EllenPall.com - AMONG THE GINZBURGS Chapter One

"Anatole." Sunny Ginzburg Bronski touched her husband's arm. "Please drive."

Anatole sat unmoving, his right hand poised on the stick shift, his left on the bottom of the steering wheel. The Triumph's engine thrummed, sending tiny vibrations up through the spines of its two passengers.

"You might still get pregnant," he repeated. "Say you'll consider one more round at the clinic. Three's a charm."

Anatole's outsized features were arranged to look vulnerable and pleading, and he had turned his head just enough so Sunny got his face in three-quarter view, his favorite. A tiny muscle near his dark right eye twitched. Behind his head, outside the car, thousands of spindly, leafless branches crazed a delftware sky. POSTED. NO HUNTING! read a sign by an old, fat, red mailbox marked "Ginzburg." A few yards up the twisting driveway a peeling, hand-painted wooden placard begged, DEER. CREATURES. SLOW. The road behind them seemed deserted.

Sunny put her knuckles up against her window. The glass was wonderfully cold. She rolled it down. Sharp, dry air prickled the insides of her nostrils. "Drive to the house," she said. She made an effort to smile and briefly succeeded. "It's almost a mile and I don't want to walk."

"You owe it to me. One more time. Think about it. I'd do it for you if it was my body."

"Anatole, I love you very much, but you wouldn't take a flu shot without calling the C.D.C. first." She gave a short, barking laugh. "Let's not get theatrical here, just go up the damn driveway, okay?"

With a lurch, Anatole threw the car into first. Accelerating grimly, he headed up the narrow drive. Brambles on both sides scratched at the headlights and caught in the bumpers as he shaved the curves. Ruts in the dirt made the car leap. Over the low whine of the motor, Sunny heard the crash of an animal loping off into the woods. She rolled up her window. As they crested the last hill, Anatole stepped on the gas, roared forward, veered, skirted a parked silver Prelude and skidded to a halt six inches short of the house. He jerked the shift into park and killed the engine.

They had stopped outside a red wooden farmhouse, the simple, artless kind of house found on small farms all over the Catskills. It sat on a swell of earth above a wide sweep of fields. For many years, it had been the Ginzburg family's summer headquarters. Now it belonged to Sunny's brother Mark.

The fields around it were covered with short, yellowing grass. The sky was a silent dome clapped over the circling hills; the crisp air smelled of pine. To the west, already dropping toward the horizon, the sun made a pale pink mirror of a distant pond.

"Thank you for that ridiculous performance." Sunny unsnapped her seat belt. "Do you ever think of anything but yourself?"

Anatole turned to answer, then thought better of it. They both scrambled to get out. Neither noticed a woman's interested face looking out a window at them.

Inside the kitchen, Claire Ginzburg shut off the tap. Sunny and Anatole's Triumph was in the driveway. She hadn't heard them pull in; the running water must have masked the sound.

Her eyes widened. They had certainly come close enough to the wall of the house. As she watched, Sunny emerged from the car. She turned to face Anatole, who was easing himself out on the driver's side. He straightened, his back to Claire. His thick, dark hair, almost shoulder length, churned in a gust of wind.

They moved sideward to face each other over the hood. Anatole leaned forward; Claire could see his large hands pressed against the metal. The hood must be hot after a drive all the way up from the city.

If he spoke, she couldn't hear him.

"I am thinking of us." Anatole's voice was unnaturally low; Sunny had to work to make out his words. "Both of us. Our future. If we give up now, it will throw a shadow over our marriage forever."

Abruptly, Sunny leaned as far forward as she could over the hood. "Don't threaten me." She spoke in a sarcastic whisper. She hated that cheap actor's trick Anatole had of lowering his voice. "This has nothing to do with us. It has nothing to do with our anything. This is my body. And I'm glad to say that, in the state of New York, even a married woman's body remains her own property."

Claire turned from the sink and called across the kitchen in the direction of the open cellar door. "Mark? Sunny and Anatole are here." Then she turned to glance out the window again. Anatole had straightened. "Playing Hepburn and Tracy, I think," added Claire over her shoulder. She glanced out once more, mumbled to herself, "Maybe Catherine and Heathcliff," twisted the tap back on and resumed washing the dust off the wineglasses.

