On Friday, my mother came walking across the lawn, dressed in a black dress. "No one expects this of you," Mr. Rabinowitz told her. "You don't have to."

"She was eighteen years old," my mother said. "Do you think I could blame her for any of this?"

Stevie told me that my father paid for the gravestone. He said it was very big and had an angel on it. I didn't see how this could be possible. My father didn't believe in angels.

The Rabinowitzes drove my mother to the funeral. I hadn't seen my father in four days. When I tried to talk to my brother about the angel he told me to shut up. "I wish everybody would just leave me alone," he said, which was unnecessary because pretty much everybody was.

Stevie and I got out the Uncle Wiggily board. I couldn't read my first card, because of the tears in my eyes. "Read it to me," I said, handing it to Stevie.

"Uncle Wiggily says you are moving to California," Stevie said. "Go ahead three s.p.a.ces."

I put the card in my pocket. At some point I must have used it as a bookmark, because seven years later I found it again, stuck in a book in my grandparents' house, in the bedroom my mother had slept in as a child, which was now my room. There were no seasons in California. In seven years I had had to learn to remember things differently.

I had been eleven years old the last time I saw Stevie. Now I was eighteen, the same age as Cynthia Marciti.

The card had Uncle Wiggily's picture on it, a rabbit gentleman farmer in a top hat, collar, and cuffs. "Uncle Wiggily says you will marry a man who is a lot like you are. You will have two children, a boy and a girl. You turn out very ordinary," it said. "Go back three s.p.a.ces."

THE TRAVAILS.

Inspired by John Kessel's story "Gulliver at Home."

I hope I may with Justice p.r.o.nounce myself an Author perfectly blameless; against whom the Tribes of Answerers, Considerers, Observers, Reflectors, Detectors, Remarkers, will never be able to find Matter for exercising their Talents.

-Lemuel Gulliver September 28, 1699 Dear Lemuel, When you think of us, think of us missing you. As Betty cleared the Table from Breakfast this morning, she burst into Tears. "There is Papa," she said, pointing to a Crumb of Bread. And I perfectly comprehended her. I saw you in my Mind, your Speck of a Boat, no bigger than a Crumb on the whole of the Kitchen Table. G.o.d speed you back to us.

And then we sat no longer, because of all the daily Work to be done. Now it is Evening and I take Time to write. I hope you received my Letter of July 3rd. Our Betty is Ten Years today and, though only Months have pa.s.sed since your Departure, I believe she is much altered and not the little Girl you left. I feel the Pa.s.sage of Years more acutely in the Children's Lives than in my own. With a ten year Daughter, I cannot be accounted young. Already she is more than half as old as I when you came courting. I imagine therefore that she is already half done with being mine. A melancholy Thought.

But the Days grow ever more beautiful, so I shall look outside rather than in. How do you endure a Day at Sea with no Trees about you? The Elm at our Window is all turned, its Leaves as golden as Egg Yolks. The Moon tonight is as big as a Tea Tray, but of course you have that too, wherever you are.

Johnny is growing out of all his Clothes, and Betty and I are kept forever sewing. I never pa.s.s Mrs. Nardac in the Shops but that she informs me that the Islands where you are sailing are filled with Women who wear no St.i.tch of Clothing. If they cover their Bodies at all, she says, they do it with their Hair, which is longer and thicker and more l.u.s.trous than anything any Woman in London can do with Wigs. Mermaids then, I say, teazing. No, no, they are quite real, she a.s.sures me. She thinks you will not come Home this time and she wishes me to know she thinks this.

But I know otherwise! And such an Adventure we had when the Weather first chilled. Suddenly we were overrun with Ants. What you now picture, double. Ants poured into the House from every Crack in every Wall. Not just the Kitchen, they a.s.saulted us in the Parlour and even the Bed Chambers. Oh, it was War and went on for three whole Days. I plotted and laid Traps. You would imagine we had every Advantage, from Size to Cunning, and yet we could not win through. In truth, they seemed uncannily clever at times. Johnny even made use of a Weapon I must leave you to imagine. His Face when I came upon him! "I washed away great Hordes of them," he insisted, but I took him to Bed by his Ear and it has taken me many Days of scrubbing to see the Humour in it. And then, with no more Warning than we had at the Beginning, they vanished and we are at Peace again.

