I found Henry James in college and he told me who I was.
My dad was just as much a bully as the father in Washington Square, a grim little masterpiece, and even though my Czech father didn’t look anything like Ralph Richardson in the 1949 film version of Washington Square, when it came to contempt, they were twins. I felt as miserable under his scrutiny as Catherine in Washington Square.
But the James book that blew me wide open was The Portrait of a Lady. If you haven’t read it or seen the Nicole Kidman film, it’s a classic Jamesian tale of American innocence seduced and betrayed by European sophistication. Isabel Archer lives quietly in Upper New York State until she inherits a fortune and decides to go to Europe and find some cause or purpose she can devote her money to.…
I think I was naive envisioning aliens as somehow native to the aerial realm. They are like us probably belted to a crater with its own share of showers and sorrows. Aliens also must’ve done the aerodynamic calculations necessary for metal to become airborne flying machines produced by a foreign science. Surely, they understand that asteroids blaze at a certain rate, a fraction of one alien unit to another. Otherwise, how could they enter our orbit?
“A fun and funny girl,” you start, flecks of ash falling from your cheeks — an oddly calming visual in stark contrast to the last couple of horrifying hours. “She just…” A fresh wave of sadness crawls down your face as you try to continue, burying your chin into your chest as you try to hide your embarrassment.
I start to tell you that everything will be okay but stop, fully aware of the devastation unfolding mere feet away, and instead allow the silence to stretch in the narrow space between us. Before it gets too loud, though, I reach over and carefully grab your hand. This prompts you to glance up at me. But only through your eyebrows, and only briefly. “She sounds lovely,” I probe softly, trying to keep you talking, doing what I can to keep you distracted from the fact that I’m addressing a large wound on your head.…
Little David—ti Davíd—was late for his own funeral; but you can hardly blame a three-year-old. People shuffled back and forth, antsy to get things moving. We were on the clock. The day, like all days, was hot and cloudless; and since there was no embalming here, the child needed to be buried before sundown.
The boy had been brought by his father to the only hospital on the Haitian island of La Gonave. It was only open for a few weeks if and when the American doctors could come for their annual mission. That year there was enough of a lull in the nation’s seemingly endless string of turmoil and bad luck that they were able to make the trip. …
In my living room, near the wall closest to the tiny front hall, there was once a large piece of furniture, wooden and black and heavy, with varying shelf space of multiple heights and widths. The delivery men, when they were moving it in, hated it because it was immense. It really was a challenge and they struggled mightily and I felt bad for them but only briefly because I don’t imagine anyone forced them to become movers and, according to some philosopher who was much smarter than me, if you’re living the life you choose, you can’t complain. Anyway, for a few minutes, the unit was actually stuck in the entranceway and the movers didn’t know what to do. It just sat at an odd angle, wedged, while they looked at each other and swore. …