"Sunny, you are being very stubborn. I'm asking that you make no decision for a day. One day, that's all."

"No." She began to back away from the car. "I'm stubborn? You're the one who refuses to realize I'm not going to get pregnant. Not going to get pregnant. No matter what we try, no matter how many times we try it. Understand? But you're such a gambler--with my body, of course--such a cockeyed optimist, such a sport, so ready to give the old dice another roll--my dice, of course--so pathetically hopeful--" She kicked her door shut, blinking down a sudden springing of tears. "Look, if you don't mind, my father happens to be inside this house. I'm going to see him now. Okay?"

She turned away. Anatole watched her hair tremble and snap around her shoulders as she stalked toward the house. Then he went to the trunk, flung it open and hurled their bags into the driveway.

Ignoring the stubbled, rolling fields and the dark trees thick behind them, Sunny marched up the worn steps to the front door. It was unlocked. She yanked it open so hard it bounced on its hinges, then slammed it shut behind her. A moment later, she heard .Anatole thud against it, clumsy with baggage.

She raised a hand to the knob, changed her mind and fled to the coat closet under the stairs, standing half inside it. From there, she watched the heavy doorknob wiggle until Anatole finally managed to turn it. He staggered in and dropped the bags. Then, pretending not to see her, he shed his jacket, draped it over the suitcases and made for the kitchen.

"Idiot," breathed Sunny. "Hurtful idiot."

At the whoosh of the swinging door between the hallway and the kitchen, Claire turned again from the sink, shaking her wet hands and glancing around for the dish towel. As she had thought, Anatole's hair was a good deal longer than when she had last seen him. He hadn't shaved today; indeed, a moment later she noticed he still had a smudge of makeup under one eye. He swept halfway across the room, then stopped to execute an elaborate bow. The plume of an imaginary musketeer's hat trailed across the gleaming linoleum. He marched up to her.

"Claire."

Claire stood on tiptoe to lift her face to him, her wet hands high in the air to either side. He was a good ten inches taller than she. Solemnly, he kissed her cheek. His cheek was chilled and rough.

"You look marvelous," he said.

"I can imagine," said Claire, who had not slept through a night for nearly a week.

"Where's Mark?"

"Down in the cellar fetching wine. He'll be up in a minute."

"Are the others here yet? Mimi? Charlotte? Mr. Ham-in-the-Sandwich? I didn't see any cars."

The "Ham-in-the-Sandwich" was .Mark's brother, Ira, the middle child of the five Ginzburg brothers and sisters. Mark himself was the oldest. After Mark came Charlotte, who had lived for decades in Califor-nia; the two of them were known in the family as the Bigs. Sunny and Mimi--the youngest--were the Littles.

"You're the first," said Claire, who had been hoping Mimi would be first. She glanced vaguely at the refrigerator, trying to remember what else she needed to do, then moved tentatively toward the sink. "Where's Sunny?"

"Sulking in the cloakroom, when last seen." Anatole drifted to the stove, lifted the lid off a pot and sniffed deeply. The kitchen was a long rectangle, with the appliances lined up on one wall and most of the counters and cabinets opposite. It had been redone not long ago; everywhere, spotless white Corian and red baked enamel gleamed. A butcher block table stood in the center of the room, bristling with knives. At the kitchen's far end, near a mudroom, was a breakfast nook with red leatherette banquettes, red-striped wallpaper and a pair of red-shuttered windows.

"We don't have a cloakroom."

"The hall closet, then. The understairs, the where-you-will. The place with all the bobsleds and snowshoes and jackets. What's this stuff, invalid fare?"

"Vanilla pudding. For Mark. He likes it."

Anatole replaced the lid. There was no sign in his face-of the argument Claire had just witnessed. His exaggerated features were composed, amiable. Anatole was not really handsome, but he was so accomplished at creating the impression of handsomeness that few people noticed. It was his belief that even Sunny hadn't noticed. Claire thought him very good-looking, though his large hands and feet and his massive Saint Bernard's skull alarmed her a little.

