SEWANEE REVIEWPub Date : 2024-02-08DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a919138
Derrick Austin
{"title":"Homage to Richmond Barthé, and: Night Walk, and: After A Year Sober, and: Homage to Lyle Ashton Harris, and: To Sleep, and: The Age of Pleasure","authors":"Derrick Austin","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a919138","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a919138","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> <em>Homage to Richmond Barthé</em>, and: <em>Night Walk</em>, and: <em>After A Year Sober</em>, and: <em>Homage to Lyle Ashton Harris</em>, and: <em>To Sleep</em>, and: <em>The Age of Pleasure</em> <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Derrick Austin (bio) </li> </ul> <h2><em>Homage to Richmond Barthé</em></h2> <p><span>If Barthé’s <em>Boy with a Flute</em></span><span>has completed his performance,</span><span>eyes rising to meet the eyes</span><span> of the one who listened</span><span>seated in a flowering grove,</span><span>then, perhaps, the viewer is invited to partake</span><span> of music and loose time.</span><span>If, however, the boy has not begun playing</span><span>in the flowering grove,</span><span>or has refused to begin, the song remains metaphysical</span><span>but turned inward, private,</span><span> thus the viewer must attend</span><span>to the bronze fact of his attenuated body,</span><span> where his heart would be.</span></p> <p><span>.......................</span></p> <p><span>“Truly it is a great thing to know of the rich heritage</span><span>of this French-speaking nation</span><span>and to learn we are all brothers under the skin after all,”</span><span>Barthé said to a reporter in 1949,</span><span>struggling with the Haitian president’s commission, <strong>[End Page 59]</strong></span> <span>heavy with his mother’s death,</span><span>desolate and money-troubled.</span></p> <p><span>He hoped the muse would come courting</span><span>in a seersucker suit.</span></p> <p><span>He wrote letters weekly</span><span> (Chicago, New York City, New Orleans)</span><span>inviting friends to sip a Campari spritz</span><span>in his ramshackle estate</span><span>named Iolaus, after the gay anthology, a wink and prayer.</span></p> <p><span>.......................</span></p> <p><span>The humidity addles my mind like gin.</span><span> Smoking a blunt,</span><span>shells and glass crackling underfoot,</span><span> I encounter a leg,</span></p> <p><span>not human or beast—not beast anymore</span><span> divorced from its body: a hoof</span><span>hooded with mange. Like the eucharist,</span><span> the leg represents nothing but itself.</span></p> <p><span>Barthé appears beside a deer</span><span> eating the sea grapes meant for jelly jars.</span><span>When I offer him a hit, he refuses.</span><span> When I offer my hand, he smiles and refuses.</span></p> <p><span>The red mangrove he points to speaks</span><span> like a minor prophet: My leaves glow with salt, <strong>[End Page 60]</strong></span> <span>a fire that scalds but leaves me whole,</span><span> a fire that does not warm nor console.</span></p> <p><span>Perhaps, loneliness merely banks the flame</span><span> where we can gather ourselves and each other.</span><span>I exhale smoke. I feel light.</span><span> Barthé steps and returns to the night. <strong>[End Page 61]<","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"10 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-02-08","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"139767486","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
SEWANEE REVIEWPub Date : 2024-02-08DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a919132
Peter Kispert
{"title":"404","authors":"Peter Kispert","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a919132","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a919132","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> 404 <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Peter Kispert (bio) </li> </ul> <p><strong>C</strong>harles was getting better—healing I mean, after last year had tortured us both—and it was completely ruining the plan. For the better part of two years, we spent sleepless nights in small single-floor sublets in and around Boston, living among broken ovens and cheap white fridges that shook themselves awake and groaned, always awoken by the sound of traffic outside the window, never staying for longer than a few months. I tried on stupid aliases every now and again to make it seem like this was all a joke. Maybe we did have more options than siphoning funds from whoever fell for our shit. Like any idiots in their late twenties, we flirted with our own exposure: just weeks ago a young delivery man in Jamaica Plain saw me suppress a laugh at the utterance of my own “name”; <em>Richard Balls</em> is one you have to practice saying without cracking