This passage is an excerpt from “Recitatif” by Toni Morrison.

It didn’t start out that way. The minute I walked in and the Big Bozo introduced us, I got sick to my stomach. It was one thing to be taken out of your own bed early in the morning, it was something else to be stuck in a strange place with a girl from a whole other race. And Mary, that’s my mother, she was right. Every now and then she would stop dancing long enough to tell me something important and one of the things she said was that they never washed their hair and they smelled funny. Roberta sure did. Smell funny, I mean. So when the Big Bozo (nobody ever called her Mrs. Itkin, just like nobody every said St. Bonaventure)-when she said, “Twyla, this is Roberta. Roberta, this is Twyla. Make each other welcome.” I said, “My mother won’t like you putting me in here.”

“Good,” said Bozo. “Maybe then she’ll come and take you home.”

How’s that for mean? If Roberta had laughed I would have killed her, but she didn’t. She just walked over to the window and stood with her back to us.”

Turn around,” said the Bozo. “Don’t be rude. Now Twyla. Roberta. When you hear a loudbuzzer, that’s the call for dinner. Come down to the first floor. Any fights and no movie.” And then, just to make sure we knew what we would be missing, “The Wizard of Oz.

“Roberta must have thought I meant that my mother would be mad about my being put in the shelter. Not about rooming with her, because as soon as Bozo left she came over to me and said, “Is your mother sick too?”

“No,” I said. “She just likes to dance all night.”

“Oh,” she nodded her head and I liked the way she understood things so fast. So for the moment it didn’t matter that we looked like salt and pepper standing there and that’s what the other kids called us sometimes. We were eight years old and got F’s all the time. Me because I couldn’t remember what I read or what the teacher said. And Roberta because she couldn’t read at all and didn’t even listen to the teacher. She wasn’t good at anything except jacks, at which she was a killer: pow scoop pow scoop pow scoop.

We didn’t like each other all that much at first, but nobody else wanted to play with us because we weren’t real orphans with beautiful dead parents in the sky. We were dumped. Even the New York City Puerto Ricans and the upstate Indians ignored us. All kinds of kids were in there, black ones, white ones, even two Koreans. The food was good, though. At least I thought so. Roberta hated it and left whole pieces of things on her plate: Spam, Salisbury steak-even jello with fruit cocktail in it, and she didn’t care if I ate what she wouldn’t. Mary’s idea of supper was popcorn and a can of Yoo-Hoo. Hot mashed potatoes and two weenies was like Thanksgiving for me.

This passage is an excerpt from “Recitatif” by Toni Morrison.

It didn’t start out that way. The minute I walked in and the Big Bozo introduced us, I got sick to my stomach. It was one thing to be taken out of your own bed early in the morning, it was something else to be stuck in a strange place with a girl from a whole other race. And Mary, that’s my mother, she was right. Every now and then she would stop dancing long enough to tell me something important and one of the things she said was that they never washed their hair and they smelled funny. Roberta sure did. Smell funny, I mean. So when the Big Bozo (nobody ever called her Mrs. Itkin, just like nobody every said St. Bonaventure)-when she said, “Twyla, this is Roberta. Roberta, this is Twyla. Make each other welcome.” I said, “My mother won’t like you putting me in here.”

“Good,” said Bozo. “Maybe then she’ll come and take you home.”

How’s that for mean? If Roberta had laughed I would have killed her, but she didn’t. She just walked over to the window and stood with her back to us.”

Turn around,” said the Bozo. “Don’t be rude. Now Twyla. Roberta. When you hear a loudbuzzer, that’s the call for dinner. Come down to the first floor. Any fights and no movie.” And then, just to make sure we knew what we would be missing, “The Wizard of Oz.

“Roberta must have thought I meant that my mother would be mad about my being put in the shelter. Not about rooming with her, because as soon as Bozo left she came over to me and said, “Is your mother sick too?”

“No,” I said. “She just likes to dance all night.”

“Oh,” she nodded her head and I liked the way she understood things so fast. So for the moment it didn’t matter that we looked like salt and pepper standing there and that’s what the other kids called us sometimes. We were eight years old and got F’s all the time. Me because I couldn’t remember what I read or what the teacher said. And Roberta because she couldn’t read at all and didn’t even listen to the teacher. She wasn’t good at anything except jacks, at which she was a killer: pow scoop pow scoop pow scoop.

We didn’t like each other all that much at first, but nobody else wanted to play with us because we weren’t real orphans with beautiful dead parents in the sky. We were dumped. Even the New York City Puerto Ricans and the upstate Indians ignored us. All kinds of kids were in there, black ones, white ones, even two Koreans. The food was good, though. At least I thought so. Roberta hated it and left whole pieces of things on her plate: Spam, Salisbury steak-even jello with fruit cocktail in it, and she didn’t care if I ate what she wouldn’t. Mary’s idea of supper was popcorn and a can of Yoo-Hoo. Hot mashed potatoes and two weenies was like Thanksgiving for me.