"Pudding for Mark he likes it," he echoed vacantly. "Anyway, Sunny's out there. Please don't mention her. We're scrapping. I'm sorry we--she--barged in without knocking."

"Wouldn't have it any other way." Mark's voice, then Mark, came up the stairs from the cellar. He set down the half dozen wine bottles cradled in his arms and stretched his hand out to his brother-in-law. Anatole pumped it vigorously.

"Mark, Mark, Mark. You old son of a gun, how are you? Sorry about"--he pointed up at the ceiling--"you know. Your dad."

Mark extricated his hand from Anatole's frenzied grip and rubbed it lightly, nodding in acknowledgment. He was a tall man, almost as tall as Anatole, but long-faced, ginger-haired, teardrop-shaped. He had the same high waist as Sunny; all the Ginzburgs had that waist. -In the last five or six years, his fuzzy ginger hairline had begun to creep slowly up his gently freckled forehead.

He sucked in his belly, but without any visible result. Anatole has to keep his weight down, he thought. It's his job. I would too, if it were my job. Aloud, "It's been hardest on Claire," he said. "She's been doing the nursing."

Claire had gone back to rinsing off the platters they'd need for dinner. Now both men turned to look at her back. The delicate scissoring motion of her shoulder blades was discernible through her yellow sweater. Claire had always been small, but in her teens and early twenties--when Mark first met her--she had been enlarged by plumpness. She was soft and round then, with a dark page boy, shiny brown eyes and blunt, oddly middle-aged features. From the time she gave birth to their first child, though, she had grown smaller and smaller. Her figure dwindled, her cheeks sank. Now her features were fine and sharp. Her graying hair was boy-short, exposing her ears and marooning her eyes in the milky oval of her face. The skin over her cheekbones was delicately scored. A crease had just begun to descend from under her chin toward her convex collar bone.

Anatole went to the sink and draped a heavy arm over her shoulders. "That's the trouble with these helping professions, eh?" he said. "People always expect you to help."

"Bet that doesn't happen to you very often," she murmured.

"Nope." Cheerfully, he clapped her on the back. "People mostly expect actors to be a pain in the butt. I can't tell you how exhausting it is, but one obliges. Where is my wife, anyway? I'm afraid she may be starting a marathon pout. Mark, go out and interrupt her, will you? She's your sister."

Mark looked anxious. His high forehead puckered slightly, and he pulled his short lower lip into his mouth, pinning it there with his front teeth. "Has she been taking it hard?"

For a moment, his brother-in-law stared at him, puzzled. Then, "Oh, that," he said, pointing up again. "Um--mixed feelings, I guess. About what you'd expect. Curious. Sad." He studied Mark's expression for a hint of his emotions. "Perhaps just a teeny, teeny bit resentful. She had kind of shut the old lunatic out of her heart. Hadn't you?"

Mark started to answer, changed his mind and left the kitchen. His sister was not in the front hall, nor the living room. He glanced up the stairs, then out one of the narrow windows that edged the front door. Under a towering blue spruce next to the driveway, Sunny was striding around and around in a small circle. She wore no coat. He started to go OUt to her, then noticed she was talking. Though the temperature was above freezing, he thought he saw her breath steam in the air. For a little while, he watched. Then, thoughtfully, he picked up Anatole's jacket and put it away.

"That's finished," Sunny muttered into the wintry afternoon. "All finished. Thank God." She inhaled deeply, forbidding herself to cry.

In the kitchen, meantime, as Mark's footsteps had faded away, Anatole said, "I shouldn't have called his father a lunatic, I guess." His voice dropped. "He couldn't have heard me, could he?"

"Meyer?" Claire went to the stove, found the pudding had boiled and began to pour it into thick Pyrex cups. "Not possibly."

"What's your impression of him? You'd met him before, hadn't you? Or hadn't you?"

