Free Laura Rider's Masterpiece by Jane Hamilton Page A

biological level he could find no reason to couple with
     a
barren
woman. Had she always been undesirable—was that it? She realized that he’d from the start treated her in a fatherly way,
     something she didn’t want to ponder too deeply. Was he having an affair? No, his probity was unquestionable, and even if he’d
     been the type to have a woman on the side, his schedule would prohibit a dalliance.
    They had not had success talking about the problem. They seemed unable to muster the strength to begin, or if the thought
     of what they’d given up made her weep Frank became nervous and irritable. While men and women everywhere were discussing their
     sexual dysfunction, on the street, on television, and in print, she and Frank were silent on the subject. They were always
     racing in and out, they adored Vanessa, they were fond of each other and devoted, and beyond their routine and the life of
     the mind, what they shared, Jenna believed, was their unspoken grief.
    She knew, certainly, that there were greater sorrows in life. She had done her best to rout out bitterness and focus her energy
     on her work. She, Jenna Faroli of the sexy mind, was satisfied that if the multitudes wanted to fuck her, it was her brain
     they wanted to penetrate, the luscious cranial fruit on those broad shoulders of hers—what hidden folds, so soft, so moist,
     so yielding. She considered that big fruit, and then the rest of her, the drag of her body, to be the ultimate product of
     the feminist revolution. She more or less had it all, as promised: terrific job, caring husband, healthy daughter, and the
     bonus of public adulation. Not least, she’d managed to avoid the sniper shots of her co-workers as she rose up in the ranks.

    She had mentioned to Charlie a few days ahead of time that she was planning to stop at Prairie Wind Farm on the upcoming Saturday
     morning. And though she expected to see him at some point in the venture, she was not thinking, as she opened her car door
     in the small parking lot, that he’d appear at her side as if he’d been dropped from above. She let out a shriek.
    “Oh, honey!” He gripped her elbow. “I’m so sorry.” He was wearing what looked like a farmer costume, blue-and-white-striped
     overalls, a light-blue chambray shirt, and a cap to match.
    “Jesus,” she breathed. “Where’d you come from?”
    “I’ve been told I was spawned by a fish. A trout, I always thought.”
    “You must have gotten your eyes from the father,” Jenna said. “A creature who was unrelated to the ichthyoids. Bovine, I’d
     say. A trout and a bull coupled to make Charlie Rider.”
    “And you,” he said, “you were—”
    “Adopted. My birth mother was one of those girls who were sent to homes far, far away to have their bastard babies. This occurred
     before shame went out of style.” His great lashed eyes widened, and she laughed at him. “I know what you’re thinking.”
    “What? What exactly am I thinking?”
    “You’re thinking that I have been liberated to invent my parents. They can be washerwoman and prince, they can be slave and
     master, they can be anything else besides a desperate sixteen-year-old girl and a boy who was going off to the army. At least,
     that’s what I would think if I were you.”
    “Doesn’t everything,” he said, looking at her slantwise, “depend on how you tell it?”
    “You are extremely dangerous,” she said. “You don’t forget a word. I am going to shop rather than speak to you.”
    He stood in her way, would not let her pass. “But who,” he said plaintively, “raised you?”
    “A childless middle-aged couple. Remote father, distracted mother. Maybe parenthood hadn’t been the dream-come-true, after
     all. Both with high expectations. I was lonely and bookish, went to boarding school, and then to college. Very Victorian,
     you could say. The parents, the four of them, as far as I know, are dead.” She stepped to the side of him. “May I purchase