up. But I wasn’t looking at this man’s reaction; I was watching Charles stifle a smile. Somewhere during these past months I’d lost the ability to make him laugh, and found myself savoring the feeling, swept back to our first nights together. That bone-cold winter, warmed only by each other’s bodies. <strong>[End Page 3]</strong></p> <p>Now it was almost June, and we were in a new place near the Bay—a green marble kitchen island, among other upgrades—thanks to a man named Daryl who donated several thousand to “unlock” his long-lost sister’s fortune. (“What does that even mean?” Charles had asked me as I read him Daryl’s reply one night. “I don’t know,” I’d said. “But he’s buying it.”) For a while I was getting lucky in my emails with what I called the grandmother sweet-spot: comic sans, size fourteen font, spacing a little off, some purple type in there, asking for just a little help—and <em>then</em> the link. You send that to two hundred John Smiths and wait for someone to bite, some idiot to just give themselves up for chivalry. <em>That’s what you get for having a normal name</em>, I’d think as the first bouncebacks hit. We assumed, of course, that a normal name also meant a normal life, which also meant comfort, stability, the things Charles and I could do without. Like gilled fish that thrive even out of water, we imagined we were unique to a point of freakishness, normal only with each other. I’d forgotten that was what I preferred, and now I was too good at this: six grand on a Tuesday afternoon while I licked the lid of a pudding cup. A résumé of petty thefts and two DUIs, a rescinded college admission: you get something like that early enough, the future just seals up. These hours together were our cheat code to another life, or had been until the past few weeks, when Charles started getting himself together as we packed boxes, ready to ditch the mold and nail-studded floors for good. He w","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"36 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-02-08","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"139910868","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
SEWANEE REVIEWPub Date : 2024-02-08DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a919143
Ryan Chapman
{"title":"Good Grief: On The 2023 Booker Prize","authors":"Ryan Chapman","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a919143","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a919143","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Good Grief: <span>On The 2023 Booker Prize</span> <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Ryan Chapman (bio) </li> </ul> <p><strong>A</strong> week after the 2022 Booker Prize award ceremony, Rishi Sunak became the first British Indian to be appointed Prime Minister. He was the third PM in as many months. This milestone received a shrugged acknowledgement from my Sri Lankan uncles back in Minnesota, whose enthusiasm for a statesman from the subcontinent was tempered by the Conservative Party’s hot streak of self-owns. For my part, I took umbrage at Sunak’s CV: Americans know that marrying an heiress (John Kerry, John McCain) and skipping through the Goldman-to-government turnstile (Hank Paulson, Steve Mnuchin) is <em>our</em> thing.</p> <p>Two months later, his boss’s youngest son Harry released a ghostwritten tell-all, breaking sales records for a memoir. It became the fastest-selling nonfiction title in the United Kingdom, and globally moved three million units in its first week alone. For comparison, only two Booker winners have scaled such capitalist heights: Hilary Mantel’s <em>Wolf Hall</em> and Yann Martel’s <em>Life of Pi</em>.</p> <p>And then in May, Harry’s dad finally got that callback. The coronation of King Charles III cost an estimated 100 million dollars—four <strong>[End Page 104]</strong> times his mum’s, even adjusted for inflation—with a guest list that included surprise monarchists like Nick Cave and Katy Perry. The peaked septuagenarian cosplayed himself into parody earnestly and glacially. Unfortunately, we never got Martin Amis’s take on the whole boondoggle: the writer passed away on May 19 and was knighted by the new king a month later. (Since posthumous knighthoods are verboten, Charles backdated Amis’s to May 18.) Amis would have appreciated being honored by the very man with whom he argued the 1989 fatwa against his friend Salman Rushdie; Charles did not rush to Sir Salman’s defense.