"Once. In 'seventy-seven. He was . . . gee, sixty, I guess. I would call him . . . eccentric. Entertaining, but completely wrapped up in himself. Not much judgment. He told June some folktale about a demon that scared the bejesus out of her. She was only four or five, and she slept with us for a month afterwards. On the other hand, he and Mark got into a discussion about--the distribution of wealth, I think it was, that Mark says was the single most interesting discussion he's ever had. And then in the morning, of course, with barely a heigh-ho, he galloped back out of our lives. Don't," she interrupted herself, as Anatole dipped a finger into a pudding cup, then slipped it into his mouth.

"Yeck." He ran his finger under the tap.

"It tastes better when it's cold." With a spatula, Claire scraped the last of the pudding into the cups, setting the one Anatole had sullied aside. "This will be yours. Anyway, Meyer seems a bit more able to focus on the people around him now." She pulled a knife from a drawer to scrape the pudding off the spatula. "But he still has quirks. He spent all day Wednesday lying on the floor in his room, because the vibrations were better and he needed to ground himself. And he had us move his bed against a different wall so his head would point north. He brought a suitcase full of b30ks about human electromagnetics and paganism and I don't know what. Of course, he's not really up to reading."

"How sick is he?"

"Sick. Very." Finally, she set the sticky pot on a cold burner and leaned against the counter next to the stove, facing him. "And that reminds me, why exactly is Sunny upset?"

"Oh. Well, naturally, her father . . ."

Claire waited.

"Plus she's got some bee in her bonnet about--Come to think of it, I don't know if it would be discreet to tell you. Sorry about that. Sanctity of the conjugal relationship and everything. Private."

"Anatole, have you been fooling around?"

"Claire, you wrong me. I never fool around."

She looked carefully at him, narrowly; but Anatole merely beamed back, giving her the look he had practiced in his adolescence, while other boys shot baskets or played air guitar in their rooms.

"Hmm," she said.

"I'm looking"--he smiled--"I'm looking at your very lovely left ear--"

Claire turned abruptly, snatched up the sticky pudding pot and dumped it in the sink. Her face was burning. In the three years since Sunny had married Anatole, Claire had come to expect behavior like this from him. But expecting it wasn't the same as knowing what to do about it, or even what he meant by it.

From behind her, she heard him say thoughtfully, "Isn't that funny? About pudding, I mean. Why shouldn't it taste just as good when it's warm? It seems to go against nature."

"Why don't you go out and find the others?" She filled the pot with dish soap and water. "I'll be out in a minute."

"Why don't you tell me more about nursing the Lone Ranger up there?"

Her cheeks had settled enough that she could turn around again. She did so, a huge wooden carving board clapped to her chest. Anatole was lounging against the refrigerator. "Frankly, there isn't much nursing to do. I try to get him to eat and drink, I wake up and check him in the night. But he's really just weak. He dozes off a lot. You know it's a disease of the bone marrow--"

She broke off as the swinging door flashed open. Sunny was with them.

"Claire."

Sunny crossed the room to her sister-in-law. Claire, she thought, looked awful. Pinched and weary. Drudgelike, especially with the pans and platters on the drainboard behind her. She brushed her cold cheek against Claire's slightly flushed one. Without quite looking at him, she sensed that Anatole was pleased with himself. She backed away to lean against the counter directly opposite the refrigerator, so that Claire could not face both her visitors at once.

"You look terrific," Claire said.

Sunny wondered brief y if this could be so, and if not, why Claire would lie. "You look exhausted," she re;plied.

Claire smiled. "It's--" She waved a vague hand skyward.

"Well, naturally. Must be H-E-double toothpicks." Sunny paused, looked off into the middle distance and sniffed attentively, as if she thought she caught a whiff of something burning. "Has my husband been trying to flirt with you?" she asked, focusing again on Claire.

Claire looked at her, unable to think of an answer.

"I see. Never mind. He doesn't mean anything by it. It's just that Anatole's like Will Rogers: never met a man, woman or child he didn't feel the need to seduce one way or another. Or was that Mae West? Anyway, how are you, Claire?" she asked, hitching herself up on the smooth countertop behind her. She added, before Claire could answer, "How's Meyer? I saw Mark in the hall, and he said he was still able to sit up and talk and stuff. Should I go say hello?"

