A Reunion of Ghosts
Judith Claire Mitchell

Copyright

Fourth Estate

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.4thestate.co.uk

This EBook first published in Great Britain by Fourth Estate in 2015

First published in the United States by HarperCollins Publishers in 2015

Copyright © 2015 by Judith Claire Mitchell

Judith Claire Mitchell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Grateful acknowledgment is made to Linda Hogan for permission to reprint, as an epigraph, an excerpt from Dwell: A Spiritual History of the Living World, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York, NY. Copyright © 1995 by Linda Hogan. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Photographs © Getty Images. Jacket design by Anna Morrison.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007594344

Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780007594368

Version: 2015-12-07

Dedication

For my parents,

Leo and Claire Mitchell

The only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.

—ALBERT EINSTEIN

Suddenly all my ancestors are standing beside me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.

—LINDA HOGAN, Dwell: A Spiritual History of the Living World

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Family Tree

Epigraph

Part One: The Ghosts

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Part Two: The Reunion

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Part Three: Last Words

December 2010

Author’s Note

Names Mentioned in A Reunion of Ghosts

Bibliography

Acknowledgments

Also by Judith Claire Mitchell

About the Publisher

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

From a distance the tattoo wrapped around Delph’s calf looks like a serpentine chain, but stand closer and it’s actually sixty-seven tiny letters and symbols that form a sentence—a curse:

the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children to the 3rd & 4th generations

We are that fourth generation: Lady, Vee, and Delph Alter, three sisters who share the same Riverside Drive apartment in which they were raised; three women of a certain age, those ages being, on this first day of summer 1999, forty-nine, forty-six, and forty-two. We’re also seven fewer Jews than a minyan make, a trio of fierce believers in all sorts of mysterious forces that we don’t understand, and a triumvirate of feminists who nevertheless describe ourselves in relation to relationships: we’re a partnerless, childless, even petless sorority consisting of one divorcee (Lady), one perpetually grieving widow (Vee), and one spinster—that would be Delph.

When we were young women, with our big bosoms and butts, our black-rimmed glasses low on the bridges of our broad beaky noses, our dark hair corkscrew curly, we resembled a small flock of intellectual geese in fright wigs, and people struggled to tell us apart. These days it’s less difficult.

Lady is the oldest, and now that she’s one year shy of fifty, she’s begun to look it, soft at the jaw, bruised and creped beneath her eyes. She’s the one who wears nothing but black, not in a chic New York way, but in the way of someone who finds making an effort exhausting. Every day: sweatshirt, jeans, sneakers, all black. “I work in a bookstore,” she says, “and then I come home and stay home. Who do I have to dress up for?” She wears no bra, hasn’t since the 1960s, and these days her breasts sag to her belly, making her seem even rounder than she is. “Who cares?” she says. “It’s not like I’m trying to meet someone.” Her hair, which she wears in a long queue held with a leather and stick barrette, is freighted with gray.

Vee is the tallest (though we are all short), and the thinnest (though none of us is thin). Her face is unlined as if she’s never had any cares, which (she says with good reason) is a laugh. She doesn’t like black, prefers cobalts and purples and emeralds, royal colors that make her look alive even as she’s dying. “Isn’t that what fashion is?” she says. “A nonverbal means of lying about the sad, naked truth?” She wears no bra either, but in her case it’s because she has no breasts. She has no hair either. Chemo-induced alopecia, they call it. No hair, no eyebrows, no eyelashes. Her underarms, her legs—they’re little-girl smooth. As is the rest of her. Little-girl smooth.

Delph is still the baby. Even now, two years into her forties, she looks much younger than the other two. She’s the smallest, barely five foot one, and the chubbiest, and she still wears girlish clothes: white peasant blouses with embroidery and drawstrings; long floral skirts that sometimes skim the ground, the hems frayed from sidewalks. As for her hair, it’s always been the longest, the wildest, the curliest, those curls bouffanting into the air, rippling down her back, tendriling around her big hoop earrings, falling into her mouth, spiraling down into her eyes. She says there’s nothing to be done about it; it’s just the way her hair wants to be. “There’s plenty to be done about it,” Vee has said more than once. “Just get me a pair of hedge clippers, and I’ll show you.”

So: black-clad, gray-haired, saggy, baggy Lady. Pale-skinned, bald-headed, flat-chested Vee. And little Delph. Three easily distinguishable women. And yet people still mix us up. The aged super who has known us since we were children. Our neighbors, old and new. We don’t resent it. Even our mother used to get jumbled up and call us by the wrong names. Sometimes we do it ourselves.

“I’m Delph,” Delph will say to Lady, who has just called her Vee for the third time in an evening. Most of the time, though, we let it go.

And sometimes one of us, sleepy or tipsy, catches a glimpse of herself in a mirror, and for a moment even she mistakes herself for one of the others.

Also, sometimes we confuse things by wearing each other’s clothes.

Like many of the Alter women in the generations before ours, we were named for flowers—but Lady is how Lily pronounced her name as a toddler, and it stuck; Vee is as much of Veronica as anyone has ever bothered to utter; and Delph is short for Delphine, which our mother thought was the name of the vivid blue perennial, but actually means “like a dolphin.” We don’t mind the nicknames. You might even say we’ve cultivated them. The flower names our mother picked never thrilled us. The funereal lily. The purple veronica, known for its ability to withstand neglect. Delph’s name that isn’t quite what it was supposed to be. “Neither the gods of flora nor the gods of fauna knew who had jurisdiction over me,” Delph likes to declaim. “No wonder I fell through the cracks.”

The truth is, we all fell through the cracks, and that’s where we’ve stayed. Our father left when Lady was seven, Vee four, Delph swaddled. Our mother … well, that’s another sad story. But life between the cracks isn’t so bad when you’ve got sisters. It can be cozy and warm, when that’s what you want. It can be filled with in-jokes and conversational shorthand and foolishness, if that’s what’s needed. Or it can be silent and still, which we tend to appreciate these days, given that, in addition to everything else, we’ve grown ever more introverted, even a touch agoraphobic.

All of which makes us well suited to the project we embark upon tonight, namely writing this whatever-it-is—this memoir, this family history, this quasi-confessional.

