He’d said he would be leaving it to an organization that offered sanctuary to abandoned German shepherds, but that had to be a joke, right? The German shepherds wouldn’t be quartered in the beach house; rather, the shabby but invaluable property would be sold, the proceeds going to an organization that had to be fraudulent, unlicensed, a figment of her father’s imagination. Her father said that he loved her—he just wasn’t going to leave her the beach house, which to him had become not the beach house at all but, in truth, something else entirely. He believed he was going to pass soon, and he had been thinking about mighty matters. There was much to learn. He was exploring many teachings, and one avenue of thought had somehow led him to disinherit his only child—Amber, her name was, a name she quite reasonably detested.
“I grew up there,” she said. “I have memories.”
“You collected conchs, put them in boiling water, gouged them out with a fork and spoon, then displayed their empty homes on a shelf in your room,” her father said.
“Not all the time,” she protested. “You always mention that. It’s mean.”
Her father was sipping something green from a scratched plastic glass, which must have negated much of the good the beverage might have to offer. It had been prescribed for his blood. There was something not right about his blood. Or was it that something that had to move through his blood wasn’t the right shape?
“We’ve never even known a German shepherd,” Amber said.
“I had one as a young man. I brought him into marriage with your mother. You were around, but I guess you can’t remember him. Titus.”
“I was around?”
“Well, you were. It pains me that you don’t recall him.”
Denne historien er fra January 15, 2024-utgaven av The New Yorker.
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Denne historien er fra January 15, 2024-utgaven av The New Yorker.
Start din 7-dagers gratis prøveperiode på Magzter GOLD for å få tilgang til tusenvis av utvalgte premiumhistorier og 9000+ magasiner og aviser.
Allerede abonnent? Logg på
YULE RULES
“Christmas Eve in Miller’s Point.”
COLLISION COURSE
In Devika Rege’ first novel, India enters a troubling new era.
NEW CHAPTER
Is the twentieth-century novel a genre unto itself?
STUCK ON YOU
Pain and pleasure at a tattoo convention.
HEAVY SNOW HAN KANG
Kyungha-ya. That was the entirety of Inseon’s message: my name.
REPRISE
Reckoning with Donald Trump's return to power.
WHAT'S YOUR PARENTING-FAILURE STYLE?
Whether you’re horrifying your teen with nauseating sex-ed analogies or watching TikToks while your toddler eats a bagel from the subway floor, face it: you’re flailing in the vast chasm of your child’s relentless needs.
COLOR INSTINCT
Jadé Fadojutimi, a British painter, sees the world through a prism.
THE FAMILY PLAN
The pro-life movement’ new playbook.
President for Sale - A survey of today's political ads.
On a mid-October Sunday not long ago sun high, wind cool-I was in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for a book festival, and I took a stroll. There were few people on the streets-like the population of a lot of capital cities, Harrisburg's swells on weekdays with lawyers and lobbyists and legislative staffers, and dwindles on the weekends. But, on the façades of small businesses and in the doorways of private homes, I could see evidence of political activity. Across from the sparkling Susquehanna River, there was a row of Democratic lawn signs: Malcolm Kenyatta for auditor general, Bob Casey for U.S. Senate, and, most important, in white letters atop a periwinkle not unlike that of the sky, Kamala Harris for President.