"Well, he's sleeping--"

"Oh." Wildly relieved, Sunny opened the cabinet next to her head and looked in.

"I'd rather not wake him, if you can wait, though he'd probably drift right off again. He sleeps for hours. He must sleep twenty hours a day. But he's perfectly lucid once he's up."

"Good." Sunny looked into an orange bowl she had removed from a stack in the cabinet. "I can wait;"

Claire took advantage of her momentary absorption in the dish to look carefully at her. Sunny was the beauty of the family, but she had no vanity, and now her complexion was starting to go. There were dark spots under her pale blue eyes and deep parentheses etched around the corners of her mouth. Even in the warm kitchen light, her auburn hair was obviously dyed. She ought to go the whole distance and learn to use makeup, Claire thought. She couldn't really afford to dress that way anymore, either. Jeans and a tailored shirt and a green tweed suit jacket that looked as if it had done time in a thrift shop. Now she swung her long feet, knocking the heels of her heavy boots against Claire's newly varnished cabinets.

Sunny returned the bowl and closed the door on what she had concluded was a modern imitation of Fiestaware. She watched as Claire scrubbed out a pot.

"How's New York?"

"Filthy."

"How's the paper?"

"Faltering."

"Really?"

"No, of course not," Anatole answered. "That's just what management likes to say as Christmas bonus time creeps near. There'll be apples aplenty in Santa's stockings, believe me. Only the little elves will wake up to lumps of coal."

"We had a loss of twenty-two million dollars in the third quarter," said Sunny. "Advertising linage dropped one point two percent. When I stopped in yesterday, it was suggested to me I might take Vanessa Redgrave to a coffee shop for lunch when I interview her Monday. But enough of life on the culture desk. How's life up here? What's Audubon like these days?"

"Clean," replied Claire, drying her hands. She picked up the first two pudding cups and carried them to the fridge. "Poor. Would you mind?" she added, as Anatole, blocking the door, languidly watched her approach.

He stepped aside but didn't open the refrigerator. Balancing the cups, Claire used a pinkie to pull the handle.

"You don't miss Westchester?" Sunny asked. She hopped down from the counter and crossed the kitchen to carry the next round of pudding cups to Claire. As she passed Anatole, he quickly caressed her cheek.

"Are you kidding?" Claire answered.

Two years ago, when he was forty-five and she forty-three, Mark and Claire had dismantled their suburban lives and moved permanently up to the Catskills, into the house they had bought a dozen years before from Mark's mother's estate. Since the move, although Mark occasionally helped a former colleague write a brief and Claire still did a little private nursing, they lived mostly off their investments.

"I can't imagine Anatole and me in a house a hundred miles from anywhere," Sunny said, noting with interest the unfamiliar brands and flagrantly processed foods (Pop-Tarts, olive loaf) in her brother's refrigerator. "Alone. Together." She shivered as Claire arrived wi.-h the last of the pudding, then shut the door. "It's like something out of Stephen King."

"What have you done with Mark, anyway, speaking of Stephen King?" With a sponge, Claire wiped a stray blob of pudding off the counter.

"He went to take our suitcases upstairs. I couldn't stop him," she added, as Anatole blinked pointedly at her. "He insisted."

"I'm not completely useless," Anatole muttered, stamping heavily across the room. The swinging door batted back and forth several times behind him.

"You're not completely useful, either," Sunny called after him, though only when he was safely out of earshot.

"Oh dear." Claire filled the kettle and put it on the stove. Then she and Sunny sat down in the breakfast nook. Outside the shuttered window, a line of heavy pine trees stretched up alongside the disused barn. The grass in the meadow before it was sparse and pale. Nearer the house stood a small rose garden muffled in burlap.

"You missed the leaves," said Claire, following Sunny's gaze.

"I don't think I've ever been up here at this time of year."

"Not really worth a House and Garden spread. Kind of betwixt and between."

"It's nice." Conscientiously, Sunny asked after June and Eliot, her niece and nephew. "Will they be home for Thanksgiving?

