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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 tried my fucking best. I realized I had said that out loud, glanced around to check if anyone had heard. There was no one: only trees, the city light hazing their leaves in a peached glow. Then: a single swan gliding downstream, the arc of her neck a question mark, the soft curve of her feathers like a yes on the water.

~

The first harpies I saw were almost faceless, their eyes pale slits, their hair thick black lines, flying in shapes behind their heads.

Like my hair, I used to say as a child, touching the page, the hair, the skeletal wings.

No, my mother said, frowning, moving my hand away. Not like you at all.

~

38

38

As I cycled closer to the centre of town, I saw groups of people out for the night, dressed for the heat in short-­sleeved shirts, tiny dresses. It was Friday, I realized; I couldn’t remember when this had last meant something to me. I thought of the first proper party I went to, the lapis blue halter-­neck dress I wore, no bra. I remembered kissing fifteen boys that night, their hands on my waist, the way the whole thing went from excitement to self-­reproach so fluidly, hardly a gap at all.

You did what? my mother said, when I’d told her some of it.

You little slut! One boy at a time!

I’d cowered, felt the rot creeping up my legs, another word to add to my litany. Slut. She’d laughed then, offered me an arm. Silly girl. She’d kissed the top of my head.

As I cycled, I tried to stay beside trees, close to buildings, turning my head away. It was possible, I had begun to realize, that Jake had told the truth now, that people were looking for me. My face could be on the Internet, on posters. Vicious assault on husband. But I was relieved to discover, as I passed groups of people, couples, students, drunk men in tight shirts, that I was as invisible as ever.

Elderly women are said to be invisible, but I found that it happened much earlier than that: I blamed motherhood, the stains on my clothes, the darkness of fatigue under my eyes, my head down, hurrying. Of course, women will always look, will notice the way your jeans are slightly too tight, the good colour of your hair. But now the men looked away. Even when I stopped under a group of builders working late, there were no calls, no whistles. They played their loud music, and they laughed, possibly at me. They laughed and let their legs hang down, not even looking at how far they could fall.

I curved over the handlebars, lifted my shoulders, pedalled away. When I was a teenager, I almost developed a hunchback from trying to hide my breasts. From trying not to let anyone see.