The Fury of Rachel Monette Read Free

to be proud of? Can they be proud that of the ninety thousand Jews in France who were killed, most weren’t born there?”
    â€œEasy, Dan,” said Henry Gates. “I was three years old when the war started.”
    â€œThat’s not enough protection when you get Dan started on this subject, Henry. It’s his obsession,” Rachel said.
    â€œRight you are, Rachie. Every man needs one, like a five-cent cigar.” Dan held out his glass. “How about a weensy bit more?”
    â€œNumber five, Dan?”
    â€œSo who’s counting?”
    She poured him another. “I just don’t want you to suffer any tissue damage,” she said.
    â€œOh, it takes years and years of drinking to reach that stage,” said Andy, who had the facts from family history. But Dan knew she was talking in code about erectile tissue, and he left his drink untouched.
    â€œJews are tough,” he said when they were in bed.
    â€œIt pays in the end.”
    Later, with her head on his shoulder, she had thought about the book. It had been with them for a long time, almost like another child; a child that needed special attention from both of them. Now Rachel hoped that Dan would regard it as the culmination of years of work, and move on to something else. She said so as they drifted off to sleep. Dan sighed:
    â€œI don’t think I’m finished with it yet, Rachie. There’s always more.”
    Someone, Rachel saw, had discovered the wine cache under the sink. A cigarette butt was floating in a half-full bottle of Gevrey-Chambertin, taxing her level of tolerance to mess. It was high, but it had limits.
    â€œDan,” she called up the stairs, “come help me clean up.”
    â€œCan’t. I’m engaged.” That meant on the toilet. Rachel sighed and went to the phone. Mrs. Flores would take care of it.
    Rachel went into the morning routine, an orderly progression which finished when she was back where she was the morning before. First, hygiene: floss teeth, expectorate blood. Brush teeth because they don’t feel clean without toothpaste, no matter what the dentist says. Step into shower. Regulate water with rotating retracting swiveling control lever. Scalding. Screaming. Freezing. Scrub every square inch of skin with transparent English soap. Skip the middle of the back. Rinse. Step out. Shiver. Dry. Second, clothing: always from the bottom up. Wool socks, blue cotton long underwear, jeans. A sensible brassiere for sensible breasts. Irish sweater. Fur-lined suede boots to the knee. Third, food: her turn to make breakfast. Reheat last night’s coffee. Squeeze fresh orange juice. Dan always used frozen and in that Dan failed as a nurturer. Yogurt into bowls, blueberries onto yogurt, brown sugar on Adam’s blueberries. Set table in breakfast nook. Fix Adam’s lunch: BLT on brown bread, sweet pickle in Saran Wrap, banana. Apple juice in thermos. Pack it in lunch box with Porky Pig on the front. Sip coffee. Look out window. See Mrs. Candy across the street open door, clutch pink gown at fat throat, stoop for newspaper, straighten with effort, reveal glimpse of white sagging thigh, close door. Fourth, departure: stuff into briefcase tapes, notes, pen, stopwatch, apple. Put on blue down jacket, leather gloves, wool headband. Open door.
    Garth was relieving himself against Mrs. Candy’s garage. The houses in their neighborhood near the edge of town stood about fifty yards apart but Garth seldom ventured into the wide open spaces alone, preferring a man-made environment.
    In their red sweatsuits Dan and Adam were pushing at the trunk of the oak tree, stretching their calf and thigh muscles. Adam enjoyed the warm-up as much as the run.
    â€œLimbered up, Adam?” Dan asked.
    â€œNot yet, Daddy,” Adam grunted, red in the face.
    â€œNo one goes anywhere until the driveway is cleared,” said Rachel. “Shoveling is the best limbering exercise there