Gillian Roberts talks about the end of her character Amanda Pepper.
This infinite winter was becoming the stuff of seasonal legend. This is the sort of thing that makes us loathe Floridians and Californians--anyone who hasn't recently slammed his coccyx on the ice, or remortgaged his house to pay the heating bill, or ripped his hands putting chains on his car.
It’s nearly impossible to have a truly successful squabble in a loft without divider walls. There’s the bathroom and the bedroom and that’s it. I used to live in a tiny three-story warren of undersized rooms. It had its problems, but you could storm off and sulk without exposure to the elements. Here it was much more challenging.
For the rest of the ride, I listened. And prayed, silently, for a visit from the goddess of inspired responses to impossible situations. There just had to be one in the pantheon. Or at least on the Internet. Maybe it was that Dot Com who was evoked in every online address. So I prayed to her.
She wasn’t a particularly good actress, but I hoped the kids didn’t notice. Which showed how deluded I was trying to be. Of course the kids would notice. Kids’ radar is astounding, a survival mechanism. It’s only when we age that we dumb down and pretend clear evidence isn’t so.
I picked up the phone, surprised when the voice on the other end was my sister’s. Beth, the suburban matron who believed that calls after nine P.M. were an intrusion, an affront against civilization and family life.
Most likely the library’s seven stories’ worth of information could fit in a laptop computer, but I don’t care. I love the shape and feel and heft of books.
Griffin nodded. He often had a gleam in his eye that made me suspect a private but rich vein of humor. Maybe someday he'd want to share it.
In my next life I’d aim for subtlety. It was too late even to hope for it in this one.
One thing I have had the chance to learn—over and over again, alas—is that no matter how staggering and stupefying the events of your (okay, my) life may be, it pretty much doesn’t matter to the rest of the universe.
Maybe cats have only one life. They just so often overdramatize the situation, behaving as if they’d had a near death experience when nothing whatsoever has happened, that the PR about nine lives took root.