Our subject is the last four generations of Alters, up through and including our own. We plan to record all the sorrows and stumbles as well as all the accomplishments and contributions. We’re sorry to say there’ve been many of the former, far fewer of the latter. This is especially true when it comes to our own generation. We’re the entirety of the fourth generation; we’re the last of the Alter line; we’re “that’s all there is, there ain’t no more”; and we’ve brought the family name no glory.

On the other hand, we’ve brought it no shame either, which is more than certain preceding generations can say. That first generation, for instance, which starred our infamous great-grandfather, Lorenz Otto Alter, World War I hero, World War I criminal. Genius and monster. He was the sinner who doomed us all.

Still, he accomplished things. Good things, bad things, Nobel Prize–winning things. Not so the three of us. We’ve accomplished nothing, contributed even less, and we fear for the poor sap who’ll someday be saddled with our eulogies. What will this hapless orator say? Delph Alter, the youngest sister, never left a filing cabinet less organized than she found it. Vee Alter, the benighted monkey in the middle, spent her entire adult life as a paralegal at a law firm where she drafted wills and settled estates—a deadly occupation. Lady Alter, the eldest, stood behind a cash register, ringing up purchases of paperbacks and magazines, saying little all day besides thank you and do you need a bag for that and romance is the third aisle on your left.

Clearly all three died of excruciating boredom.

Yit’kadal v’yit’kadash. Requiescat in pace. Th-th-that’s all, folks.

We’ve been thinking about our eulogies lately because this is not only our memoir, it’s also our suicide note. It’s true: we’ve set the date at last. Midnight, December 31, 1999. New Year’s Eve.

We’ve always known we’d die by our own hands sooner or later. Sooner has now come a-knocking.

“Six months to a year.” That’s what Vee’s doctor said.

We talked it over at dinner. We slept on it that night. The next morning we made a pact. All for one and one for all. If one of us goes, all of us go. Everybody out of the pool.

We have a joke. Well, not a joke. A riddle:

Q: How do three sisters write a single suicide note?

A: The same way a porcupine makes love: carefully.

Also, tenderly and slowly and by pressing on even when it hurts.

We also have a chart. A week or so after our mother died, Delph, who was then eighteen, drew it up. She made it pretty and tacked it onto the back of her bedroom door, where some girls hang pictures of teen idols. There it remains, our great-grandfather, the curse’s catalyst, near the top, and our mother, the hapless Dahlie, down at the bottom, bearing his weight and the weight of all the others who went before her.

We like the chart. We like the tidiness of the rows and columns. We like the repetitions and subtle variations. We’re fascinated by the emergent narrative.

It’s said that descendants of suicides view life as forever chaotic, but when we look at this chart, we see the opposite of chaos. We see order and routine. We see soothing predictability and reassuring inevitability.

Without the rows and columns, all you’d have is a crazy game of Clue. Great-Grandma Iris in the garden with a gun. Aunt Violet in the bedroom with a plastic bag. Mom in the river with rocks in her socks.

But with the rows and columns, you have our family tree. Every family’s got one. This one is ours.

CHAPTER 2

While all three of us have previously contemplated suicide, only Lady has given it a serious go. Several serious goes, as a matter of fact, and the first one took place almost twenty-three years ago, the long Fourth of July weekend of 1976.

Times were fraught. Over the previous twelve months New York City had been through stagflation and gas lines and “Ford to City: Drop Dead,” while we’d been through Vee’s first bout of cancer, plus our mother’s swan dive into the Hudson, plus Lady’s swan song for her five-year marriage to the egregious Joe Hopper, an ill-conceived enterprise that had not only caused her unhappiness but also forced her to go by the name Lady Hopper, which, she maintained, sounded like something you’d call a cartoon frog wearing pearls and a diadem. It didn’t help to use her given name, either. Lily Hopper was even worse: same frog, less jewelry.

We tried to look on the bright side. No more Joe Hopper, for one. No more Richard Nixon, for two. Vee had been cured. (That’s what her doctor had said. That’s the word he used. Cured.) And now it was the Bicentennial, a three-day weekend when incensed New Yorkers took time out from their calls for Ford’s impeachment to cheer the whistling comets and fiery chrysanthemums bursting above the World Trade Center.

Oh, that summer. Delph, nineteen, had a scholarship to Barnard, the women’s college just a few blocks uptown that all three of us attended, though only Vee and Delph graduated. Vee and her husband, the faultless Eddie Glod, were living in Vee’s bedroom. They were both twenty-three. Eddie worked several part-time, dead-end jobs while trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his life. Vee had begun her job as a paralegal. She’d bought two used business suits at a thrift shop, along with one clunky pair of broken-in, broken-down heels. Only her several pairs of pantyhose were new, packaged for reasons we will never understand inside large plastic eggs.

She enjoyed her job. Each will she prepared was like an allegory, where this everyman called Testator gives away his house and his furniture, his cars and his cash until there’s nothing left but his kids. He takes a deep breath and gives them away, too, hands them over to some guardian who will never love them like he does. Now bereft of all he’s ever held dear, he signs his name and admits it at last: he’s going to die. Vee found the whole process romantic and literary. Also, there was medical and dental and a fully vested retirement plan.

As for Lady, in 1976, she was twenty-six and living alone on Amsterdam Avenue in the slummy fifth-floor walk-up she’d once shared with Joe. The weekend she decided to kill herself, she was nearing the end of a ten-day vacation that had been neither her idea nor her desire. It was the dentist she worked for who’d suddenly decided to take some time off and shut the place down. “Spontaneity is the word of the day,” the dentist had said, a line he’d clearly rehearsed.

The hygienist had been thrilled, but not Lady. She was the one who had to call the patients, reschedule appointments. “Something’s come up,” she had to say. “An emergency,” she’d add if a patient got testy. Or, if a patient grew concerned, “A less-than-dire emergency.”

The patients weren’t really the problem, though. The problem was that she didn’t know what to do with a vacation. Ten days. New York in late June, early July. It wasn’t as though she had a little place in the Hamptons.

