Last year I read Henry James. I hadn't read his work before. I tackled The American, then The Ambassadors. An "eat your vegetables" exercise. Those novels could never get published today.
But in one of the book's scholarly prefaces or introductions, I learned about James' use of a ficelle. If I understand it, a ficelle is a Jamesian character whose purpose is to link plot points among the main characters, in effect, to assist the narrative arc. The English translation for the French ficelle is string.
Strings, threads, yarns, links, skeins, veins. Plotlines. Bloodlines.
It makes me wonder. When a family is flung all over the place, its members separated by time zones, silent arguments, bad blood, and self-isolation, does a holiday mean anything?
One of the girls hauled out the canard last Friday, "You don't get to choose your family."
Over cocktails at The Monkey Bar, we let the well-worn comment pass. We steamed through the rest of our catch-up conversation before two of us departed for the holiday weekend, and two of us meandered across the street to Bill's Gay Nineties, where I sang the old carols, stressing my vocal chords until they almost gave out.
The next day, hoarse and achy, I drove to East Hampton where my mobile phone craps out, where sending email requires that I back into a different service, where very few people know the fixed number at The Savior's house. I've had the run of the place. All to myself. Peace.
Sunday, when I took a drive toward the ocean, I hit an active network zone. My phone beeped, then pinged. The links that reach out and hold me. A voice message from my mother, another from a girlfriend who lives far away. Two text messages, the second that left me breathless for half a second. Catnip.
It's raining today. Tonight. I need to organize myself, and return to the city. I want to.
The expressway is a slick-lit string that pulls and guides me home.
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