Jacob's Folly by Rebecca Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

dog.
    â€œIf there’s anything Deirdre or I can do for you, Mr. Tolan … you let us know,” Leslie said. Ugh. Leslie was perfect! I felt so low in his presence, so unworthy. Was this what I was supposed to feel? Was this why I had been sent down here, to follow this exemplary man around day and night until I couldn’t stand it anymore and had no more will to live? Could angels commit suicide? I felt a sudden, acute dislike for Leslie Senzatimore. He reminded me, I realized, of my father, a man whose damning rectitude could scorch your eyebrows if you got too close to him.
    I spread my wings, jumped, and took off, circling the room as Leslielistened to the old man, nodding, his blue eyes wide with understanding, big jaw set. I was depressed—numbed by boredom and a sense of worthlessness. And then it occurred to me: maybe angels had free will. I had always been told that they did not, that it was only humans who were distinguished with that feature, that angels were bound to praise Him day and night for all ages. But here I was, on “Long Island,” whatever that was, not singing or praising, but floating around useless and invisible. What if I left? I decided to try it. I flew out the door and down the shiny hallway. My trajectory was interrupted by the sudden disappearance of the wall to my left. It dissolved, revealing a box full of expressionless people. I hung in the air, staring at this phenomenon, when the wall began to close up again. A woman rushed by me, stepping into the secret room. I was sucked into her wake, and hovered over the deanimated passengers, observing them with interest.
    All the people, dressed in strange, ill-fitting garments, the womens’ limbs exposed, hair disheveled, as though they had left their beds in a rush, stared dumbly at the doors, which glided shut magically, sealing us in. I now felt a sickening lurch in my stomach as the room plummeted through space. I was forced toward the ceiling, listening to the whoosh of the thing as it fell, then came to a soft halt. The doors opened again. All the people walked out. I followed, grateful to be free.
    I found myself in the mezzanine, assaulted by violent, inexplicable light. Many people walked back and forth, entering and exiting through a bank of glass doors that slid open and shut constantly of their own accord and led outside. The women were stripped down like Deirdre, with tight trousers, or short skirts. There was no modesty about them, no elegance. I noticed one such vision with white wires coming out of her ears, talking to herself emphatically. The nails on her fingers and toes had been lacquered to perfection and shone like black Chinese boxes. I wondered if this might be a lunatic asylum. Then I heard a tinny voice, crying out from within the wires: “You canfucking pick him up for once, but no, obviously not, your mother’s imaginary infection—” Was I reading the woman’s thoughts? A man seated on a low couch, his enormous feet splayed in a pair of egregious blunt-toed shoes, his neck bent over a tiny keyboard, played a fast-paced tune with his thumbs, but no sound emitted from the shiny ebony instrument. I hovered over him and saw minuscule words forming in a glowing rectangle:
Get bucket of chicken am starving
. Some of these people looked unwell, others merely unhappy. The women wore no white powder on their skin or hair, yet many of them had dipped their locks in yellow dye, and their eyes and lips were daubed liberally with glistening colors. You can imagine how confusing all this was to me, innocent as I was of the customs and mechanics of this new world with which I am now so deeply familiar.
    A shop selling bright flowers caught my eye. Inside, a woman with orange, greasy skin leaned on the counter, flipping the pages of a broadsheet. I flew closer to see what she was looking at: an amazingly rendered color image, so lifelike it seemed impossible to create with paint or the