Mrs. Nardac thinks that Johnny should be sent away to School, but of course he is far too young still. I know I antic.i.p.ate your Wishes in the Matter by keeping him at Home for now. When you return, you will find us all, Your loving Family and,

Your Mary

Yuletide, 1701 Dearest, dearest, I have received Word today from a dear Mrs. Biddle that you are recovered from the fast Grip of the Sea and safe aboard her Husband's Ship. What joyous Tidings! What Joy to write a Letter I know you will receive! I ran all the way Home and shouted the News without pausing to every Soul I pa.s.sed. Then Betty and I wore ourselves out with the Weeping and Relief. You are on your way Home to us and we are anxious to see you healthy and unchanged in your Regard. In truth, something in Mrs. Biddle's Letter betrayed Concern regarding your State of Mind, although I remind myself that she has also written here, twice in one Letter, that you are well. Eat and rest now, my Darling. Take care of your Dear Self.

We are all healthy here. Carolers came to the Window last Night. They sang of good King Wenceslas and Bethlehem. Snow fell, but gently, on their Scarves and Caps, while their Voices rose into the Air. Tonight all is Snow-Silent and I cannot choose which it is I like best, the Silence or the Noise of the World. Greedily, I would have them both. The Whole of it is the only thing that will suit me tonight. Mrs. Biddle said that you have such Stories to tell us. And we, you!

Such a Merry Christmas G.o.d has given us!

Your Mary

August 8, 1702 Dear Lemuel, I have been melancholy since you left. I so wanted you Home, and then nothing matched my Hopes. I am sorry for the Quarrels and sorry, too, that you made your Departure while we were still quarrelling.

You have made fine Provision for us and left me no Fear that we shall ever fall upon the Parish. The little Flock of Sheep you left has already increased its Number by Five. For this I am grateful. The new House is Tight and Warm, in spite of being so Large. Since you spent so little Time in it, it often feels entirely mine. I cannot picture you at the Table or in the Bed. I never see you, sleeping under a Book in the Parlour, as I did in our old, damp Cottage. And since you chose, much against my Wishes, to send Johnny to School-really, he is not nearly so grown as you think him-it is a quiet House with me sometimes in one End of it, and Betty far away in the other. I find myself missing even Mrs. Nardac.

But I do confess I often enjoy the Size of it. Not when I am dusting, perhaps! But I like a Room up the Stairs. As I write this, from my Desk I look down on the Fields and Lanes and Gardens as if I had the Eyes of the Trees. I look down on all the other tiny Nests of the tiny People. They love, they fight, they dispute, they cheat, they betray, but I am far above it and absolutely untouched. And then Betty comes, with a Sc.r.a.pe or a Slight to suffer over. A Letter arrives from Johnny, and between those Words the Headmaster has allowed him to send, I can read his Misery. I am part of the World again, with all its Hurts and Affections. And I cannot remember why I ever thought it best to be otherwise.

Yesterday Betty found a Fledgling blown from its Nest. She has brought it inside and made the softest Box, but its Wing is damaged and I fear we can never release it. She is kept up constantly, even at night, with feeding. No one is more tender with Small Creatures than a Young Girl, and yet my Heart rebels against a Wild Thing kept forever in a Box.

We complete our Menagerie with Rats! Large as Dogs they sound as they pound over the Roof, but I have engaged a Man to deal with them. Money can buy Men for many but perhaps not all Purposes.

Mary October 5, 1706 Dear Lemuel, Where does this find you? This is a Letter I shall have to send in a Bottle with a Cork, by a strong Arm. It will wash ash.o.r.e some months hence in Paradise and the Natives will read it, wondering if such a Place as green as England can really exist.

I fear my last Letter was uncharitable. I meant to be generous, but forgot. You know my Temper, little as you have seen it over the Years. I wished the Letter back as soon as I had sent it. Likely you did not receive it and are reading this in Wonder of what I might have written.

