Red Clocks(49)

The biographer’s ex?therapist asked, “Are you claiming not to need a romantic relationship in order to shield yourself from disappointment and rejection?”

“Would you ask that question of a male client?”

“You’re not a male client.”

“But would you?”

“Maybe, sure.” He folded spotty hands on a baggy corduroy lap. “I am simply wondering to what extent your campaign to have a baby is a defense against the pain of being alone.”

“Did you say campaign?”

“I’m recalling the period when you were sleeping with—Zeus, was it?”

“Jupiter,” she said.

“Jupiter, and you told me that you’d just as soon support the death penalty as have a relationship with him. And yet you were fucking him.” He said “fucking” with a relish that disturbed the biographer even more than “campaign.” “There’s of course also the issue of your brother, who abandoned you in rather a gruesome fashion.”

The biographer never set foot in his office again.

Things I have failed at:

Finishing book

Having baby

Keeping brother alive



She starts dialing Susan, to cancel. Then thinks about being alone all night, smelling the broken oranges.

Bex meets her on the porch steps. “You’re not dressed up,” accuses the girl, herself stuffed into a burgundy pinafore and black patent leathers. “It’s Christmas Eve eve!”

“Sorry,” says the biographer, clenching her fists.

“I made popcorn for the reindeer.” Bex points to a salad bowl on the lawn.

In Mínervudottír’s day, sleeping bags were made from reindeer hides, the hairy skin good for warming wrecked men huddled on bergs.

“For my Christmas I asked for a kitten, but my mom says Santa can’t bring a kitten, which is a lie because a girl in my class got one for Hanukkah.”

The biographer sits beside her on the damp step. “Well, Santa doesn’t deliver Hanukkah presents, only Christmas presents.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s how it works.”

“But I want a Hanukkah present,” says Bex, fingering a burgundy button.

“You’re not Jewish.”

“I want to switch to Jewish. Also, what’s a cunt?”

The biographer leans to examine the eye-shaped pattern carved into the railing. “Um, have you asked your mom?”

“No, because it goes in the special box.”

“Did you ask your dad?”

“He said let’s talk about it later. Look it up on your phone.”

“My phone can’t look things up; it’s too old. ‘Cunt’ is just another word for vagina.”

In Faroese: fisa.

“Okay,” says Bex, taking her hand.

The tinsel has been hung halfheartedly; the eggnog resembles a bodily fluid; Susan looks as though she’d rather be anywhere else. They’ve been invited to gather because it’s what you do, and Susan is a person who does what you do. At the teachers’ picnic last summer she said to a fellow mother, “You don’t truly become an adult until you have kids.” The fellow mother said, “Totally.” The biographer, standing nearby with a mustard-glopped hot dog, said, “Seriously?” but this went unheard. Susan is an expert in adulthood. Kid things, cooking things, knowing which fork to use for fish in a high-end restaurant things. And the Korsmos live in what is basically a mansion, even if it was built as a summer home, because a summer home in the 1880s was fancier than today’s average winter home. Susan’s parents own it, but the deed will doubtless come to her.

You don’t even want a house, the biographer reminds herself.

Didier is bent over an open oven, squirting pan juices on a sizzling hunk of meat. “Get ready for some fine damn beef,” he greets the biographer. John comes barreling toward the oven, but his father yanks him up in time (“No scorched babies on my watch”) and sets him down (“Go find your porcupine book”), and he scampers away. “You know, I wanted to name that kid Mick. I should’ve argued harder. John Korsmo is a real-estate agent, but Mick Korsmo is a badass.”

“Except,” says the biographer, “that pretty much every one-syllable word that rhymes with Mick has a negative, lewd, or derogatory connotation. Ick. Sick. Lick. Prick.”

“Wow,” says Didier.

“Kick. Brick. Trick—”

“Why is brick negative, eh?” he says. “Unless it’s a brick of heroin, although that, to some people, would be very positive indeed.”

Straw.

Camel.

She’s really in no mood.

“Didier, is there any particular reason you mention heroin so much?”

He frowns. “Do I?”

Keep your legs, Stephens.

“Well, yes, actually, and somebody important to me died from it, so I would appreciate it if you’d stop glamorizing it when I’m around.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He frets an oily strand of blond hair between his fingers. Purple lids hood blue-gray eyes. Beau-laid. “A boyfriend?”

Her face pounds with heat. “Somebody important,” she says.

“Such as a boyfriend?”