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” she asked the dentist after the hygienist had left for the day. She’d been working for him for four years by then, ever since she dropped out of school to marry Joe. It had been a wretched idea—the marriage, not the job. The job she liked. Office manager slash receptionist was not the sort of occupation Barnard wished for its girls, which, bewilderingly, was how that self-proclaimed bastion of second-wave feminism referred to its students, but Lady was as aspirational when it came to career as she’d been when it came to finding a life partner—that is, not very. She’d married Joe because he’d trusted her with his deepest darkest secret, a secret that had caused him such shame he’d bitten his lower lip as he revealed it, until a few discreet drops of blood dribbled into his Frank Zappa–esque lip beard. He wasn’t aware that he’d nibbled himself bloody, that’s how wrapped up he’d been in confessing this secret—and stoned, he’d also been extremely stoned—but Lady had seen the self-inflicted cut in his trembling lip, and it had touched her heart. Such a vulnerable boy behind the layers of sarcasm and arrogance, and of all the women he knew, he’d unburdened himself to her. How could she resist? She didn’t even mind that he was unemployed. He had a higher calling: he was working away on his master’s, after which he’d be getting a PhD in literature. Then a professorship somewhere Ivy Leaguish. His area of specialty was Victorian female poets. How could Lady not support this? He was a feminist! He wanted women artists to take their rightful place in the academy! They’d tied the knot in Central Park, and she’d willingly left school and taken the first job that allowed her to cover the rent on the apartment they were already sharing.

Joe Hopper, lanky and hairy, with a penchant for fringed suede vests over bare skin. He disliked Lady’s job, found it personally humiliating. Dentistry. It was so bougie, he said, so middle class. Even a minimum-wage job would have been better. The store on 112th that sold cheap sundresses and paper parasols was hiring. Ta-Kome always needed someone to make sandwiches. Or, if it was all about money, then what about waitressing at some Midtown dance club where lawyers and bankers tipped beaucoup? She said that she preferred the receptionist job—she liked getting to sit down all day—and reminded him about the benefits and free fillings. Their dental was even better than Vee’s, she said. Why didn’t he just lie to his friends about what she did, if he was so embarrassed by it? She wouldn’t care if he made up a story. “Tell them I man the ovens at Ray’s Pizza,” she said. “Tell them I drive a cab in the Bronx.” She’d go along with it, she assured him. She’d lie too.

“I’m not as comfortable with lying as you seem to be,” he said.

She didn’t take offense. How could she, when he wasn’t wrong? And he didn’t know the half of it, had no idea how much of her life was a lie—although she wasn’t lying when she said she liked the receptionist job. She did; she was content—fulfilled, even—to help the dentist build his practice. She was the woman behind the throne, which in her case, was a dentist’s chair. That was her joke.

It was true, too, that she liked the dentist himself. He’d been just out of dental school when she joined him. He’d talk to her about his hopes for the business as well as his worries. He told her about his love for his slimy work in painstaking and mildly disgusting detail. He gave her generous Christmas bonuses that, in those first years, she knew he couldn’t afford, the amounts of which she had to swear never to reveal to the hygienist, an older woman with a belly slack from four pregnancies and a tight gray bun pierced with the extra chopsticks the delivery boys from Nos Gusta La Comidas China included in their lunch orders.

Lady loved that they shared a work ethic, the dentist and she. His involved never taking more than a long weekend off. Hers involved never taking even that much. What would have been the point? If she stayed home, Joe Hopper would be there, working on his thesis at the coffee table. The title of his thesis was “‘Lips—That Like Bruised Pomegranates Blush’: Victorian Woman Poets and the Sapphic Gaze.”

“His field is vaginas,” Vee finally explained to Lady, who’d been misinterpreting the reference to lips. “Vaginas and lesbian sex, and not in a political way. If I come by and you’re not home yet, he insists on reading from it to me. He stands really, really close.” She made a face. “It’s pretty porny.”

Lady’d told Vee to stop flattering herself, but she’d also gone home and reread the thesis, and she had to admit she saw Vee’s point. She tried to look on the bright side. Joe loved what he was doing. He was always engrossed in his research when she returned home. He’d gesture at her, a sweep of his hand. It meant be quiet, take off your shoes, keep your greetings, footsteps, breathing, basal metabolism rate, to a minimum. Or he’d be waiting for her, wanting to take her to bed as soon as she came through the door, some poem he’d been explicating having turned him on.

“It was my wife’s idea,” the dentist said of the vacation. He momentarily averted his eyes; at least he had the decency to do that. “She put her foot down. She goes, ‘All work and no play.’” He shrugged as if he hadn’t an idea in the world what that meant. Then he grinned, something he was good at. “You know what you should do?” he said. “You should go to one of those Club Med places. Guadalupe! Spontaneity! You could run around naked. No one’s in the city now anyway.”

“Then why not run around naked here?” said Lady.

The dentist’s face was wide and boyish. He looked like Rootie Kazootie, like Howdy Doody, like Opie Taylor—all those redheaded, apple-cheeked, freckle-faced goyishe icons of our youth. But now the face grew stern. It was as if he thought Lady was making a suggestion, offering him an alternative.

Which she supposed she was. That’s where her being a liar came in. Lady and the dentist had been screwing around on his raspy office carpet after the hygienist went home pretty much since she’d been hired. Oh, maybe for the first six months or so, flattered but loyal to Joe, Lady had gently discouraged the dentist’s advances. But when her marriage had quickly begun going south, so, with the dentist, had she.

His own recent marriage hadn’t changed anything. The woman he’d married had a name—it was Patty—but he never spoke it in Lady’s presence. He used the generic term instead. The wife’s coming in for a cleaning. If the wife calls, tell her I’m doing a root canal and can’t be disturbed. Yeah, the wife bought me this jacket; it’s not my taste, but what are you gonna do?

Lady never mentioned or even hinted at her relationship with the dentist to anyone, not to the hygienist over shared egg foo yung, not to Vee or Delph during her frequent visits home. Not even to the dentist himself. He and she had agreed upon conducting an utterly wordless affair. Their very agreement had been wordless.

Once, only once, had Lady tried to talk to him about what it was they were doing. This was soon after he’d announced his engagement, although announced wasn’t quite right; it had been more like an aside at the end of a busy day. She hadn’t even known he’d been seeing anyone. She felt knocked for a loop, stunned and disbelieving, like those women you sometimes hear about who go to the doctor with a stomachache and learn they’re not only pregnant, they’re in the end stages of labor. Still, she hadn’t said a thing other than the pleasantries anyone would utter in response to such wonderful news—the same pleasantries the hygienist had just offered.