"June will, Eliot won't. Junie is joining a sorority." Claire shrugged as if to dissociate herself from such organizations, though in fact she had been pleased. She worried about June, who seemed too young to be away at school. The shrug had been for Sunny's sake. Twenty-five years Claire had been married to Mark, and Sunny still made her feel inadequate. Dull. Not cool. A high school idea, but there it was. Once, at Mark's suggestion, she had told Sunny how she felt. Sunny laughed incredulously and disclaimed any interest in fashion or style, if that was what Claire meant. She said she was sorry if she made Claire uncomfortable. Then they went on exactly as before.

"This younger generation," said Sunny, shaking her head. "What will they think of next? You're not going to fly them in when Meyer--? "

She stopped. Down in the city, talking with Anatole, it had been easy to speak of Meyer's illness, Meyer's death. They'd joked about him showing up after all these years to share his last, painful weeks with the family. The sublime crust of it; the pure, sanity-defying egomania of it. Here, though, with Claire across from her and Meyer actually upstairs, things felt different.

Luckily, Claire didn't make her finish her sentence. "He doesn't want a funeral," she said, shaking her head. "He wants to be cremated and have his ashes scattered over moving water. The Hudson, if convenient."

Sunny swallowed. "And when--? "

"Could be tomorrow, could be two weeks. More likely tomorrow. Once he does start to go, he'll go very fast." Claire had explained all this over the phone, not only to Sunny but to Mark's other siblings. But she had often noticed people needed to hear medical information more than once.

"He's not in pain?"

"Not now."

"But he will be?"

"Very likely not. If he is, we'll be able to treat it."

The whistle on the kettle blew. Claire stood up.

"Tea or coffee?"

"Coffee, if it's easy."

For a while, Sunny watched Claire bustle around, measuring coffee, pouring water. Then, slowly, "Claire, dear," she said, "to the best of my knowledge, my father is a flighty, solipsistic cad who abandoned your husband before he was twenty and never paid you the slightest attention. Not that I'm questioning your judgment, of course, but what on earth possessed you to take him in? "

Claire, who could never remember what solipsistic was, said only, "Let's go sit in the living room," and handed Sunny a cup. The house in Audubon was a loose, haphazard pile of wood with generous common rooms downstairs and tiny, low-ceilinged bedrooms over them. Its narrow corridors ran off-kilter; its pine plank floors sloped. It had been built in the 1920s by a dairy farmer named Katz. It came into the hands of the Ginzburgs as a result of a wrong turn Ruth Ginzburg took in the summer of 1950.

She and Meyer and the children were up from the city for a couple of weeks that August, staying at a cheesy resort outside Livingston Manor. Driving Mark and Charlone to a place she had heard they could pick strawberries, Ruth turned up a driveway too narrow to turn around on once she realized it wasn't Overmountain Road. She chugged to the top. Masses of brooding trees ringed smooth, green hills. Cows and sheep looked up inquiringly. In the midst of it all stood a rundown house with a For Sale sign.

Ruth was not a woman much interested in material possessions, yet she felt at once a greedy longing. She was then pregnant with Ira. Mark was six and Charlone four; Sunny and Mimi hadn't been born. Meyer and Ruth weren't shopping for a house, and they didn't have the money to buy one, but two months later, Ruth's grandmother died, leaving a tiny inheritance. The moment she decently could, Ruth phoned the Katzes.

Now Claire led Sunny through the drafty dining room and across the wide front hall into the living room. A spill of late afternoon sunlight spread across the long, shabby couches and battered armchairs (for ages, Claire had wanted to replace or at least reupholster these, but Mark was sentimental about them) and seeped into the folds and curves of the bright rag rug. In the middle of the room sat a square coffee table awash in back issues of The Atlantic, Smithsonian, The New Yorker. Against the wall across from the front windows stood an upright piano slathered with sheet music. In the high stone fireplace opposite the front hall, lion-headed andirons bore up under a heap of gargantuan logs.

Sunny was about to sit when a clanging wail like a fire alarm sounded. She jumped. "Good God!"