This passage is an excerpt from “Recitatif” by Toni Morrison.

It didn’t start out that way. The minute I walked in and the Big Bozo introduced us, I got sick to my stomach. It was one thing to be taken out of your own bed early in the morning, it was something else to be stuck in a strange place with a girl from a whole other race. And Mary, that’s my mother, she was right. Every now and then she would stop dancing long enough to tell me something important and one of the things she said was that they never washed their hair and they smelled funny. Roberta sure did. Smell funny, I mean. So when the Big Bozo (nobody ever called her Mrs. Itkin, just like nobody every said St. Bonaventure)-when she said, “Twyla, this is Roberta. Roberta, this is Twyla. Make each other welcome.” I said, “My mother won’t like you putting me in here.”

“Good,” said Bozo. “Maybe then she’ll come and take you home.”

How’s that for mean? If Roberta had laughed I would have killed her, but she didn’t. She just walked over to the window and stood with her back to us.”

Turn around,” said the Bozo. “Don’t be rude. Now Twyla. Roberta. When you hear a loudbuzzer, that’s the call for dinner. Come down to the first floor. Any fights and no movie.” And then, just to make sure we knew what we would be missing, “The Wizard of Oz.

“Roberta must have thought I meant that my mother would be mad about my being put in the shelter. Not about rooming with her, because as soon as Bozo left she came over to me and said, “Is your mother sick too?”

“No,” I said. “She just likes to dance all night.”

“Oh,” she nodded her head and I liked the way she understood things so fast. So for the moment it didn’t matter that we looked like salt and pepper standing there and that’s what the other kids called us sometimes. We were eight years old and got F’s all the time. Me because I couldn’t remember what I read or what the teacher said. And Roberta because she couldn’t read at all and didn’t even listen to the teacher. She wasn’t good at anything except jacks, at which she was a killer: pow scoop pow scoop pow scoop.

We didn’t like each other all that much at first, but nobody else wanted to play with us because we weren’t real orphans with beautiful dead parents in the sky. We were dumped. Even the New York City Puerto Ricans and the upstate Indians ignored us. All kinds of kids were in there, black ones, white ones, even two Koreans. The food was good, though. At least I thought so. Roberta hated it and left whole pieces of things on her plate: Spam, Salisbury steak-even jello with fruit cocktail in it, and she didn’t care if I ate what she wouldn’t. Mary’s idea of supper was popcorn and a can of Yoo-Hoo. Hot mashed potatoes and two weenies was like Thanksgiving for me.

This passage is an excerpt from “Recitatif” by Toni Morrison.

It didn’t start out that way. The minute I walked in and the Big Bozo introduced us, I got sick to my stomach. It was one thing to be taken out of your own bed early in the morning, it was something else to be stuck in a strange place with a girl from a whole other race. And Mary, that’s my mother, she was right. Every now and then she would stop dancing long enough to tell me something important and one of the things she said was that they never washed their hair and they smelled funny. Roberta sure did. Smell funny, I mean. So when the Big Bozo (nobody ever called her Mrs. Itkin, just like nobody every said St. Bonaventure)-when she said, “Twyla, this is Roberta. Roberta, this is Twyla. Make each other welcome.” I said, “My mother won’t like you putting me in here.”

“Good,” said Bozo. “Maybe then she’ll come and take you home.”

How’s that for mean? If Roberta had laughed I would have killed her, but she didn’t. She just walked over to the window and stood with her back to us.”

Turn around,” said the Bozo. “Don’t be rude. Now Twyla. Roberta. When you hear a loudbuzzer, that’s the call for dinner. Come down to the first floor. Any fights and no movie.” And then, just to make sure we knew what we would be missing, “The Wizard of Oz.

“Roberta must have thought I meant that my mother would be mad about my being put in the shelter. Not about rooming with her, because as soon as Bozo left she came over to me and said, “Is your mother sick too?”

“No,” I said. “She just likes to dance all night.”

“Oh,” she nodded her head and I liked the way she understood things so fast. So for the moment it didn’t matter that we looked like salt and pepper standing there and that’s what the other kids called us sometimes. We were eight years old and got F’s all the time. Me because I couldn’t remember what I read or what the teacher said. And Roberta because she couldn’t read at all and didn’t even listen to the teacher. She wasn’t good at anything except jacks, at which she was a killer: pow scoop pow scoop pow scoop.

We didn’t like each other all that much at first, but nobody else wanted to play with us because we weren’t real orphans with beautiful dead parents in the sky. We were dumped. Even the New York City Puerto Ricans and the upstate Indians ignored us. All kinds of kids were in there, black ones, white ones, even two Koreans. The food was good, though. At least I thought so. Roberta hated it and left whole pieces of things on her plate: Spam, Salisbury steak-even jello with fruit cocktail in it, and she didn’t care if I ate what she wouldn’t. Mary’s idea of supper was popcorn and a can of Yoo-Hoo. Hot mashed potatoes and two weenies was like Thanksgiving for me.