But a few days after he’d confessed to the engagement, the two of them in his office, Lady straightening her skirt, the dentist hanging up his white tunic, Lady thought it would be nice to reassure him, to let him know she would not be falling apart or making a scene, which, while sobbing in the shower that morning, she’d decided would have to be the case. Her reassurance, she thought now, would be a type of engagement present. What else could she do? She’d long known she had no rights. She’d always known what she’d signed up for. She wanted to tell him that. “You know,” she said, pulling her sweater back over her head, “the thing about our relationship is—”

He was zipping his trousers. “We don’t have a relationship,” he said.

She made the mistake of plowing on. “Well, of course we do,” she said, “and the thing about it is—”

“We don’t have a relationship.”

Now she was considering making a scene. Although, having never made one before, she wasn’t sure how to go about it. “I agree we don’t have a relationship,” she said, “but we have a relationship.”

He put on the jacket he allegedly hated, tawny suede, expensive, indisputably gorgeous, and popped the collar.

“What I mean,” Lady said, “is that we may not have a romantic relationship with any kind of future. I get that. But we do have a relationship. I’m your receptionist. I’m your coworker. Any two people who know each other have a relationship. It’s what the word means. The kid I buy snow peas from at the Korean market—I don’t know his name, but we have a relationship.”

“Maybe you and snow pea boy have a relationship,” he said, “but you and I don’t.”

By then she couldn’t remember what she’d wanted to say in the first place. She’d forgotten what the thing about their relationship was. She said, “You know what? I’ll see you tomorrow,” and went home. She was exasperated, but only because he’d refused to admit she was right. Even at the time, even in the middle of whatever it was you’d call what they had, what they were doing, what they were to each other, she knew she didn’t love him, not really. She certainly didn’t count on him, not ever. She never initiated anything with him, although sometimes she dropped hints.

Just as she told nobody she was screwing the dentist—even after her divorce, she’d told no one—so she told no one about her mandatory vacation. Day after stifling day she remained indoors with the shades pulled, a futile attempt to stay cool. Even now she remembers the oily sweat between and under her breasts, how she’d pull up her T-shirt, baring her chest, the T-shirt absorbing the sweat on her forehead and cooling her nape and covering her hair like the veil of a topless nun.

She also remembers the small rabbit-eared TV in her bedroom—her entire divorce settlement, the retention of that little TV—that she watched almost nonstop during those interminable days. One afternoon she tuned into Bill Boggs to find an impressively drunk Tennessee Williams slouched on the couch while Rich Little did impressions of Johnny Carson and John Wayne. Right after Boggs, Walter Matthau appeared on Dinah Shore, and, right after Dinah Shore, Walter Matthau showed up again, this time on Mike Douglas. Lady had nothing against Walter Matthau—who didn’t like Walter Matthau?—but his reappearance, his repeated gags, the same clip from The Bad News Bears, made her feel unhinged. Then night fell with its soothing reruns of Rhoda, Phyllis, and Maude, and later an appearance by the Happy Hooker on Tom Snyder. Lady was beginning to understand how this could become your life, how it could make you feel like you had companions with whom you’d chatted and done things that day. Rhoda, Phyllis, Maude, Xaviera, Tennessee. Girlfriends.

Each day she told herself that she’d do something productive, that she’d watch no more TV, but each day she’d stay in bed, dozing on and off until midafternoon. Then she’d break, she’d crack, she’d turn on the set. Also she’d drink. And sometimes there might be some eating, might be some showering, might be some teeth brushing with the Oral-B extra-firm and sample-size Crest she got free from the office. But most often there was none of the above, just TV and cocktails and her T-shirt pulled over her head like a snood.

Not a day went by that she didn’t order herself to call Vee or Delph or even Eddie—maybe just Eddie, the most compassionate of the lot—to say that perhaps she hadn’t mentioned it, but she was on vacation, and she seemed unable to get out of bed, and could they please come over and yank her to her feet and make her get dressed. Maybe bringing some food would also be a good idea. A pizza. A turkey sandwich. An entire pound cake.

But she didn’t call, she couldn’t, because that was the week her fear of talking on the phone materialized as suddenly and surprisingly as a paper bouquet from a magician’s sleeve. All at once: poof, you’re telephobic.

The unanticipated phobia was accompanied by nausea and nerves and stomach adventures, and it escalated rapidly. At the beginning of the vacation she just ignored the ringing phone, a taupe standard Ma Bell table unit that could, if properly wielded, kill someone. By the end she was skittering across the hall, hiding in the bathroom, where she kept an extra bottle of vodka so she could calm herself until the jangling stopped. She would drink directly from the bottle, one glug, then two, call it a dry martini—which it was, sans olives—or an extra-dry Gibson—which it was, sans cocktail onions. Also sans ice bucket and stemware. She was a self-proclaimed hippie; she didn’t much care about elegance or ritual, which was good, given that she kept the crystal clear bottle of Popov on the sweating top of the toilet tank, alongside the green container of pHisohex and blue jar of Noxzema and brown vial of Miltown, the latter prescribed by the dentist.

It wasn’t until the final Saturday of the vacation—the third of July—that Lady emerged from her apartment. She hadn’t left before then, not for companionship, not for exercise, not for fresh air or groceries, not for snow peas, not for nothing. But then something came up, or rather something came down. A switch plate in the bedroom had lost its top screw several weeks before. It now hung upside down from its bottom screw, exposing the electrical box and the unpainted wall behind it.

Joe Hopper had taken all the tools when he’d moved out—that had been his divorce settlement—so she tried to stick it back into place with Scotch tape. When that didn’t work, she tried ignoring it. That didn’t work either, and the switch plate had come to remind her of someone hanging from a ledge, holding on to its lip with the fingertips of one hand. It was driving her crazy. She needed to get to a hardware store and buy a screwdriver.

