helpless,” she said. “We’ve got you back, but now what? I’m terribly tempted toforget the whole thing, and just cling to our ordinary, privileged existence as to a life raft.”
“I know,” Reed said. “But you don’t mean that. What I can’t figure out is where to go from here. It’s the end of the first act, and we haven’t a clue about the rest of the play. The curtain has fallen, but the audience, thinking it’s all over, has left, and the theatre is empty.”
“At least we didn’t tell Dorothy anything. Or did we?”
“We told her we didn’t want her help anymore. Who knows what she’ll make of that? Let’s hope she’ll put our behavior down to sadness over Banny. The question is, now what?”
Kate, shaking her head, kept her eyes on the road.
Eight
B UT the next day, someone appeared with an idea for the second act.
Reed had called from the office to say he was bringing someone home for a drink, someone who had an idea about the kidnapping. (Kate noticed that he always referred to it as
the
kidnapping, not
my
kidnapping, recognizing that it was as much hers as his.) The someone was named Emma Wentworth, and more would be explained when they met.
Emma Wentworth was the sort of woman whom Kate took to on sight. She had often tried to detail for herself this instant liking and had failed dismally. Or, put more sensibly, she had often come to like, indeed to cherish, women who did
not
make this kind of firstimpression. First impressions were notoriously deceptive. Nonetheless, she warmed to Emma, who was large, not fat, but large, imposing in manner and body.
Emma was also at home in her body, an important factor, and had taken care with her appearance as though she knew how it would, and should, represent her. She wore a dress, fitted on top and at the waist, but with a full skirt, a dress that said: I’m wearing a dress, but I am not wearing a power suit. I have a decent figure for a large woman, but no desire to flaunt my legs nor to worry about where they are when I sit. I am intelligent, competent, reliable, and funny.… Can a first impression have conveyed all that? Well, of course, Reed had brought her home, which said something, and had introduced her as a professor, visiting at Reed’s law school this semester.
Emma accepted a Scotch, yet another confirmation of Kate’s instinctive liking, and began talking. “Reed has told me about his adventure—in fact he has told everybody, who told everybody else, in the hope of stirring up some answers. I said Reed’s adventure, but the adventure was, in fact, yours, which I consider a vital point. One of my students, having heard the story—somewhat embellished, as I subsequently learned, in the retelling—passed it on to me. I dropped in on Reed because I thought I might be able to help you, not with any particulars, but with what I have learned after study of these right-wing groups, how they operate, and how they can be differentiated one from the other. Reed cut me off at thestart of my disquisition and suggested that I tell my theories to you too.”
“I gave Emma the whole story, including the sordid details,” Reed said. “I thought we could use some advice about those we were trying to flush out, and she might as well know it all.”
Kate nodded.
“I’ve been studying right-wing groups,” Emma said, “their motivations and their differences. One of the points we liberals miss is that those on the right agree when it comes to all modern forms of art—whether literature, entertainment, or even music—they all agree that its influence is debilitating, probably evil. As Wendy Steiner has put it”—she opened her notebook—“ ‘for the opponents of the liberal academy, complexity and ambiguity are merely mystifications, and contemporary art in fact compounds social disorder. The world’s ills should be overcome instead by the enforcement of hierarchies and systems inherited from the past, with art’—and of
“I know,” Reed said. “But you don’t mean that. What I can’t figure out is where to go from here. It’s the end of the first act, and we haven’t a clue about the rest of the play. The curtain has fallen, but the audience, thinking it’s all over, has left, and the theatre is empty.”
“At least we didn’t tell Dorothy anything. Or did we?”
“We told her we didn’t want her help anymore. Who knows what she’ll make of that? Let’s hope she’ll put our behavior down to sadness over Banny. The question is, now what?”
Kate, shaking her head, kept her eyes on the road.
Eight
B UT the next day, someone appeared with an idea for the second act.
Reed had called from the office to say he was bringing someone home for a drink, someone who had an idea about the kidnapping. (Kate noticed that he always referred to it as
the
kidnapping, not
my
kidnapping, recognizing that it was as much hers as his.) The someone was named Emma Wentworth, and more would be explained when they met.
Emma Wentworth was the sort of woman whom Kate took to on sight. She had often tried to detail for herself this instant liking and had failed dismally. Or, put more sensibly, she had often come to like, indeed to cherish, women who did
not
make this kind of firstimpression. First impressions were notoriously deceptive. Nonetheless, she warmed to Emma, who was large, not fat, but large, imposing in manner and body.
Emma was also at home in her body, an important factor, and had taken care with her appearance as though she knew how it would, and should, represent her. She wore a dress, fitted on top and at the waist, but with a full skirt, a dress that said: I’m wearing a dress, but I am not wearing a power suit. I have a decent figure for a large woman, but no desire to flaunt my legs nor to worry about where they are when I sit. I am intelligent, competent, reliable, and funny.… Can a first impression have conveyed all that? Well, of course, Reed had brought her home, which said something, and had introduced her as a professor, visiting at Reed’s law school this semester.
Emma accepted a Scotch, yet another confirmation of Kate’s instinctive liking, and began talking. “Reed has told me about his adventure—in fact he has told everybody, who told everybody else, in the hope of stirring up some answers. I said Reed’s adventure, but the adventure was, in fact, yours, which I consider a vital point. One of my students, having heard the story—somewhat embellished, as I subsequently learned, in the retelling—passed it on to me. I dropped in on Reed because I thought I might be able to help you, not with any particulars, but with what I have learned after study of these right-wing groups, how they operate, and how they can be differentiated one from the other. Reed cut me off at thestart of my disquisition and suggested that I tell my theories to you too.”
“I gave Emma the whole story, including the sordid details,” Reed said. “I thought we could use some advice about those we were trying to flush out, and she might as well know it all.”
Kate nodded.
“I’ve been studying right-wing groups,” Emma said, “their motivations and their differences. One of the points we liberals miss is that those on the right agree when it comes to all modern forms of art—whether literature, entertainment, or even music—they all agree that its influence is debilitating, probably evil. As Wendy Steiner has put it”—she opened her notebook—“ ‘for the opponents of the liberal academy, complexity and ambiguity are merely mystifications, and contemporary art in fact compounds social disorder. The world’s ills should be overcome instead by the enforcement of hierarchies and systems inherited from the past, with art’—and of
Similar Books