This passage is an excerpt from “The Veil” by Conor McPherson.

Night, around midnight on Thursday May 23rd. GRANDIE is sitting quietly near the fireplace as the fire dies. A wind is picking up outside. HANNAH slowly plays a single note over and over on the piano. There is a knock. The door to the hallway opens and BERKELEY and AUDELLE enter. They stand near the door, wrapped up in their coats.

BERKELEY. Ah, some nighthawks! We didn’t expect anyone to still be up.

HANNAH (rises). Sometimes Grandie gets up. She never knows when it’s night-time.

BERKELEY. Well, we had a lovely moonlight stroll. To walk off our dinner. Are we alone?

HANNAH. Everyone was in bed.

BERKELEY. Of course. Will we join you for a moment?

BERKELEY and AUDELLE come further into the room.

HANNAH. What time is it?

BERKELEY. It’s after midnight! Goodnight, Grandie. How fares the world? You know, I was only saying to Mr Audelle, Thursday was always my favourite day of the week when I was a little boy. It was the one day I was permitted out of the nursery and could sit all afternoon with my mother while my father wrote his lectures. I keenly remember the fascination and privilege I felt in their company. Every Thursday.

AUDELLE. I used to watch my father writing his sermons.

BERKELEY. I saw him preach. He was a great believer in the corrective terror of hell and damnation which lent his oratory an extra impassioned forcefulness, I remember! (Laughs.Pause.) You look tired, Hannah.

GRANDIE looks at him blankly then gives a slight smile of acknowledgement, turning her face back to the fire.

HANNAH. Well, yes I am, rather.

BERKELEY. Mr Audelle tells me you were kind enough to bring him up to the Queen’s Tomb yesterday.

HANNAH. Yes.

BERKELEY. But you didn’t stay long.

Short pause.

HANNAH. Yes, well, the weather was inclement.

AUDELLE. I was just telling the Reverend, for myself, laying my hand upon those prehistoric stones induced a sense of connectedness to the mysterious ancestors of this place, the sheer… force of which I had never experienced before.

BERKELEY. Oh, yes. I have always found it to be a place of dark enchantment. And you, Hannah? Did you experience a… sense of connectedness?

HANNAH. Well, I… I did not remain there for long, so…

Pause.

BERKELEY. You know, I often think of your poor father on nights such as this, Hannah.

HANNAH. I think of him regardless of the day or night.

BERKELEY. He is in your prayers.

HANNAH. With all of my family.

BERKELEY. With all of us. My dear Alice is still alive – in my mind, her fragile bones still shining beneath her transparent skin, just as poor old Edward still lives in yours. He is so

strong there. So… real. In which case, how can anyone say he doesn’t exist? Of course he still exists! These recent times weigh hard on you, I suspect, Hannah.

HANNAH. Well. I have many blessings. I shouldn’t complain.

BERKELEY. Yes, but even good news can bring its difficulties, especially when set against a tragedy so terrible as the one we have witnessed in Jamestown.

HANNAH. Especially when it occurred on the very evening you sought to summon the spirits of the dead.

BERKELEY (laughs, almost delighted she has risen to the bait). ‘The dead’! We didn’t cause those buildings to fall down. Hasn’t the Colonel himself said as much. Now, I hope you don’t mind, but you will be aware I have learned something of your recent experiences, Hannah.

HANNAH. Yes, well, I don’t want to discuss that.

BERKELEY. And I will come straight out with it and say it’s a pity you consider the specialness of your gift a burden – when rightly it should be something you ought to cherish. And be grateful for.

HANNAH. I just want to stop it now, so…

BERKELEY. Stop it?! Well, it’s my belief that would be a dreadful shame. What you really need is to understand it. Yes. You can take the sting of its unknowability away, and we would like to help you.

This passage is an excerpt from “The Veil” by Conor McPherson.

Night, around midnight on Thursday May 23rd. GRANDIE is sitting quietly near the fireplace as the fire dies. A wind is picking up outside. HANNAH slowly plays a single note over and over on the piano. There is a knock. The door to the hallway opens and BERKELEY and AUDELLE enter. They stand near the door, wrapped up in their coats.

BERKELEY. Ah, some nighthawks! We didn’t expect anyone to still be up.

HANNAH (rises). Sometimes Grandie gets up. She never knows when it’s night-time.

BERKELEY. Well, we had a lovely moonlight stroll. To walk off our dinner. Are we alone?

HANNAH. Everyone was in bed.

BERKELEY. Of course. Will we join you for a moment?

BERKELEY and AUDELLE come further into the room.

HANNAH. What time is it?