"That's Meyer." Claire set her mug on the crowded coffee table. "Mark rigged that bell in case we were outdoors. I'll go see what he wants."

"Should I go with you?" Instantly, the skin across Sunny's shoulders and chest began to prickle with fear.

"No," said Claire, all nurse. "He may have to use the bathroom and feel embarrassed. Let me see what's happening first."

Reprieved, Sunny sank obediently onto the sagging brown corduroy sofa. She hadn't seen her father in over a decade, and then only for an hour. She could wait a little longer.

The living room was very quiet. Sunny sat immobile, ignoring her coffee, looking vacantly at the overflowing bookshelves, adjusting herself to the unaccustomed silence. Her eye fell on a square of needlepoint Claire was working, lying half submerged on the magazine-swamped table. Not enough stitches had been done to make out the design. Sunny had noticed Claire's shrug in the kitchen. She knew exactly what it was. But was it her fault if Claire felt she judged her?

Claire was so good. Without effort, apparently without having to think about it at all, she encouraged the timid, fed the hungry, tended the feeble. If she had complaints, Sunny never heard them. It baffled her. Where did such goodness come from? Didn't Claire have anything else to do?

Sunny shifted on the couch. About her own goodness, she had several competing ideas. Professionally, she thought, she could lay a fairly solid claim to virtue. She often helped the younger. writers at the paper, never stole anyone's story and didn't take cheap shots at the people she wrote about (she did turn them into entertainment--but that, after all, was her job).

Personally, however, she was on shakier ground. Though she loved Anatole and suffered with what she considered saintlike stoicism the countless injuries his personality inevitably threw off when in motion, a deep suspicion told her that he was a much nicer person than she was, that he absorbed her contempt, scorn and impatience as no one else would have done, that his unkindnesses were accidental, while hers were meant. She also suspected she enjoyed the moral high ground she won by appearing to be ill-used.

And it wasn't just her behavior toward Anatole. Sometimes she was shocked by her lack of genuine interest in the people around her. June and Eliot, for example: If she never heard of them again, she wouldn't think once about them. And she did look down on Mark and Claire, so apparently content in their ordinariness, so anonymous, such forces for nothing in the world. She liked that Anatole was famous. She liked seeing her byline in the paper. She was ambitious. She was very ambitious.

Yet she did at least want to be good. Shouldn't that count for something? Why was she so harsh with herself? She would never subject anyone else to such loveless scrutiny; she didn't judge other people. Or rather, she did--but she didn't sentence them. She wouldn't want any ill to come to Claire or Mark. She certainly wouldn't want them killed, the penalty to which she usually sentenced herself in imagination. If she were her own friend, and confessed her nature to herself, she would smile and say, "That's you. What can you do? Relax."

Often, these competing ideas seemed to her to be literally competing inside her. As if each idea were a chariot being driven hard down some cerebral track, the horses panting and steaming, the charioteers ferociously whipping them on. She felt harassed by them, haunted. She would wake in the night and sit in the dim living room over Riverside Drive, examining her conscience.

But in the morning, almost always, she simply rolled back into the flood of whatever it was (hormones? history? Ruth's furious energy, passed along inkier genes?) that made her so . . . relentless was the word she most often used to herself. She couldn't help it. She simply would bully or ridicule or demand or extort whatever it was she needed to get whatever (and there was always something) she wanted. If that was so awful to do, she would find herself thinking, Sue me. Fuck you. Get out of the way.

A tap on the window behind her made her turn around. Anatole, gesturing violently for her to come outside. Beyond him, Mark was aimlessly kicking at some fallen leaves. In profile, her brother's torso was perfectly pear-shaped. Bosc pear-shaped.

Anatole beckoned again, gigantically, then waved at the sky. It was indeed a particularly lush, immaculate blue. Sunny shook her head no. Anatole threw up his hands, rolled his eyes, pleaded. Sunny shrugged, raised an eyebrow and turned away from him. Suppose Claire came down and said Meyer was ready to see her? Anyway, she was not sorry to put a little distance between herself and Anatole just now. After a moment, without turning to look, she felt him move away from the window.

Zoland