</p> <p>Last year’s Booker went to Shehan Karunatilaka for <em>The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida</em>. Karunatilaka is the second Sri Lankan recipient, following Michael Ondaatje who won for <em>The English Patient</em> in 1992. (Even then, Ondaatje was named cowinner with Barry Unsworth, the author of <em>Sacred Hunger</em>.) Ondaatje’s novel is still beautiful and affecting. As is <em>Anil’s Ghost</em>, his consideration of the Sri Lankan civil war, which shares a setting with <em>Maali Almeida</em> and none of its tone. Karunatilaka’s win was heartening, and his globe-trotting press tour highly entertaining. The man gives good copy, both figuratively and literally—like Rushdie, he once worked in advertising. Tara K. Menon wrote in these pages that 2022 was a rare instance of the best shortlisted book winning the prize, a fact supported by anyone familiar with its history. <em>Possession</em>’s A. S. Byatt said, “I’ve won it an","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"13 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-02-08","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"139767479","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
SEWANEE REVIEWPub Date : 2024-02-08DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a919136
Cindy Juyoung Ok
{"title":"Before the DMZ, and: Faint","authors":"Cindy Juyoung Ok","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a919136","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a919136","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> <em>Before the DMZ</em>, and: <em>Faint</em> <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Cindy Juyoung Ok (bio) </li> </ul> <h2><em>Before the DMZ</em></h2> <p><span> My</span><span> moth-</span><span> er sent</span><span> a photo of</span><span> the federal build-</span><span> ing she was</span><span> being naturalized in,</span><span> writing, <em>Boring I</em></span><span> <em>love you</em>. That winter</span><span> her father revealed he left</span><span> behind a first wife, two kids, north</span><span> before the war, the news unremarkable</span><span> because <em>For us, everybody had somebody they—</em></span><span><em> </em> So my mother hired an investigator; visited</span><span> because, newly American, she could. She flew</span><span> south after, and at her photos, he pointed at</span> <span>the 67-year-old he had last known at seven.</span> <span>Said, <em>She was smart. She was really smart</em>.</span> <span>Within a year he lost his memory to</span><span> stroke. He cried when they</span><span> tied him so he could not</span><span> pull his tubes out and</span><span> my mother had only seen</span><span> him cry when the special ran</span><span> on public broadcast. Ten thou-</span><span> sand families reunited while every-</span><span> one watched. Doesn’t anyone k-</span><span> now this person? Live calls, arti- Gen-</span><span>facts, tears—she watched erally no</span><span> him watch. one recalled where</span><span> they had been separated.</span><span> But a ripped hem, or rules</span><span> of a childhood game, that big</span><span> mole. A port of waiting. I al-</span><span> ways wanted to hate binary</span><span> but I grew up here where the</span><span> cure to forgetting a stubborn</span><span> chorus is doing simple arithmetic. Her</span><span> trip north was strange, formal—</span><span> delicate words, doubtful gestures.</span><span> She noticed the brother had pso-</span><span> riasis on his knuckles and hid her</span><span> laughter in a corner, her scars proof</span><span> of genes that had skipped the one</span><span> brother she knew. The countries</span><span> are linked by land—mostly, I know,</span><span> by an area covered in stone. I ima-</span><span> gine jade-colored water between</span><span> them, a wide, boring o-</span><span> cean on the thirty-</span><span> eighth</span><span> parallel. <strong>[End Page 55]</strong></span></p> <h2><em>Faint</em></h2> <p><span>Vagueness tends to criminalize</span><span>and of few available alternatives</span><span>my favorite is the dream of the same</span></p> <p><span>room. Pick your noise, in wells</span><span>or against walls. In the light</span></p> <p><span>of the microwave clock, under advice</span><span>of long symbols, showily I become</span></p> <p><span>my own guest (in mother words,</span><span>a duty). Oxygen a calm oddity</span><span>everywhere b","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"15 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-02-08","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"139773518","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
SEWANEE REVIEWPub Date : 2024-02-08DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a919139
Olivia Nathan