BERKELEY. It’s after midnight! Goodnight, Grandie. How fares the world? You know, I was only saying to Mr Audelle, Thursday was always my favourite day of the week when I was a little boy. It was the one day I was permitted out of the nursery and could sit all afternoon with my mother while my father wrote his lectures. I keenly remember the fascination and privilege I felt in their company. Every Thursday.

AUDELLE. I used to watch my father writing his sermons.

BERKELEY. I saw him preach. He was a great believer in the corrective terror of hell and damnation which lent his oratory an extra impassioned forcefulness, I remember! (Laughs.Pause.) You look tired, Hannah.

GRANDIE looks at him blankly then gives a slight smile of acknowledgement, turning her face back to the fire.

HANNAH. Well, yes I am, rather.

BERKELEY. Mr Audelle tells me you were kind enough to bring him up to the Queen’s Tomb yesterday.

HANNAH. Yes.

BERKELEY. But you didn’t stay long.

Short pause.

HANNAH. Yes, well, the weather was inclement.

AUDELLE. I was just telling the Reverend, for myself, laying my hand upon those prehistoric stones induced a sense of connectedness to the mysterious ancestors of this place, the sheer… force of which I had never experienced before.

BERKELEY. Oh, yes. I have always found it to be a place of dark enchantment. And you, Hannah? Did you experience a… sense of connectedness?

HANNAH. Well, I… I did not remain there for long, so…

Pause.

BERKELEY. You know, I often think of your poor father on nights such as this, Hannah.

HANNAH. I think of him regardless of the day or night.

BERKELEY. He is in your prayers.

HANNAH. With all of my family.

BERKELEY. With all of us. My dear Alice is still alive – in my mind, her fragile bones still shining beneath her transparent skin, just as poor old Edward still lives in yours. He is so

strong there. So… real. In which case, how can anyone say he doesn’t exist? Of course he still exists! These recent times weigh hard on you, I suspect, Hannah.

HANNAH. Well. I have many blessings. I shouldn’t complain.

BERKELEY. Yes, but even good news can bring its difficulties, especially when set against a tragedy so terrible as the one we have witnessed in Jamestown.

HANNAH. Especially when it occurred on the very evening you sought to summon the spirits of the dead.

BERKELEY (laughs, almost delighted she has risen to the bait). ‘The dead’! We didn’t cause those buildings to fall down. Hasn’t the Colonel himself said as much. Now, I hope you don’t mind, but you will be aware I have learned something of your recent experiences, Hannah.

HANNAH. Yes, well, I don’t want to discuss that.

BERKELEY. And I will come straight out with it and say it’s a pity you consider the specialness of your gift a burden – when rightly it should be something you ought to cherish. And be grateful for.

HANNAH. I just want to stop it now, so…

BERKELEY. Stop it?! Well, it’s my belief that would be a dreadful shame. What you really need is to understand it. Yes. You can take the sting of its unknowability away, and we would like to help you.

This passage is an excerpt from “The Veil” by Conor McPherson.

Night, around midnight on Thursday May 23rd. GRANDIE is sitting quietly near the fireplace as the fire dies. A wind is picking up outside. HANNAH slowly plays a single note over and over on the piano. There is a knock. The door to the hallway opens and BERKELEY and AUDELLE enter. They stand near the door, wrapped up in their coats.

BERKELEY. Ah, some nighthawks! We didn’t expect anyone to still be up.

HANNAH (rises). Sometimes Grandie gets up. She never knows when it’s night-time.

BERKELEY. Well, we had a lovely moonlight stroll. To walk off our dinner. Are we alone?

HANNAH. Everyone was in bed.

BERKELEY. Of course. Will we join you for a moment?

BERKELEY and AUDELLE come further into the room.

HANNAH. What time is it?

BERKELEY. It’s after midnight! Goodnight, Grandie. How fares the world? You know, I was only saying to Mr Audelle, Thursday was always my favourite day of the week when I was a little boy. It was the one day I was permitted out of the nursery and could sit all afternoon with my mother while my father wrote his lectures. I keenly remember the fascination and privilege I felt in their company. Every Thursday.

AUDELLE. I used to watch my father writing his sermons.

BERKELEY. I saw him preach. He was a great believer in the corrective terror of hell and damnation which lent his oratory an extra impassioned forcefulness, I remember! (Laughs.Pause.) You look tired, Hannah.

GRANDIE looks at him blankly then gives a slight smile of acknowledgement, turning her face back to the fire.

HANNAH. Well, yes I am, rather.

BERKELEY. Mr Audelle tells me you were kind enough to bring him up to the Queen’s Tomb yesterday.

HANNAH. Yes.

BERKELEY. But you didn’t stay long.

Short pause.

HANNAH. Yes, well, the weather was inclement.