The dentist’s office was—maybe still is—in shabby downtown Riverdale, by the elevated train station. On weekdays Lady reverse-commuted there. Daily she clattered down the metal staircase, and, at its landing, propelled herself over a puddle that she swore never evaporated. The weather might be hot and dry; the mayor (little Abe Beame) might have banned residents of all five boroughs from watering their houseplants and flushing their toilets. It didn’t matter. The puddle remained, shrunken perhaps, sometimes a mere muddy outline, but there nonetheless, dead leaves on its surface. In 1976 the puddle lay directly across the street from a dive called the Terminal Bar, a fairly ominous name if you thought about it, and given Lady’s proclivity for both suicide and puns, she did. Accordingly, Lady had named it the Puddle Styx.

On one side of the Terminal Bar was a four-story office building. The dentist’s office was on its second floor. On the other side of the bar was a hardware store owned and run by a pair of aging brothers, two irritable men, short and ovate, with glaring black eyes, bulbous thread-veined noses, and patchy pubic beards. Despite the countless hardware stores on the Upper West Side, it was this hardware store—half an hour from her apartment if there were no delays, but of course there were always delays—that Lady decided to patronize.

She had a reason for traveling that distance when she didn’t really have to: she wasn’t at ease inside hardware stores, and at least she’d been in this one before. Not often, but sometimes the dentist sent her there to pick up some Windex or a three-way plug adaptor or an extension cord. She would feel less unnerved in the somewhat familiar surroundings.

On this summer morning no one in the store paid her any attention or asked if they could help her or gave any indication that they’d seen her before, or, for that matter, were seeing her now. She didn’t care. In stores, as in most places and situations, she preferred to be left to herself. This was particularly true now, consumed as she was with the switch-plate crisis.

Before leaving home, she’d unscrewed the plate completely, using her fingers to turn the bottom screw, which was also on the brink of falling out. She’d put the plate and the screw inside a baggie and put the baggie in her purse. This had turned out to be smart. In an aisle filled with, surely, over a hundred bins of over a million screws, she was able to find the one she needed.

Buoyed, she continued to the next aisle with its multiple bins of screwdrivers, but here she was at a loss. She wasn’t sure how to choose among screwdrivers, didn’t know which characteristics of a screwdriver were determinant. She decided to go by color.

She considered one with a rubbery blue handle, rejected it, picked up another, cherry red, put it back. She walked up and down the aisle, then snatched up a model with a handle of translucent plastic, acid green, a hue she’d once experimented with, borrowing an Indian tunic in that shade from Delph. “It makes you look dead,” Joe Hopper said, and she returned it unworn.

So—fuck you, Joe Hopper—she took the acid-green screwdriver by the shaft and made her way to the register. She imagined him watching all this, frustrated by his inability to criticize a thing she’d done. She fantasized Walter Matthau sidling up to her, asking for local restaurant advice. The two of them would chat a bit, amusing each other, hitting it off; then they’d go to the Terminal Bar for a couple of vodka tonics, some chicken parm and spaghetti, and, after a couple of self-deprecating jokes about expanding waistlines, a shared slice of pie. What Walter Matthau would be doing in a Riverdale hardware store, she’d work out another time.

After she left the store, she put the bag with the screwdriver in her purse. She thought about her dungeon of an apartment. She decided to take a walk. Van Cortlandt Park was right across the street, summer green and lush. She stood on the corner, waiting for the Walk signal.

But as she waited, the idea of crossing the street became overwhelming. It was such a vast street, this section of Broadway, and the thought of traversing it, of sprinting from cement island to cement island as cars and taxis whipped by, discouraged her, depressed her, filled her with a fear that, she immediately registered, would not serve a New Yorker well. But what could she do? The new fear was upon her, and she changed her mind and decided to admit defeat and just go home.

Instead she pivoted and went into the building where she worked. She climbed the two flights of stairs. She tried to peer through the opaque window set in the office door, the dentist’s name painted on that glass in an arc like a rainbow. She saw nothing, just the wires threaded through the safety glass.

She rummaged through her purse for her keys. She unlocked the door. Inside, she turned off the alarm, turned on the lights.

Everything in the reception area was as she left it. The magazines and brochures were undisturbed, the gray dustcover over her Selectric untouched. Something was off, though, and she figured out what it was when she poked a finger into the soil of the leggy philodendron on the windowsill. Someone had been here and watered the plant—someone had done her job for her.

The door to the dentist’s private office was shut. She crossed the room, put her hand on the round knob. She didn’t turn it, just held it. She put her ear to the hollow wood. Although she heard nothing but the loud ticking of his desk clock, she felt uneasy. She found herself picturing the dentist on the other side of that door, splayed on the floor where she and he had their trysts, his wife standing over him just a little ashamed of herself, holding a bloody Huber probe. It was a premonition, she later realized, not of an actual murder but of something gone terribly wrong in there. Or maybe it was a wish.

She held her breath as she turned the knob, but she didn’t take the next step of pushing open the door. She was annoyed by how jittery she felt. Her reaction was inexplicable, really. Stupid, if she were being honest. She went in and out of that office all the time. True, the door was almost never shut as it was today, but still … Fear of picking up a ringing telephone’s receiver was bad enough. Then there’d been the anxiety over crossing the street. Was her fear generalizing; was she now going to become unable to open doors as well?

But no, she thought. Her hesitancy wasn’t a sign of neuroses—or not only that. She was hesitating because she was not supposed to be there that day. She was feeling like a trespasser, like a vandal. She had to give herself a stern talking-to. Entering that office was allowed. It was part of her job; it was something she did all the time. The dentist went out for lunch, and Lady went in to do the filing or find an invoice or sit in his comfortable chair and work the crossword. She didn’t need to ask permission. “Mi office es su office,” he’d say, and why not? He was lucky to have someone like her, a self-starter, diligent and devoted.

An example of that diligence: she would do the filing right now. She’d straighten up some of the mess that had been left on his desk when they closed in late June. It would be good to get that work done, good to get a jump on things before the office reopened on Tuesday.

Yet even as she opened the door, she couldn’t shake her apprehension. Now she imagined finding not a body on the carpet—still life with slit throat—but two bodies, much alive, naked, sparkling with perspiration. Giddy husband and naughty wife. If this were a TV show, a movie, isn’t that exactly what would happen next? Music swelling, the receptionist gasping, then rushing to the street below, pressing her hand to her heart, the tears welling, as she cries out his name—

Or no. Because the receptionist would be the villain in the movie, wouldn’t she? She’d be the housebreaker, the slut, the brunette. The camera wouldn’t think to follow her once she left. It would be the dentist’s wife the camera would care about, the dentist’s wife who’d be the heroine. That would be the name of the movie, in fact. The Dentist’s Wife.

