down in the dust with outspread wings.
Ava says nothing. Then she says, weâre not allowed to do that. In kindergarten. Iâm sure weâre not allowed to lie down in the dust, and Stella hears Jasonâs absent-minded laughter. She clamps Avaâs picture under the magnet on the refrigerator. She unpacks Jasonâs bag, putting the book heâs pretending to read on the bottom step of the staircase â heâll take it up with him later; the book on the night table will be like a sign of his presence â and she finds her joy at that puzzling and complicated. She opens the front door and looks out into the now-whispering rain for a while. Jasonâs car is in the driveway, a sign of his presence to the outside world; itâs all much too simple. Mister Pfister wonât ring the bell tonight. Whenever that car is parked in front of the house heâll busy himself with something else, and heâll collect all the things that are intended for Stella and put them all together. Heâll save them up for Stella.
*
On the third evening she fetches the box from the shed. The garden, overwhelmed by the rain, is a fertile, lush wilderness. Honeysuckle, broom in bloom. The feeling of actually wanting to do something else and not knowing what and instead fetching this box out of the dirty darkness under the workbench is like a symptom. Stella carries the box across the lawn into the house. She is about to put it on the kitchen table and then changes her mind after all; she puts it on the floor, in front of Jasonâs feet, leaves it to Jason to lift off the cover.
She says, Careful.
Jason says, Good heavens.
He sits there bent over the box. Takes things out and lets them drop back in again. The lighter, the roll of packing twine. He opens the red envelope that Stella didnât open, takes out a piece of paper with dense writing on it, leans back and reads.
What does it say, Stella says.
Can you just wait a minute, Jason says. He says, Please.
Then he says, Nothing bad. It doesnât say anything bad. But something ⦠sick, incomprehensible. Drivel, Jason says it as if the entire world were held together by drivel, as if drivel were a principle of life.
He says, Here, take it; itâs all right; you can read it.
He holds the piece of paper out to Stella, a little too close. Stella pushes it away.
I donât want to read it.
She looks at Jason and suddenly wonders whether it might be possible to understand Mister Pfister after all. Impossible for Jason maybe, but possible for her? She understands Dermot; she understands Juliaâs final, decisive silence; she understands Estherâs irritability and Walterâs indistinct speech; after all, she understands quite a few things; maybe she should just find out more about Mister Pfisterâs way of thinking. About the hints, the chorus of voices that seem to vibrate from the box. Also for strategic reasons. To know what makes Mister Pfister tick, how he functions.
But she says, I donât want to read any of that. None of it. I only want to know that thereâs nothing in there about Ava. Nothing that might signal something, do you understand? A threat, an intrusion, something that would go beyond this here.
This here. Gesturing at the box.
Thereâs nothing about Ava in this, Jason says. Heâs reading as he says it; heâs reading the page with the ant-like writing, shaking his head as he reads; he says, Disgusting, thereâs something disgusting about it. Itâs probably good that you donât want to read it. Thereâs nothing in here about Ava and nothing about you. Nothing really about you.
What would a sentence about me be, Stella wonders. A sentence about me that would mean something to you, and the impossibility of finding an answer to this question is clear and stark. She thinks, Iâm actually a mythical figure for Jason. A mythical figure. Thereâs nothing that he could say
Ava says nothing. Then she says, weâre not allowed to do that. In kindergarten. Iâm sure weâre not allowed to lie down in the dust, and Stella hears Jasonâs absent-minded laughter. She clamps Avaâs picture under the magnet on the refrigerator. She unpacks Jasonâs bag, putting the book heâs pretending to read on the bottom step of the staircase â heâll take it up with him later; the book on the night table will be like a sign of his presence â and she finds her joy at that puzzling and complicated. She opens the front door and looks out into the now-whispering rain for a while. Jasonâs car is in the driveway, a sign of his presence to the outside world; itâs all much too simple. Mister Pfister wonât ring the bell tonight. Whenever that car is parked in front of the house heâll busy himself with something else, and heâll collect all the things that are intended for Stella and put them all together. Heâll save them up for Stella.
*
On the third evening she fetches the box from the shed. The garden, overwhelmed by the rain, is a fertile, lush wilderness. Honeysuckle, broom in bloom. The feeling of actually wanting to do something else and not knowing what and instead fetching this box out of the dirty darkness under the workbench is like a symptom. Stella carries the box across the lawn into the house. She is about to put it on the kitchen table and then changes her mind after all; she puts it on the floor, in front of Jasonâs feet, leaves it to Jason to lift off the cover.
She says, Careful.
Jason says, Good heavens.
He sits there bent over the box. Takes things out and lets them drop back in again. The lighter, the roll of packing twine. He opens the red envelope that Stella didnât open, takes out a piece of paper with dense writing on it, leans back and reads.
What does it say, Stella says.
Can you just wait a minute, Jason says. He says, Please.
Then he says, Nothing bad. It doesnât say anything bad. But something ⦠sick, incomprehensible. Drivel, Jason says it as if the entire world were held together by drivel, as if drivel were a principle of life.
He says, Here, take it; itâs all right; you can read it.
He holds the piece of paper out to Stella, a little too close. Stella pushes it away.
I donât want to read it.
She looks at Jason and suddenly wonders whether it might be possible to understand Mister Pfister after all. Impossible for Jason maybe, but possible for her? She understands Dermot; she understands Juliaâs final, decisive silence; she understands Estherâs irritability and Walterâs indistinct speech; after all, she understands quite a few things; maybe she should just find out more about Mister Pfisterâs way of thinking. About the hints, the chorus of voices that seem to vibrate from the box. Also for strategic reasons. To know what makes Mister Pfister tick, how he functions.
But she says, I donât want to read any of that. None of it. I only want to know that thereâs nothing in there about Ava. Nothing that might signal something, do you understand? A threat, an intrusion, something that would go beyond this here.
This here. Gesturing at the box.
Thereâs nothing about Ava in this, Jason says. Heâs reading as he says it; heâs reading the page with the ant-like writing, shaking his head as he reads; he says, Disgusting, thereâs something disgusting about it. Itâs probably good that you donât want to read it. Thereâs nothing in here about Ava and nothing about you. Nothing really about you.
What would a sentence about me be, Stella wonders. A sentence about me that would mean something to you, and the impossibility of finding an answer to this question is clear and stark. She thinks, Iâm actually a mythical figure for Jason. A mythical figure. Thereâs nothing that he could say
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