funny—childish, prankish, but somehow witty, and light. Whereas with this stuff, it seemed to Jean, the thread was hatred—always humorless—whatever else it pretended to be about: men determined to con and dupe, to corral and harness. Head’em up and move’em out. The format was as reliable as any Western—the cowboysusing not only the good-hearted whores and sultry señoritas but also the Indians, the horses, the cattle, and sometimes even the faithful little dog.
Jean signed out. She didn’t believe that turning away could restore her to a state of innocence or, for that matter, get rid of Giovana, with whom she had so incongruously and enthusiastically grappled. But at least she’d learned something—that she’d had enough.
S he was looking for her car keys and called out to check on how ready Phyllis was. Totally ready; it was Jean who was searching for her sunglasses now, and where was the good map? These two weeks felt like a month. Time to go to the airport.
To her amazement, her mother seemed to count the visit a perfect success and in the car was brimming with praise for all things Jean—her house, her island, even her hair. As Phyllis herself might say, Who’d a thunk it? They tooled along the red road, ticking off the highlights: the botanical garden for sure, the Baie des Anges, but best of all, the Beausoleil Captive Breeding Center, where Jean had made a date to go back and interview the director, Bruce McGhee, about his plans to release all the kestrels into the wild. She’d never forget feeding that runty bird—what was his name, Bud?—and was determined to write about it, but not for Mackay. Mrs readers wouldn’t take an interest in extinction unless it was unfolding on Exmoor.
She’d held out a dead white mouse on her flattened palm, like an apple offered to a horse. And as with her first up-close pony at age six, she’d been nervous, had wanted to toss or at least dangle the bait. A tail, a stem—who’s to say that’s notwhat they’re for? The horse with his smoker’s teeth had rewarded her stillness with a gummy tickle that had given her a first idea of what kissing a boy might be like. And here, forty years on, with the same palm outstretched as if for fortunetelling, she’d again stood still. The bird swooped: the brown wings, speckled white body and bright black eye, and a ripple of air no greater than from a baby yawning—then the almost imperceptible caress of talons on her hand as the kestrel took the mouse, bore it off, lifting up and out of sight.
While Phyllis looked out the car window, committing the island to memory, Jean imagined how she’d soon hug her and then wave at her in the window of the small plane, how she’d stand on the runway still waving as the wind of the propeller flattened and then raised and then flattened her hair, giving the lie, and comically, to Phyllis’s praise. When the little plane was finally out of sight Jean would walk, no, she would stride over to the rental car, the late sun on her shoulders, and treat herself by not returning it today, or even tomorrow. On the way home her spirits instead of sinking would continue to rise.
In the event, it wasn’t quite like this. Driving back, she saw the women’s clinic ahead and remembered that she’d never picked up her mammogram results. Surely they’d have called her if there was anything wrong, but it was too infantile not to go in and collect them. As she crossed the waiting room, jangling her keys to dispel the silence, the formerly cool nurse rose and came around from behind the reception desk to greet her. It seemed they’d been trying to contact her—hadn’t she gotten the letter? Jean registered a brief surge of nausea.
Handing over the wobbly manila envelope containing her X-rays, the nurse explained that the mammogram was unsatisfactory—or did she mean inconclusive? They recommended une échographie. Jean had difficulty taking in this information and not only because of
Jean signed out. She didn’t believe that turning away could restore her to a state of innocence or, for that matter, get rid of Giovana, with whom she had so incongruously and enthusiastically grappled. But at least she’d learned something—that she’d had enough.
S he was looking for her car keys and called out to check on how ready Phyllis was. Totally ready; it was Jean who was searching for her sunglasses now, and where was the good map? These two weeks felt like a month. Time to go to the airport.
To her amazement, her mother seemed to count the visit a perfect success and in the car was brimming with praise for all things Jean—her house, her island, even her hair. As Phyllis herself might say, Who’d a thunk it? They tooled along the red road, ticking off the highlights: the botanical garden for sure, the Baie des Anges, but best of all, the Beausoleil Captive Breeding Center, where Jean had made a date to go back and interview the director, Bruce McGhee, about his plans to release all the kestrels into the wild. She’d never forget feeding that runty bird—what was his name, Bud?—and was determined to write about it, but not for Mackay. Mrs readers wouldn’t take an interest in extinction unless it was unfolding on Exmoor.
She’d held out a dead white mouse on her flattened palm, like an apple offered to a horse. And as with her first up-close pony at age six, she’d been nervous, had wanted to toss or at least dangle the bait. A tail, a stem—who’s to say that’s notwhat they’re for? The horse with his smoker’s teeth had rewarded her stillness with a gummy tickle that had given her a first idea of what kissing a boy might be like. And here, forty years on, with the same palm outstretched as if for fortunetelling, she’d again stood still. The bird swooped: the brown wings, speckled white body and bright black eye, and a ripple of air no greater than from a baby yawning—then the almost imperceptible caress of talons on her hand as the kestrel took the mouse, bore it off, lifting up and out of sight.
While Phyllis looked out the car window, committing the island to memory, Jean imagined how she’d soon hug her and then wave at her in the window of the small plane, how she’d stand on the runway still waving as the wind of the propeller flattened and then raised and then flattened her hair, giving the lie, and comically, to Phyllis’s praise. When the little plane was finally out of sight Jean would walk, no, she would stride over to the rental car, the late sun on her shoulders, and treat herself by not returning it today, or even tomorrow. On the way home her spirits instead of sinking would continue to rise.
In the event, it wasn’t quite like this. Driving back, she saw the women’s clinic ahead and remembered that she’d never picked up her mammogram results. Surely they’d have called her if there was anything wrong, but it was too infantile not to go in and collect them. As she crossed the waiting room, jangling her keys to dispel the silence, the formerly cool nurse rose and came around from behind the reception desk to greet her. It seemed they’d been trying to contact her—hadn’t she gotten the letter? Jean registered a brief surge of nausea.
Handing over the wobbly manila envelope containing her X-rays, the nurse explained that the mammogram was unsatisfactory—or did she mean inconclusive? They recommended une échographie. Jean had difficulty taking in this information and not only because of
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