AUDELLE. I was just telling the Reverend, for myself, laying my hand upon those prehistoric stones induced a sense of connectedness to the mysterious ancestors of this place, the sheer… force of which I had never experienced before.

BERKELEY. Oh, yes. I have always found it to be a place of dark enchantment. And you, Hannah? Did you experience a… sense of connectedness?

HANNAH. Well, I… I did not remain there for long, so…

Pause.

BERKELEY. You know, I often think of your poor father on nights such as this, Hannah.

HANNAH. I think of him regardless of the day or night.

BERKELEY. He is in your prayers.

HANNAH. With all of my family.

BERKELEY. With all of us. My dear Alice is still alive – in my mind, her fragile bones still shining beneath her transparent skin, just as poor old Edward still lives in yours. He is so

strong there. So… real. In which case, how can anyone say he doesn’t exist? Of course he still exists! These recent times weigh hard on you, I suspect, Hannah.

HANNAH. Well. I have many blessings. I shouldn’t complain.

BERKELEY. Yes, but even good news can bring its difficulties, especially when set against a tragedy so terrible as the one we have witnessed in Jamestown.

HANNAH. Especially when it occurred on the very evening you sought to summon the spirits of the dead.

BERKELEY (laughs, almost delighted she has risen to the bait). ‘The dead’! We didn’t cause those buildings to fall down. Hasn’t the Colonel himself said as much. Now, I hope you don’t mind, but you will be aware I have learned something of your recent experiences, Hannah.

HANNAH. Yes, well, I don’t want to discuss that.

BERKELEY. And I will come straight out with it and say it’s a pity you consider the specialness of your gift a burden – when rightly it should be something you ought to cherish. And be grateful for.

HANNAH. I just want to stop it now, so…

BERKELEY. Stop it?! Well, it’s my belief that would be a dreadful shame. What you really need is to understand it. Yes. You can take the sting of its unknowability away, and we would like to help you.

This passage is an excerpt from “The Veil” by Conor McPherson.

Night, around midnight on Thursday May 23rd. GRANDIE is sitting quietly near the fireplace as the fire dies. A wind is picking up outside. HANNAH slowly plays a single note over and over on the piano. There is a knock. The door to the hallway opens and BERKELEY and AUDELLE enter. They stand near the door, wrapped up in their coats.

BERKELEY. Ah, some nighthawks! We didn’t expect anyone to still be up.

HANNAH (rises). Sometimes Grandie gets up. She never knows when it’s night-time.

BERKELEY. Well, we had a lovely moonlight stroll. To walk off our dinner. Are we alone?

HANNAH. Everyone was in bed.

BERKELEY. Of course. Will we join you for a moment?

BERKELEY and AUDELLE come further into the room.

HANNAH. What time is it?

BERKELEY. It’s after midnight! Goodnight, Grandie. How fares the world? You know, I was only saying to Mr Audelle, Thursday was always my favourite day of the week when I was a little boy. It was the one day I was permitted out of the nursery and could sit all afternoon with my mother while my father wrote his lectures. I keenly remember the fascination and privilege I felt in their company. Every Thursday.

AUDELLE. I used to watch my father writing his sermons.

BERKELEY. I saw him preach. He was a great believer in the corrective terror of hell and damnation which lent his oratory an extra impassioned forcefulness, I remember! (Laughs.Pause.) You look tired, Hannah.

GRANDIE looks at him blankly then gives a slight smile of acknowledgement, turning her face back to the fire.

HANNAH. Well, yes I am, rather.

BERKELEY. Mr Audelle tells me you were kind enough to bring him up to the Queen’s Tomb yesterday.

HANNAH. Yes.

BERKELEY. But you didn’t stay long.

Short pause.

HANNAH. Yes, well, the weather was inclement.

AUDELLE. I was just telling the Reverend, for myself, laying my hand upon those prehistoric stones induced a sense of connectedness to the mysterious ancestors of this place, the sheer… force of which I had never experienced before.

BERKELEY. Oh, yes. I have always found it to be a place of dark enchantment. And you, Hannah? Did you experience a… sense of connectedness?

HANNAH. Well, I… I did not remain there for long, so…

Pause.

BERKELEY. You know, I often think of your poor father on nights such as this, Hannah.

HANNAH. I think of him regardless of the day or night.

BERKELEY. He is in your prayers.

HANNAH. With all of my family.

BERKELEY. With all of us. My dear Alice is still alive – in my mind, her fragile bones still shining beneath her transparent skin, just as poor old Edward still lives in yours. He is so

strong there. So… real. In which case, how can anyone say he doesn’t exist? Of course he still exists! These recent times weigh hard on you, I suspect, Hannah.

HANNAH. Well. I have many blessings. I shouldn’t complain.

BERKELEY. Yes, but even good news can bring its difficulties, especially when set against a tragedy so terrible as the one we have witnessed in Jamestown.