The door was slightly ajar now, but Lady still didn’t peek inside. She only listened again, listened harder. All she could hear were the clicks of the passing seconds. She took one more of those seconds to inform herself that she was an idiot. Then she pushed the door fully open and flicked on the light.

No swelling music, but she couldn’t help herself—she gasped anyway. It wasn’t just that the soil of the ficus tree inside the dentist’s office had also been watered. It was that the walls, for the past five years the same grayed white as the plaster of paris dentition molds in the prostheses closet, had been painted a feminine mauve. It was that an ornately framed O’Keeffe had been hung by his desk. The flower in the poster was meant, of course, to evoke a receptive vagina, pink and clitoral—Joe’s work and O’Keeffe’s had that in common—but Lady suspected it had been viewed instead as the pink gums and beckoning uvula of the wide-open mouth of the dentist’s dreams.

His desk had been cleared too. Gone, the stack of unfiled insurance forms, the stack of unfiled patient info, even the stack of pink While You Were Out messages, those little notes from her to him. “Mr. Bonfiglio’s temp fell off,” followed by two exclamation points with a caret underneath:

Sad bunny, she called it. (It’s true. She invented the whole emoticon thing.)

She also had a happy bunny and a confused bunny, and then there was the one he’d made up, the one he’d draw on the back of one of those While You Were Out slips and leave on her chair on afternoons he hoped she’d stay late: Playboy bunny, the two exclamation points plus a wiggly come-hither grin.

As she gawked at the pristine desk, the absence of clutter felt like a rebuke. Other than the noisy brass clock, every item on its surface was new: a leather blotter, a set of unimaginative but shiny Cross pens, a deluxe version of Galileo’s Pendulum, blond wood and steel balls.

And there was more. On the wall above his credenza, the diplomas documenting his unadventurous education—NYU undergrad, NYU College of Dentistry—had been framed and hung. On a nearby shelf, photographs, once propped against books, their edges curling, had also been framed and arranged in ascending height order, like a Rockettes kick line.

The smallest of these photos was of the dentist and his golden retriever Beef, a sweet aging dog that Lady had, at various times, taken to the vet’s or groomer’s. Next there was a slightly larger shot of Beef alone, a professional portrait in which Beef’s mouth was open and his pink tongue lolling, so he looked as though he were smiling, although he was probably just panting from the heat of the photographer’s lights.

Next, larger still: the dentist and his wife under a chuppah. Beef was in this one, too, sitting alongside one of the chuppah bearers, both the bearer and Beef in paisley vests and bow ties. Then there were two new additions, each one Beef-free. There was an eight-by-ten, just dentist and wife squinting into the sun on their honeymoon. There was a nine-by-twelve, dentist and wife aboard a sailboat that Lady hadn’t known he owned but could see was named The Tooth Ferry.

And on the credenza itself, a small piece of white card stock tented over like a place card at a dinner party. Surprise!! it said. Lady opened it. Happy Anniversary!! it said. Love!! Patty, it said. And along with the exclamation points—not deliberately silly and facetious exclamation points like Lady’s bunny ears and wide bunny eyes, but conventionally employed and rather hysterical exclamation points—were Patty’s hearts and x’s and o’s.

Lady returned the card to the credenza. She took the professional photo of Beef, the one with the tongue. She held the frame with both hands, looked into the dog’s brown eyes. She dropped it, frame and all, into her purse.

Leaving, she made sure to close the door to the dentist’s office, to punch in the alarm code, to secure the outside locks—to do everything methodically and correctly so nothing would let on she’d been here. Once outside, she hurried past the Terminal Bar, jetéd over the Puddle Styx, trundled up the metal staircase, and caught the Broadway local, which was shimmying on the platform, waiting to take her home.

The blade of the acid-green screwdriver didn’t come close to fitting into the grooves of the screw. Lady looked at the tip of the blade and realized the thing she’d purchased wasn’t a screwdriver at all. Oh, sure, it looked like a screwdriver, but it was something else, a screwdriver’s stepbrother, a bastard screwdriver, the tip shaped like a crucifix.

She was so disappointed in herself, felt so inept, so useless, she couldn’t help it; she, who never cried, began to weep. She had to give herself another little lecture, tell herself that it wasn’t a big deal, that she’d simply return to the store and exchange the screwdriver-like tool for an actual screwdriver. How hard would that be? She knew she could alternatively stick the impostor screwdriver into a drawer, then go out and buy a replacement within blocks of her apartment. It wasn’t as if the aggregate cost of the almost-screwdriver and a genuine screwdriver both was going to break her. But if she did that, then she would have to live with a screwdriver-like device that made her feel stupid. She might as well have invited Joe Hopper back.

She wiped her eyes with a nearby dish towel and got a grip. The truth was, she needed to go back to Riverdale anyway. She not only had to return the goddamn screwdriver, she had to return the photo of Beef. How stupid to give in to the impulse to swipe it. How baffling the impulse itself. Had she imagined that the dentist, when he surveyed his new and improved office, wouldn’t notice its absence?

Of course he’d notice its absence. A professional portrait, scheduled, paid for. He’d ask the wife if she had deaccessioned the photo; the wife would say no. Then one of two things would occur. He’d accuse the wife of lying. He’d tell her he’d always known she didn’t love Beef. He’d say that this, her stealthy elimination of his dog’s portrait, was the first step in removing Beef from his life. He’d add that mauve was no color for a man’s office. A fight, then a divorce, would ensue. He’d tell Lady he’d been a fool.

Or he’d figure out at once that it was Lady who took the picture in what, he’d conclude, was some sort of statement, some sort of expression of Lady’s attachment to him, of her never expressed but clearly out-of-control desire for him, of her persistent if wrongheaded conviction that they had a relationship. Or maybe he’d think it was some kind of threat—admit we have a relationship or you’ll never see your dog again—when all it was, really, was an irresistible urge to screw with the wife’s prissy and predictable sense of interior design, to violate the rigid order of the photographs.

