From my fiction
Photo by Craig VanDerSchaegen
My mother began preparations for the big day by placing electric candles in every window of our trailer. Next, she installed a battery-powered plastic lamppost outside our front door, weighting it with two old bricks. And finally, from a cardboard box beneath our sofa, she took out an enormous banner she’d made, years before, in an Episcopal Church workshop meant for religious peaceniks. My mother’s banner had nothing to do with God or politics, but when the instructor objected, my mother insisted that her flag was the only truly subversive one, since it read: “Happy Birthday, Jane Austen! We celebrate with Pride and Persuasion!”
“At least my banner defies cultural norms,” my mother said.
From then on, every December 16, she dressed in a Regency gown, bought from a theatrical shop in Chicago, and invited our neighbors to tea.
- From "Natural Selection”
It's a little-known fact that hippos are braver than lions. Female hippos, especially.
They'll fight to the death.
I plunge my hand into my pocket and pull out my jade hippo figurine. When I get nervous, I stroke her smooth back and pat her ears. I’m nervous now, standing in an antiques store, staring at a silver ring with a swirly N.
N for Nina, my name. And for some old lady who just croaked. It’s that kind of antique store—the kind that sells junk from a hundred dead grandmas.
Monogrammed rings don’t make me nervous. Stealing does. My fingers hurt and my breath quickens.
- From THE CRIMINAL GENE
In the past she’d imagined a dead body as part of nature, like a dry Christmas tree that could be tossed into the sea and get taken gently by the tides. Sidle alongside the whales. That idea comforted her as she viewed her MRIs showing snowy patches in the brain. Now, her seizures made her feel like the moon of Aztec myths: a severed head tossed into the sky by an angry god.
—from “Naked Swimmer”
Glynis walks into Chase’s office without knocking. This annoys Chase but she doesn’t say anything. A few months ago, Chase’s Aunt Pat called and demanded Chase hire Glynis because “her husband died and the poor thing needs an outlet.” And Chase accepted because she’s a little afraid of Pat.
She’s a little afraid of Glynis, too.
Chase had expected a helpless fifty-something widow, not a frighteningly capable retired book editor. Glynis types one hundred words per minute, her punctuation is perfect, and she turns extensive case notes into brief, coherent reports.
“Lady outside to see you,” Glynis says, adjusting round black glasses.
“And?”
“She won’t say what it’s about. But she’s wearing pricey glad rags,” Glynis tucks a strand of gray hair into her sleek bun. “I’d say she’s got the goods.”
Ever since becoming Chase’s secretary, Glynis has spoken like the hard-bitten assistant of a 1930s gumshoe. She uses that phrase, too, to Chase’s intense embarrassment. She’s heard Glynis announce over the phone, “I’m personal assistant to the gumshoe.” — from FIRST KILL
“Small details tortured me the most—how an old gentleman craned his neck above the crowd, the way a child in the Metro carried her plastic sand bucket, or how a woman stood with her finger in her mouth as she chose cheap wine from the bottom rack at Nicolas. I couldn’t ignore them except in my sleep.
The light changed in September, from the white-yellow that illuminates dust in the air, to a richer color, the yellow lighting Dutch paintings of a certain era, a deep afternoon warmth. When it rained, the city turned gray, aluminum-colored, and a small detail—the peak of a slate roof against the pale sky—poked under the surface. Memory came up in one long, gasping rush, and I was inside it alone. ”