­position weekly sex. Their stylish furnishings, the ease with which they let their souls go, let them pass, wordlessly, on to the next generation. All those mothers who no longer wanted anything for themselves, but sobbed at their daughter’s clarinet concert and their son’s graduation, their tears truly pride and not some concealed mourning (as mine would have been) for their lost selves, the energy that now belonged elsewhere.

I had even stopped checking Jake’s phone. Ever since I sent the email, I had been sliding it from under his pillow as he slept, entering my birthday, looking for her name, for any new photos. But there was never anything I hadn’t seen before: I learned to see the phone and ignore it, to let the screen keep its own sleep, its glinting blandness.

~

The harpy has never had children, it seems. Has never bought or rented a house, chosen cushion covers or selected a carpet from a choice of thousands.

She can sleep on the wing, her own body her refuge, her nails curled, ready to strike.

~

29

29

One afternoon, I got back earlier than usual: I had decided to put something in the oven before I collected the boys in the car, took them to their weekly swimming lesson. Lately, I’d only been making the simplest of meals again: piles of pasta, oven pizzas, oven chips, soups from tins. But today I had a leg of lamb, something I could cook slowly and serve with potatoes, with steamed vegetables. I was the one making amends now. Giving Jake something to be grateful for.

When I arrived, he was not on the sofa, the place he seemed to live nowadays, lying with his legs up in the evenings, watching television, programmes about space, about aliens, humans with very slightly altered faces. He had taken the house over: it was loyal to him now, I sensed, rather than to me. It smelled like him, even when he wasn’t there. But today, when I went into the lounge, the sofa was plain and silent, looking oddly defeated without him, its cushions still dented by the place he’d sat for so long.