HANNAH. Especially when it occurred on the very evening you sought to summon the spirits of the dead.

BERKELEY (laughs, almost delighted she has risen to the bait). ‘The dead’! We didn’t cause those buildings to fall down. Hasn’t the Colonel himself said as much. Now, I hope you don’t mind, but you will be aware I have learned something of your recent experiences, Hannah.

HANNAH. Yes, well, I don’t want to discuss that.

BERKELEY. And I will come straight out with it and say it’s a pity you consider the specialness of your gift a burden – when rightly it should be something you ought to cherish. And be grateful for.

HANNAH. I just want to stop it now, so…

BERKELEY. Stop it?! Well, it’s my belief that would be a dreadful shame. What you really need is to understand it. Yes. You can take the sting of its unknowability away, and we would like to help you.

This passage is an excerpt from “A Temporary Matter” by Jhumpa Lahiri.

When she came downstairs they ate together. She didn’t thank him or compliment him. They simply ate in a darkened room, in the glow of a beeswax candle. They had survived a difficult time. They finished off the shrimp. They finished off the first bottle of wine and moved on to the second. They sat together until the candle had nearly burned away. She shifted in her chair, and Shukumar thought that she was about to say something. But instead she blew out the candle, stood up, turned on the light switch, and sat down again.

“Shouldn’t we keep the lights off?” Shukumar asked. She set her plate aside and clasped her hands on the table. “I want you to see my face when I tell you this,” she said gently.

His heart began to pound. The day she told him she was pregnant, she had used the very same words, saying them in the same gentle way, turning off the basketball game he’d been watching on television. He hadn’t been prepared then.

Now he was. Only he didn’t want her to be pregnant again. He didn’t want to have to pretend to be happy.

“I’ve been looking for an apartment and I’ve found one,” she said, narrowing her eyes on something, it seemed, behind his left shoulder. It was nobody’s fault, she continued. They’d been through enough. She needed some time alone. She had money saved up for a security deposit. The apartment was on Beacon Hill, so she could walk to work. She had signed the lease that night before coming home.

She wouldn’t look at him, but he stared at her. It was obvious that she’d rehearsed the lines. All this time she’d been looking for an apartment, testing the water pressure, asking a Realtor if heat and hot water were included in the rent. It sickened Shukumar, knowing that she had spent these past evenings preparing for a life without him. He was relieved and yet he was sickened. This was what she’d been trying to tell him for the past four evenings. This was the point of her game.

Now it was his turn to speak. There was something he’d sworn he would never tell her, and for six months he had done his best to block it from his mind. Before the ultrasound she had asked the doctor not to tell her the sex of their child, and Shukumar had agreed. She had wanted it to be a surprise.

Later, those few times they talked about what had happened, she said at least they’d been spared that knowledge. In a way she almost took pride in her decision, for it enabled her to seek refuge in a mystery. He knew that she assumed it was a mystery for him, too. He’d arrived too late from Baltimore — when it was all over and she was lying on the hospital bed. But he hadn’t. He’d arrived early enough to see their baby, and to hold him before they cremated him. At first he had recoiled at the suggestion, but the doctor said holding the baby might help him with the process of grieving. Shoba was asleep. The baby had been cleaned off, his bulbous lids shut tight to the world.

“Our baby was a boy,” he said. “His skin was more red than brown. He had black hair on his head. He weighed almost five pounds. His fingers were curled shut, just like yours in the night.”

Shoba looked at him now, her face contorted with sorrow. He had cheated on a college exam, ripped a picture of a woman out of a magazine. He had returned a sweater and got drunk in the middle of the day instead. These were the things he had told her. He had held his son, who had known life only within her, against his chest in a darkened room in an unknown wing of the hospital. He had held him until a nurse knocked and took him away, and he promised himself that day that he would never tell Shoba, because he still loved her then, and it was the one thing in her life that she had wanted to be a surprise. Shukumar stood up and stacked his plate on top of hers. He carried the plates to the sink, but instead of running the tap he looked out the window. Outside the evening was still warm, and the Bradfords were walking arm in arm. As he watched the couple the room went dark, and he spun around. Shoba had turned the lights off. She came back to the table and sat down, and after a moment Shukumar joined her. They wept together, for the things they now knew.

This passage is an excerpt from “A Temporary Matter” by Jhumpa Lahiri.

When she came downstairs they ate together. She didn’t thank him or compliment him. They simply ate in a darkened room, in the glow of a beeswax candle. They had survived a difficult time. They finished off the shrimp. They finished off the first bottle of wine and moved on to the second. They sat together until the candle had nearly burned away. She shifted in her chair, and Shukumar thought that she was about to say something. But instead she blew out the candle, stood up, turned on the light switch, and sat down again.

“Shouldn’t we keep the lights off?” Shukumar asked. She set her plate aside and clasped her hands on the table. “I want you to see my face when I tell you this,” she said gently.

