BooksBarbecue
Back The Scapegoat Save as PDF
Chapters (39)
  1. Copyright Notice
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  37. Praise for The Scapegoat
  38. A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  39. Newsletter Sign-up

Can’t go on much longer like this. Part of the trouble is me, of course, and my “situation” as always. But now it’s—[this was crossed out and abandoned] Why won’t you be honest with me about what happened last week? I can’t believe, as it seems you would like me to, that it was all just a “misunderstanding.” That didn’t seem to be the way the doctors were treating it anyway. If you could have them call me from the hospital, why not just tell me the truth? And—another thing—didn’t want to mention it at the time, but for me to be your emergency contact! Darling, it isn’t wise. It was only by chance that I was alone and could come straightaway. Especially if you [crossed out] if it should happen again, [here the word “which” had been vigorously crossed out] and it is my [an unintelligible word] that it might. In any case, I can’t help you very much if you won’t tell me the truth about it. I’m sorry but I think it’s in my own best interest to keep my distance until you can speak honestly with me about this.

Your F

It was written on a page torn from a book of notepaper I’d bought from a shop on Lady Ellen Place that sold imported British stationery (F, the only child of wealthy, doting parents, had a blithe disregard for other people’s possessions) and was accompanied by a sad little key—the spare key, I realized, F’s key, looking quite unequal to the drama of the situation.

I opened the drawer of the desk by the door and put the note and the key inside. I would give all that some thought later, I decided. I checked the clock on the desk and saw that if I didn’t leave right away, I would be late. But as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t quite impress the spirit of haste upon my limbs, and slowly, like a sleepwalker, I sat down at the chair at my desk to put on my shoes—first one, then the other. I rose, took my coat from its hook by the door, wound on a thick wool scarf, and ducked out into the rain to meet my father.

When I surfaced from my daydream the light in the room had taken on an unpleasant, congealed quality, and I was left with a pit of resentment. It was just like me, I thought bitterly, to dwell on the past—the past, the past, always the past. How did people do it? I wondered. How did they insert themselves into the present?

21