{"title":"Anachronisms","authors":"Olivia Nathan","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a919139","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a919139","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Anachronisms <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Olivia Nathan (bio) </li> </ul> <h2><em>1</em></h2> <p><strong>T</strong>he night before her history test, T’s legs turned into lightbulbs.</p> <p>Hoot, the family Pomeranian, had been sitting beneath her desk, and T accidentally kicked him as she crossed her legs. In a show of defiance, he left her room and trotted downstairs. T didn’t notice. She forgot the new purplish pimple forming like a grape on her forehead; she forgot the allotted forty minutes of TV she’d been dying to watch; she even forgot to look up at her face smeared in the window beside her desk to contemplate her crush kissing it, though the ache of that longing never left her. As she slipped into bed, each flash card she’d studied after dinner was still moving behind her eyes. Her mind had been consumed by the details of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. It was as if the fire itself had invaded her mind and left it razed and scorched.</p> <p>Doing better in history was high on T’s list of New Year’s resolutions. It was near the top of a list her parents oversaw, regularly <strong>[End Page 71]</strong> reminding her to practice clarinet every day and to make more lists. They had thwacked the list to the fridge with a magnet that said <small>queen of fucking everything</small> that Queenie, T’s older sister, had left at home when she moved to college. T thought of it as the only remnant of Queenie left in the house. The pink bedroom, which sat empty across from hers, did not recall her sister’s dry and crass sense of humor, nor did the trio of Hello Kitty clocks tocking on her wall.</p> <p>So T had no choice but to get a B+ or A- on the test. Her parents couldn’t understand why she wasn’t already getting B+s or A-s, given T loved the subject.</p> <p>“We don’t understand why you’re not getting B+s or A-s,” they said. “You love history.”</p> <p>This was true. T had spent the month of July on her laptop, watching a lecture series called <em>The History and Mystery of Venetian Watermarks</em> from The Great Courses. (She looked up what water-marks were and then she Googled what Italian iconography meant.) She was quickly consumed by the eight-part lecture series, given by a surprisingly handsome, long-haired professor.</p> <p>Many of the Venetian watermarks looked like horse brandings or ancient family crests; but one, dated as early as 1500, looked like a lightbulb—a watery lightbulb pressed into the middle of the page, crushing the fibers of parchment to allow light to stream through. T had watched the watermark illuminated by candlelight in the reenactment; it shone through where the paper thinned down its curves. How did sixteenth-century Italians know what a lightbulb would look like? There were even undulating lines in the water-mark signifying the metal foot and both sides of the bulb were chubby-cheeked.</p>","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"25 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-02-08","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"139767487","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
SEWANEE REVIEWPub Date : 2024-02-08DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a919145
Holly Goddard Jones
{"title":"Nowhere Spaces","authors":"Holly Goddard Jones","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a919145","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a919145","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Nowhere Spaces <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Holly Goddard Jones (bio) </li> </ul> <p><strong>O</strong>ver COVID lockdown, my kids and I got into the habit of watching fantasy cartoons each night before bed. One of our favorites was <em>Hilda</em>, a Netflix series inspired by an also-excellent graphic novel series by Luke Pearson. There’s a lot to love about <em>Hilda</em>, which tells the story of the titular character, a little girl who lives a typical modern child’s existence of school and scouts and growing up in a single-parent household—in a reality that happens to be juxtaposed against high-fantasy elements inspired by Scandinavian folklore. Hilda’s universe, and its populous cast of magical characters, is far too ornate to explain here, but as I began contemplating the topic of negative space in fiction, I found myself picturing some creatures from the series, the Nisse. In Pearson’s interpretation, Nisse are house trolls that occupy forgotten areas of the home called “The Nowhere Space”—pocket dimensions, unused and mostly unnoticed by humans, where the Nisse can live, and where they store the items that humans have misplaced or neglected to the point of forfeiture. A Nisse can also <strong>[End Page 130]</strong> use the Nowhere Space to interdimensionally travel—by entering an opening that’s tucked away behind a heavy bookcase, for example, one can exit from underneath a sofa in another house, or in the crack between the refrigerator and wall in still another.