But he’d never get it, would never see the verve, the art, the sly humor in what she’d done, and so, when she went back to the hardware store later that same day to return the acid-green piece of useless crap she’d bought, the photograph was still in her purse so she could return it too.

She should have realized the hardware store would close early on the Saturday of a long Fourth of July weekend, but she hadn’t, which is why, at two o’clock, she found herself standing on the street looking at the half-lowered security gate sprayed with graffiti: gang symbols, swastikas, the names of lovers in hearts.

One of the brothers who owned the place came outside, crouching to avoid hitting his head on the gate. He was wearing dark blue work pants and a malodorous short-sleeved dress shirt. On his head he’d plopped, of all things on this sultry afternoon, a felt homburg. The hat appeared to possess gravity-defying properties, remaining atop his head even as he exited the store in this half-bent position, as if he were dancing the limbo upside down. He was sweating oceans, of course. Each of the large pores of his purple fleshy nose was ringed with gray moisture. He stood, looked briefly at Lady, then turned his back on her.

This was what courage looked like for Lady: she didn’t immediately retreat. Instead she pulled the screwdriver from her purse, explained her problem, told him the whole sad saga.

“Forget it, lady,” he said when she was done. He still hadn’t turned to face her. “I ain’t taking that back.”

She looked around, as if for support, as if there might be some neutral observer stepping up to assist her. But it was the Saturday of the long Fourth of July weekend. It was New York. The street was empty.

She tried explaining again. Right screw, wrong blade.

He spun around. For a moment she thought he might hit her, that’s how angry he seemed. She thought his anger might have something to do with his heavy accent. Perhaps he didn’t understand English all that well, perhaps he’d misunderstood her, thought she’d said something rude or belittling. But it turned out she was the one who didn’t get it.

“It’s a Phillips head, lady,” he said with disgust.

Over the course of her twenty-six years on this earth, Lady had become extremely adroit at distinguishing the proper from the common noun. Still, his repeating her name, even unwittingly, was disquieting.

“But it didn’t work,” she said. “And I only bought it this morning.” She could hear her voice, the high pitch, the way it fluttered with nerves. “And I have the receipt. Look. It says right here your return policy is seven days.”

“We have a no returns policy for people who don’t know their asses from their elbows,” he said, and then he was back to struggling with the gate. It had gone off its tracks, was the problem. He shook it back and forth, jiggled it, jostled it. She saw that her presence was distracting him, exacerbating his struggle. She took a step back.

He mumbled something, but she didn’t try to make sense of it. She was still caught on what he’d said just before, his verbal addenda to the store’s return policy. She wondered if she’d possibly misheard him. His accent was so thick, after all, that she’d had to stare at his lips to make out his words. She’d stared even though his mouth repelled her, surrounded by that beard, all that short wiry hair. Her perverse mind suddenly compelled her to imagine kissing him, his tongue and facial hairs inside her mouth.

Something she tried never to think about came to her then. It was something that happened about a year earlier, on a warm spring night a few days after Vee and Eddie celebrated their first anniversary. This thing, it had been completely the fault of Joe Hopper. He’d whined and sulked for so long that night, she’d finally given in and agreed to have sex with a small group of their friends: three guys, including Joe, and one other woman.

One of the guys had just acquired a new waterbed. He’d right that minute finished filling it, he told Joe over the phone, and could think of no better way to break it in than with an orgy. Not that any of them had ever participated in an orgy or knew anyone who had. And not that Lady had any interest in an orgy. She couldn’t even abide the word, the way it sounded like some sort of obnoxious diminutive. Pudgy. Budgie. Orgy. But Time and Newsweek and Life and Look all reported that young people like Lady and Joe and their friends were constantly having group sex, and then there was Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice and also John Updike, and now Joe and some of the others had come to feel ripped off.

As they walked to the waterbed owner’s apartment, Lady was silent. It was more, she realized, than her not being interested. She was actively opposed. And even if she had been into it in theory, the specifics disturbed her. She didn’t like the 3:2 male/female ratio in general or the males and other female involved in particular.

On the other hand, she was always trying to prove that she was the opposite of your typical bourgeois dental receptionist, that, unlike all those women the Beats of the Upper West Side had married—women Lady sometimes recognized pushing carts in Gristedes—she was not the kind of wife whose conventionality could destroy an entire literary movement or even a single evening out. So okay, fine, she decided as she trudged alongside her husband. She would go along. When group sex is inevitable, she told herself, one should just lie back and enjoy it … and enjoy it … and enjoy it. Still, the phrase ad nauseam came to mind.

But in the end all her worried ruminating had turned out to be unnecessary. A bottle of Jack and several joints later, the only one of the three boys who could sustain an erection was the satyrical Joe Hopper, and Lady had consequently wound up having sex with no one besides her own husband. Later, while Joe fucked the other woman, the waterbed’s owner asked Lady to help him out by using her mouth, and when she demurred, he said well, what about her hand, and in the interest of not being a complete wet blanket she said okay, fine. “Obviously I’m not attracted to you,” he said pensively as she worked away with no discernible results. He was speaking more to himself than to Lady. “I always thought I was, but”—and here he looked down at the final arbiter—“you can’t argue with The Bone Dog.”

“Or with the absence of The Bone Dog,” the third guy said. He’d given up almost immediately, had taken himself and his own sad puppy to a mildewed easy chair where, still naked, he was reading a yellowed Columbia Spectator from 1968. The riots. The takeover of Grayson Kirk’s office. The good old days.

“Maybe if you pretend you don’t want it,” the waterbed owner suggested, and Lady said, “To be honest, Barry, I don’t.” She considered this a pretty clever response. She was telling the truth, yet Barry and The Bone Dog were free to interpret what she’d said as the pretense requested. But as it turned out, both were wise to her, and her words hurt their feelings. The Bone Dog turned the color of the sky before a thunderstorm and scuttled into itself. It had been small and retreating before; now it looked inside out.

Lady got up off the bed and put on her underpants. She turned her attention to selecting and stacking records on the turntable—the good hostess, even when it wasn’t her party—while Joe Hopper and the other woman went at it for a second time, moaning and grunting far more than was necessary while the unheated and underfilled waterbed gurgled and sloshed.