His heart began to pound. The day she told him she was pregnant, she had used the very same words, saying them in the same gentle way, turning off the basketball game he’d been watching on television. He hadn’t been prepared then.

Now he was. Only he didn’t want her to be pregnant again. He didn’t want to have to pretend to be happy.

“I’ve been looking for an apartment and I’ve found one,” she said, narrowing her eyes on something, it seemed, behind his left shoulder. It was nobody’s fault, she continued. They’d been through enough. She needed some time alone. She had money saved up for a security deposit. The apartment was on Beacon Hill, so she could walk to work. She had signed the lease that night before coming home.

She wouldn’t look at him, but he stared at her. It was obvious that she’d rehearsed the lines. All this time she’d been looking for an apartment, testing the water pressure, asking a Realtor if heat and hot water were included in the rent. It sickened Shukumar, knowing that she had spent these past evenings preparing for a life without him. He was relieved and yet he was sickened. This was what she’d been trying to tell him for the past four evenings. This was the point of her game.

Now it was his turn to speak. There was something he’d sworn he would never tell her, and for six months he had done his best to block it from his mind. Before the ultrasound she had asked the doctor not to tell her the sex of their child, and Shukumar had agreed. She had wanted it to be a surprise.

Later, those few times they talked about what had happened, she said at least they’d been spared that knowledge. In a way she almost took pride in her decision, for it enabled her to seek refuge in a mystery. He knew that she assumed it was a mystery for him, too. He’d arrived too late from Baltimore — when it was all over and she was lying on the hospital bed. But he hadn’t. He’d arrived early enough to see their baby, and to hold him before they cremated him. At first he had recoiled at the suggestion, but the doctor said holding the baby might help him with the process of grieving. Shoba was asleep. The baby had been cleaned off, his bulbous lids shut tight to the world.

“Our baby was a boy,” he said. “His skin was more red than brown. He had black hair on his head. He weighed almost five pounds. His fingers were curled shut, just like yours in the night.”

Shoba looked at him now, her face contorted with sorrow. He had cheated on a college exam, ripped a picture of a woman out of a magazine. He had returned a sweater and got drunk in the middle of the day instead. These were the things he had told her. He had held his son, who had known life only within her, against his chest in a darkened room in an unknown wing of the hospital. He had held him until a nurse knocked and took him away, and he promised himself that day that he would never tell Shoba, because he still loved her then, and it was the one thing in her life that she had wanted to be a surprise. Shukumar stood up and stacked his plate on top of hers. He carried the plates to the sink, but instead of running the tap he looked out the window. Outside the evening was still warm, and the Bradfords were walking arm in arm. As he watched the couple the room went dark, and he spun around. Shoba had turned the lights off. She came back to the table and sat down, and after a moment Shukumar joined her. They wept together, for the things they now knew.

This passage is an excerpt from “A Temporary Matter” by Jhumpa Lahiri.

When she came downstairs they ate together. She didn’t thank him or compliment him. They simply ate in a darkened room, in the glow of a beeswax candle. They had survived a difficult time. They finished off the shrimp. They finished off the first bottle of wine and moved on to the second. They sat together until the candle had nearly burned away. She shifted in her chair, and Shukumar thought that she was about to say something. But instead she blew out the candle, stood up, turned on the light switch, and sat down again.

“Shouldn’t we keep the lights off?” Shukumar asked. She set her plate aside and clasped her hands on the table. “I want you to see my face when I tell you this,” she said gently.

His heart began to pound. The day she told him she was pregnant, she had used the very same words, saying them in the same gentle way, turning off the basketball game he’d been watching on television. He hadn’t been prepared then.

Now he was. Only he didn’t want her to be pregnant again. He didn’t want to have to pretend to be happy.

“I’ve been looking for an apartment and I’ve found one,” she said, narrowing her eyes on something, it seemed, behind his left shoulder. It was nobody’s fault, she continued. They’d been through enough. She needed some time alone. She had money saved up for a security deposit. The apartment was on Beacon Hill, so she could walk to work. She had signed the lease that night before coming home.

She wouldn’t look at him, but he stared at her. It was obvious that she’d rehearsed the lines. All this time she’d been looking for an apartment, testing the water pressure, asking a Realtor if heat and hot water were included in the rent. It sickened Shukumar, knowing that she had spent these past evenings preparing for a life without him. He was relieved and yet he was sickened. This was what she’d been trying to tell him for the past four evenings. This was the point of her game.

Now it was his turn to speak. There was something he’d sworn he would never tell her, and for six months he had done his best to block it from his mind. Before the ultrasound she had asked the doctor not to tell her the sex of their child, and Shukumar had agreed. She had wanted it to be a surprise.