</p> <p>It occurs to me that one reason Hilda’s version of the Nisse so compels me is that the Nowhere Space reminds me of one of my most frequent recurring dreams, a dream that I’ve learned is extremely common: the hidden-room dream. In it, you’re home—or, sometimes for me, in a house I just agreed to purchase—and you realize that your house has extra, unused square footage. I can guess what dream interpretation websites would say about the meaning of the hidden room: that you’re plumbing undiscovered aspects of yourself, something about the subconscious, blah blah blah, but what I always feel, in these dreams, is a simultaneous sense of freedom, possibility, and stupidity. I start thinking of all the things I’ll be able to do with this found space, and I start wondering how I could have been so oblivious as to have missed its existence all along.</p> <p>As I have gotten to be an older and more seasoned writer, I’ve experienced a similar set of emotions as I’ve contemplated the extra rooms or Nowhere Spaces within my own prose. I’ve realized just how much of a story gets told off the page. Now, this obviously isn’t some new or surprising insight. We have a whole host of cliches at the ready to address the Nowhere Spaces in literature: we talk about reading “between the lines,” we scrutinize what occurs “in the white space,” and we analyze, as readers, “sub","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"6 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-02-08","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"139767507","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
SEWANEE REVIEWPub Date : 2024-02-08DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a919141
Madeline Cash
{"title":"First Wife","authors":"Madeline Cash","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a919141","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a919141","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> First Wife <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Madeline Cash (bio) </li> </ul> <p><strong>B</strong>ud took four Seconal, masturbated into a tea towel, and decided to drive the Subaru into the sea. The passenger seat was piled with empty take-out containers. Looking over the discarded items, Bud felt like one himself. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the rearview mirror, the face of a man who hadn’t been cool for several presidential administrations. Who had contemplated but ultimately rejected three different ironic tattoos, and who, having nothing left to lose, was free—free according to the logic of Descartes, or was it Janis Joplin, he couldn’t remember.</p> <p>Bud didn’t like talk radio. It felt like eavesdropping on someone’s conversation. He did not care for esoteric polemics on gender or local politics or dog breeding. Although, admittedly, he did enjoy those true-crime specials about women in peril and falsely accused teenagers serving life sentences. When told well, thought Bud, a good story is like good cocaine; it has you eager for the next line. He briefly searched for a station that played the classics. What he really wanted to hear was a song that went like <em>blinded by the light</em>, <strong>[End Page 95]</strong> <em>something something something in the middle of the night</em>. But, despite his forceful prodding at the touch screen, he could not access the car’s Bluetooth.</p> <p>“Hit <em>pair with device</em>.” The sitter, Hannah <em>Something</em>, was at the window. In the haze of barbiturates, Bud could not remember her name.</p> <p>“You snuck up on me,” said Bud.</p> <p>“I’ve been standing here for, like, a minute and a half,” said Hannah Something.</p> <p>“Can I help you?”</p> <p>“Mrs. Casey said you’d drive me home.”</p> <p>Hannah thought Bud Casey had an ineffable charisma. He was the kind of dad who might take you to rock concerts instead of ball games, who might look the other way when you pilfer a beer because he’d rather you do it in the house. She found him charming, rugged, perhaps a little dangerous. Bud did not share this opinion of Hannah. He much preferred the other sitter, Fiona Rappaport, who possessed the effortless beauty of an off-duty runway model, while Hannah was perennially covered in a layer of adolescent grease. Whenever he dropped off Fiona, Bud took the longer route to her house, pointing out some architectural feature or other, his breath mingling with Fiona’s in the confined space. Bud also did not care for Hannah Something at this moment because she was preventing him from driving into the sea.</p> <p>Hannah tossed most of the take-out containers into the back-seat and then drummed her fingers on the dash. What should they talk about? His child, that was a subject of inexhaustible interest. So inquisitive, always asking things like, <em>Where’s my dad? Why isn’t Dad sl","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"7 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-02-08","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"139773497","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}