The Death and Life of Zebulon Finch, Volume 1 Read Free Page A

that together we might tally the times I weathered such sanctions. I so wished to please Mama—sorry, Mother ; let us agree upon Abigail —but came to accept myself as a grave disappointment. Why else wouldn’t this woman traffic in hugs or kisses, those currencies of affection so prevalent in my storybooks?
    No cruelty leveled by Abigail Finch oppressed me more than French. It got so that I could manage but a few hours per night of sleep. My first duty each morn, after dressing, was to enter Abigail’s room, stand rigid before her bed, and recite five minutes of memorized French narrative while she scrutinized every lilt of lip or curl of tongue. She frowned at each stuttered flub and snapped her fingers to make me start over. On bad days, I was there for an hour. But whatglorious serenity felt I when I got it right! My mother appeared to float above the sheets, taken away by my expert telling.
    For five years I believed that hogwash. At age thirteen, I misspoke an obscenity and my sonhood was forever altered. What I meant to recite was Le garçon a regardé le soleil se coucher sur la butte (The boy watched the sun set over the butte.). But B and P sounds are slippery, and the last word came out pute —a vulgar word for “whore.” I nattered past it, perceiving my blunder only after beginning the next paragraph. At first, I thanked my luck that Abigail hadn’t noticed. A mere minute later, I became irked. My sterile life frustrated me, and the idea of getting into real trouble was strangely enticing.
    Again I smuggled the word into a sentence. Again she evinced no ill reaction. I used it twice in repetition: pute, pute. She nodded along. With an icy thrill, I began to insert into my monologue supplementary smut: chatte, merde, connard. She remained satisfied so long as I pronounced my profanities with pluck. When at last I was excused, I had to hide my trembling hands.
    Abigail Finch did not speak French.
    The language, as best as I could guess, had been chosen not for the practical purpose of a future business trip I might take abroad, but rather for the fantasies that French allowed her, of Parisian balls she’d never attend, of twinkling boardwalks along which she’d never stroll, of mystery, of romance, of love. My hundreds of hours of slavish study had nothing to do with me. I was just a knife in Abigail’s silent fight against the deficiencies of Bartholomew.
    So I was a knife, was I? Well, then, I would cut.
    I started to fry my French in spite. Vous êtes bête. (You are stupid.) Vous ne savez rien. (You know nothing.) Vous êtes méchante. (You are mean to me.) Je ne vous aime pas. (I don’t like you.) Abigailsmiled gently and I felt rotten; she nodded wisely and I felt rottener. Loathing oozed from every pore, and rather than soak myself in its hot viscosity, I slopped it back upon her. Je vous déteste, Maman, je vous déteste: I hate you, Mother, I hate you.
    From there the oaths only compounded.
    Forgive me if I do not repeat them here.
    These were the most hurtful things imaginable to say to a person, and I do not believe one can say such things day after day, and month after month, and continue to look into the eyes of the blasphemed. Nor could I look into my own—the reflection I saw inside every pewter teapot and glass clock face repelled me.
    By the day I turned fourteen, I wanted nothing more than to escape the shame and guilt. Youth had served me only anguish; I was eager to leapfrog the teenage years, jump into the big, ugly boots of an adult, and do whatever it took to be, at long last, noticed. If I was fortunate, thought I, I’d become the antithesis of what Abigail wanted. I’d burp in public, guffaw rudely at burlesque, wear the same suit for days on end so that words (embarrassing to me for how stuffily I spoke them) became unnecessary to convey my surly nature.
    That night, before I left, I tiptoed the path I’d taken