Later, those few times they talked about what had happened, she said at least they’d been spared that knowledge. In a way she almost took pride in her decision, for it enabled her to seek refuge in a mystery. He knew that she assumed it was a mystery for him, too. He’d arrived too late from Baltimore — when it was all over and she was lying on the hospital bed. But he hadn’t. He’d arrived early enough to see their baby, and to hold him before they cremated him. At first he had recoiled at the suggestion, but the doctor said holding the baby might help him with the process of grieving. Shoba was asleep. The baby had been cleaned off, his bulbous lids shut tight to the world.

“Our baby was a boy,” he said. “His skin was more red than brown. He had black hair on his head. He weighed almost five pounds. His fingers were curled shut, just like yours in the night.”

Shoba looked at him now, her face contorted with sorrow. He had cheated on a college exam, ripped a picture of a woman out of a magazine. He had returned a sweater and got drunk in the middle of the day instead. These were the things he had told her. He had held his son, who had known life only within her, against his chest in a darkened room in an unknown wing of the hospital. He had held him until a nurse knocked and took him away, and he promised himself that day that he would never tell Shoba, because he still loved her then, and it was the one thing in her life that she had wanted to be a surprise. Shukumar stood up and stacked his plate on top of hers. He carried the plates to the sink, but instead of running the tap he looked out the window. Outside the evening was still warm, and the Bradfords were walking arm in arm. As he watched the couple the room went dark, and he spun around. Shoba had turned the lights off. She came back to the table and sat down, and after a moment Shukumar joined her. They wept together, for the things they now knew.

This passage is an excerpt from “A Temporary Matter” by Jhumpa Lahiri.

When she came downstairs they ate together. She didn’t thank him or compliment him. They simply ate in a darkened room, in the glow of a beeswax candle. They had survived a difficult time. They finished off the shrimp. They finished off the first bottle of wine and moved on to the second. They sat together until the candle had nearly burned away. She shifted in her chair, and Shukumar thought that she was about to say something. But instead she blew out the candle, stood up, turned on the light switch, and sat down again.

“Shouldn’t we keep the lights off?” Shukumar asked. She set her plate aside and clasped her hands on the table. “I want you to see my face when I tell you this,” she said gently.

His heart began to pound. The day she told him she was pregnant, she had used the very same words, saying them in the same gentle way, turning off the basketball game he’d been watching on television. He hadn’t been prepared then.

Now he was. Only he didn’t want her to be pregnant again. He didn’t want to have to pretend to be happy.

“I’ve been looking for an apartment and I’ve found one,” she said, narrowing her eyes on something, it seemed, behind his left shoulder. It was nobody’s fault, she continued. They’d been through enough. She needed some time alone. She had money saved up for a security deposit. The apartment was on Beacon Hill, so she could walk to work. She had signed the lease that night before coming home.

She wouldn’t look at him, but he stared at her. It was obvious that she’d rehearsed the lines. All this time she’d been looking for an apartment, testing the water pressure, asking a Realtor if heat and hot water were included in the rent. It sickened Shukumar, knowing that she had spent these past evenings preparing for a life without him. He was relieved and yet he was sickened. This was what she’d been trying to tell him for the past four evenings. This was the point of her game.

Now it was his turn to speak. There was something he’d sworn he would never tell her, and for six months he had done his best to block it from his mind. Before the ultrasound she had asked the doctor not to tell her the sex of their child, and Shukumar had agreed. She had wanted it to be a surprise.

Later, those few times they talked about what had happened, she said at least they’d been spared that knowledge. In a way she almost took pride in her decision, for it enabled her to seek refuge in a mystery. He knew that she assumed it was a mystery for him, too. He’d arrived too late from Baltimore — when it was all over and she was lying on the hospital bed. But he hadn’t. He’d arrived early enough to see their baby, and to hold him before they cremated him. At first he had recoiled at the suggestion, but the doctor said holding the baby might help him with the process of grieving. Shoba was asleep. The baby had been cleaned off, his bulbous lids shut tight to the world.

“Our baby was a boy,” he said. “His skin was more red than brown. He had black hair on his head. He weighed almost five pounds. His fingers were curled shut, just like yours in the night.”

Shoba looked at him now, her face contorted with sorrow. He had cheated on a college exam, ripped a picture of a woman out of a magazine. He had returned a sweater and got drunk in the middle of the day instead. These were the things he had told her. He had held his son, who had known life only within her, against his chest in a darkened room in an unknown wing of the hospital. He had held him until a nurse knocked and took him away, and he promised himself that day that he would never tell Shoba, because he still loved her then, and it was the one thing in her life that she had wanted to be a surprise. Shukumar stood up and stacked his plate on top of hers. He carried the plates to the sink, but instead of running the tap he looked out the window. Outside the evening was still warm, and the Bradfords were walking arm in arm. As he watched the couple the room went dark, and he spun around. Shoba had turned the lights off. She came back to the table and sat down, and after a moment Shukumar joined her. They wept together, for the things they now knew.