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Over a year ago, Grant had started noticing so many little yellow notes stuck up all over the house. She looked just like herself on this day-direct and vague as in fact she was, sweet and ironic. She had a slightly crooked mouth, which she emphasized now with red lipstick-usually the last thing she did before she left the house. The long white hair on Fiona’s mother, even more than the state of the house, had told her all she needed to know about attitudes and politics.) But otherwise Fiona, with her fine bones and small sapphire eyes, was nothing like her mother. (That was the thing that had alarmed Grant’s own mother, a small-town widow who worked as a doctor’s receptionist. Her hair that was as light as milkweed fluff had gone from pale blond to white somehow without Grant’s noticing exactly when, and she still wore it down to her shoulders, as her mother had done. She was a tall, narrow-shouldered woman, seventy years old but still upright and trim, with long legs and long feet, delicate wrists and ankles, and tiny, almost comical-looking ears. Then she put on her golden-brown, fur-collared ski jacket, over a white turtleneck sweater and tailored fawn slacks. She rinsed out the rag she’d been using and hung it on the rack inside the door under the sink. “I guess I’ll be dressed up all the time,” she said. She remarked that she’d never have to do this again, since she wasn’t taking those shoes with her. “I thought they’d quit doing that,” she said in a tone of ordinary annoyance and perplexity, rubbing at the gray smear that looked as if it had been made by a greasy crayon. It came from the cheap black house shoes she had been wearing earlier in the day. Just before they left their house Fiona noticed a mark on the kitchen floor. “Do you think it would be fun if we got married?” “Do you think it would be fun-” Fiona shouted. Sand was stinging their faces and the waves delivered crashing loads of gravel at their feet. He thought maybe she was joking when she proposed to him, on a cold bright day on the beach at Port Stanley. She would drolly repeat some of his small-town phrases. She made fun of them all and of Grant as well. A curly-haired gloomy-looking foreigner was courting her-she said he was a Visigoth-and so were two or three quite respectable and uneasy young interns. Sororities were a joke to her, and so was politics-though she liked to play “The Four Insurgent Generals” on the phonograph, and sometimes also the “Internationale,” very loud, if there was a guest she thought she could make nervous. Fiona had her own little car and a pile of cashmere sweaters, but she wasn’t in a sorority, and her mother’s political activity was probably the reason. The father was an important cardiologist, revered around the hospital but happily subservient at home, where he would listen to his wife’s strange tirades with an absentminded smile. Her mother was Icelandic-a powerful woman with a froth of white hair and indignant far-left politics. It was a big, bay-windowed house that seemed to Grant both luxurious and disorderly, with rugs crooked on the floors and cup rings bitten into the table varnish. ( This story originally appeared in the December 27, 1999, issue of the magazine.)įiona lived in her parents’ house, in the town where she and Grant went to university.
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Laughing in the wind 2001 online archive#
Photograph by Bryan Adams / Trunk Archive