The Harpy by Megan Hunter

Author:Megan Hunter
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Grove Atlantic
Published: 2020-10-16T15:46:14+00:00

23

When I emerged from the bathroom – maybe half an hour later – it seemed to be a completely different party. The people that were left – no Mary, I noted, and no Antonio – were all drunk. Someone had turned the Christmas music off, put a nineties playlist on, and now the rooms were draped with nostalgia, with a wave of bittersweet, irretrievable emotion.

In the garden, there were groups smoking, talking with the high-­reaching voices of children. They had forgotten, maybe, that they had babysitters to go back to, that in the middle of the night their five-­year-­olds would climb into their beds with hot cheeks. They thought they were still in the standing-­around part of their lives, when time had no particular boundaries, no absolute restrictions.

Jake was not there. I scanned the groups over and over, making sure, even though it was obvious. I didn’t speak to anyone; they were too drunk and loud to notice. I walked to the bottom of the garden, sat down on the rotting picnic bench, heard it creak beneath me. I took off my heels, felt the grass moist through the feet of my tights. The field was completely black in front of me, the sky infested with stars. The house was only half-­lit, its upstairs windows dark and closed. From the wall beside the kitchen, steam blew in clouds out of the vents, as though frustrated, waiting for it all to end.

There were some small noises behind me, something like a rodent at first, then unmistakable. Moans, words stuttered out. A regular, rhythmical rustling. I walked to the back of the shed, certain, in those three seconds, of what I would find. Somehow, he had smuggled her into our home, our garden, was fucking her metres away from where our children were sleeping. I was filled with a soaring rage, a mile-­high surge of energy. I bent my hands over into tight arcs, tried to stand up as straight as I could. My mind moved faster than ever, skidding from thought to thought, no brakes, only an incredible speed, a readiness to pounce.

But the jumble of clothes behind the shed was nothing to do with us. Mary’s silk dress was pulled up around her waist, moving in desultory waves as her husband struggled to hold onto her and thrust at the same time. He looked more like he was attempting a difficult DIY task than making love, but still they carried on, Mary’s head buried in his neck, making small, obedient noises of pleasure.

I stumbled away, holding my hand over my mouth. It wasn’t that funny, without anyone to share it with. But the urge was there nonetheless: gleeful, little-­girl giddy. As I got near to the house I saw the dark outline of someone breaking free of the smoking groups, walking towards me.

What’s so funny? It was Antonio, his hands in his jeans pockets, sleeves rolled up. I felt an involuntary tightening, a lifting inside; I lowered my eyes, as though this would hide it.

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