On the walk home Joe Hopper blamed the other guys’ failures on her. “You never act like you want it,” he said. “You radiate not wanting it. It’s so clear you don’t want it, you rendered a roomful of men at their sexual peak impotent.”

He kicked a trash can. She found it horrifying: she’d married a man who kicked trash cans. “Well, first of all, the room wasn’t full of men. It was just Barry and Norman. And second of all, Barry asked me to radiate not wanting it.”

Joe Hopper was neither mollified nor distracted. “Sometimes,” he said, “I feel like you tricked me into marrying you by pretending you liked sex.”

“No,” she said. “I tricked you into marrying me by pretending I liked you.”

“I want a divorce,” he said.

Outside the hardware store, this memory, in the way of memories, came and went in an instant. The hardware store owner was still wrestling with the gate. What struck her as she stood there holding the Phillips head was that as offensive as he was to her, it was plain she was equally offensive to him. She was, in his eyes, an ignorant woman, a fool who had gotten this far in life without learning the first thing about screws and screwdrivers, professionalism and dilettantism, asses and elbows.

She stepped forward, tried to place herself in the line of his peripheral vision. She was looking at his profile now. He would not turn his head even ninety degrees to look at her. All he did was shake the gate angrily and ineffectually. He reached up, trying to push it back, trying to start all over. As he did, his sleeves fell back, and—his age, his accent; it was no surprise, really—she saw the numbers.

She could never deny she saw them, and she could never deny she knew what they were. Our father, Natan Frankl, had come to the States from a displaced persons camp too. Though most of Lady’s recollections of him were faded or shadowed, some remained vivid.

But her own arm was already in motion. And maybe she didn’t care. Maybe the fact of those numbers didn’t make a damned bit of difference to her. Surely, along with the good and the innocent, plenty of assholes had been carted off to those camps: men who would someday abandon their daughters or insult their well-meaning customers or blithely do unto others as they wish hadn’t been done unto them. She had a theory. About 95 percent of all people populating this sad planet are assholes, she believed, regardless of race, religion, or creed. Accordingly, whenever you meet any member of any demographic, you have a 95 percent chance of meeting an asshole. Which, if you don’t know enough other members of the group, leads you to extrapolate your negative impression to the whole lot of them. This was why Lady believed in integration, mixed marriages, busing, anything that would increase the chances of people encountering and huddling together with the nonassholian 5 percent of humanity.

At this moment, though, she wasn’t reviewing her asshole theory. She was too busy feeling attacked and dismissed, abused and ignored. She was feeling, feeling, feeling, and so, untended and ungoverned, her arm did what it wanted to do, and what her arm wanted to do was throw the acid-green screwdriver at the hardware store owner’s head.

She never had much upper body strength, she never played sports of any kind—back in sixth grade, when she’d been forced to participate in the Presidential Physical Fitness Test, she’d scored in the lowest percentile for throwing—and so she hadn’t expected the screwdriver to go very far. She’d imagined it would fall and hit the sidewalk before it reached the head her arm had been aiming for. Instead the screwdriver did an elegant somersault, and as if assisted by an indiscernible breeze, its cruciform blade struck the man on the side of his cratered nose. He cried out—more in surprise than in pain, Lady felt certain—and covered his nose with both hands.

Now he was looking at her. Now he’d taken note. And now she was ignoring him. She squatted and darted under the half-closed gate. She knew exactly where to go, what to do. She didn’t run, just walked purposefully, to the aisle she wanted, to the right bin, and she took the one thing she was entitled to. Then she strode back to the door and upside-down-limbo’d into the slash of sunlight beyond it, where the stunned store owner stood, Phillips head at his feet, hands at his nose, blood seeping between his fingers.

She held up the screwdriver she’d taken, the rubbery blue. A couple of dollars less than the acid green; he was making money on the exchange. He didn’t care, though. “Oy, mein shnoyts,” he bleated from behind his hands. He dropped his arms, showed her the damage. It was nothing. A lot of blood, yes, but just from a single cut on the side of his left nostril. Nothing deep, nothing dangerous, although it did seem a fragile nose, all that excess purple flesh. It seemed as though it might hurt were someone even to touch it gently. Certainly it had made her wince to look at it.

The only way to avoid looking at it now was to leave. He was yelling about calling a policeman. There was something ridiculous in that—not a cop, not the police, but a policeman, like a small child with great faith in all public servants.

“Go ahead,” she said. “We’ll see whose side he takes,” and she turned and flounced off. She did—she flounced. Entitled and superior. A mean, spoiled brat. She who was none of those things, not ever.

Over the Puddle Styx, up the stairs, onto the train. Even now she wants to say that this was when she first began to grasp the enormity of what she’d done, but that would be a lie. She’d known what she was doing as she was doing it. Stop it, she’d thought as she raised her arm. Walk away, she’d thought as she threw the green tool. What the fuck are you doing? she inquired of herself as she slithered under the gate.

She hadn’t stopped, though. Hadn’t walked away. Thoughts versus feelings, and the winner had been feelings. A huge upset. No one would have predicted it.

But as the euphoria of her fury wore off, Lady became aware of a terrible pain inside her, sharp and systemic, as if she’d swallowed the millions of screws in the store and they were now scraping her organs as they tumbled through her bloodstream. She knew the reason for the pain. The entire encounter had been a test, and she’d failed, and she was hurting inside over that failure—because no matter what that man had done, no matter how badly he’d behaved, no matter how much of an asshole he’d been, she should have been kind. She’d seen the numbers. She’d known his life. Our family had played a part in that life, that living death.

And what had she done? She’d thrown the screwdriver.

To this day, whenever Lady thinks of the hardware store owner—and she thinks of him more often than you’d imagine—she feels the same shame, the same painful scraping of threaded metal through her body. She has to stop what she’s doing. She closes her eyes. She focuses on her breath. She inhales. She exhales. She tries to envision the store owner, wherever he is—dead, she supposes, given that the store is long gone, and he was an old man even in 1976—and when she has conjured him, she does her best to bathe him in love or as close to love as a sinner like Lady can manage.

But back then, as the train carrying Lady home tunneled underground, she felt no love for anyone. She felt only the pain. She was mortified, and she didn’t use the word casually. You didn’t have to be a Latin scholar to figure out its derivation. She wanted right then and there to mort.

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