So I will only repeat that I was disappointed by your hasty Departure, but this time I was not surprized. We no longer seem to fit together, you and I. When you are Meditative, I wish to be Doing: when I am larkish, you choose that Moment to be sober. You are so credulous, I must learn again each time not to teaze. We are two Magnets, with an attractive but also a repulsive Power over one another. I fear the closer we stand, the more the Latter is evident.

"You married a Dreamer," Mrs. Balnibarb said to me in the Lanes but yesterday, "and no Woman can live in the Clouds." Yet I think I am one Woman who could, and wait only the Invitation. Time would teach us to mesh again, but Time is the one thing I never have from you.

Betty has a Beau in Mrs. Balnibarb's middle boy, William. Are you pleased? He calls each Thursday and is as clean and polite as you could ask. He is a Farmer's Son and I count his Prospects tolerable. Her Feelings are more difficult to discern. She colours if his Name is spoken but makes no effort in his Presence to delight him. She is still so young and I will counsel Delays if my Counsel is sought. I am sure this is as you would wish.

We shall at least want him a more sensible Man than his Father. Mr. Balnibarb often walks the Lanes so lost in Thought, I have seen William forced to cuff him soundly on the Ear, lest he walk into a Tree! And he has now given up that Farming proved over the Centuries, in favour of new Methods of Planting and Irrigation designed by a Scientist in London and circulated in our little County by Pamphlet. This Pamphlet argues the Water will have more Vitality if it is Pumped uphill before being spread downhill. Its Author has surely never seen a Field in his Life. As a result, all the Farms but Balnibarb's enjoyed a most bountiful Harvest.

Our own Walnut Tree was so loaded with Fruits this year, it was dangerous to walk beneath. Nuts, like missiles, rained down at the slightest Breeze. We sit in front of the Fire and have our Pleasure, picking out the Meats and dreaming away the Evenings.

I do request that you discourage Johnny from going to Sea. I fear your Stories have had the opposite Effect. This is most unfair to me.

Rats on the Roofs, again, but I know just the Man to engage for it.

Mary February 7, 1708 Dear Lemuel, A short Letter today, and sad, to inform you of the Death of your Father. Betty and I were able to wait on him in his final Days. I know it is Customary to a.s.sure the Bereaved that the Sufferings were slight and not of long Duration. I wish I could, in Honesty, tell you this. Betty wept and wished him back, but I do not. He had already outlived his Health and Happiness, and if ever Death came as a Release, it came so to him. He missed you deeply and spoke of you often.

The Night after his Death he came to me in a Dream. He told me with great Clarity of his Willingness to be shed of a World he had always seen as Wicked. I was greatly impressed by the Vividness of this Dream, but as I have spoken of it, I have learnt that such Dreams are common on the Night of a Death. Whimsical Mr. Lugg believes the Dead have the one Night to return and tell us what needs to be said. I wish I had known to expect him. What Questions you could ask the Dead with a little Forewarning!

There were many at his Funeral, and all so respectful and sorry for your Loss. Johnny stood for you.

Our own Health, mine and our Children's, continues good. Betty and William have reached an Understanding. They will be married when the Year's Mourning is over and Johnny, young as he is, will give her to William.

Your own,

Mary

January 23, 1710 Dear Lemuel, Your last Visit has finally borne its Fruit. I send this Letter to let you know your new Son, Samuel, has arrived. He came somewhat earlier than we antic.i.p.ated. More than a Month has pa.s.sed since his Birth, and I am only now able to take up Pen to tell you so. The Pa.s.sage was perilous this time, but we are in Safe Harbour. Betty insists he favours me, but perhaps your Face is not so familiar to her. For my Part, his Face is exactly that of our dearest Johnny at the same age.

Betty, too, expects her second Child, so Son and Grandchildren will all grow up cozy together. Her little Anne grows daily. I will write again in the New Year when I hope to be stronger and more at Leisure.

Your loving,

Mary

July 5, 1712 Dear Lemuel, I cannot know if my last Letter arrived, scrawled as it was in my Haste and Panic. But I send this one quickly after to let you know that Samuel's Fever has ended and his Recovery seems a.s.sured. I could not bear to think of a Day without him or to imagine that he might pa.s.s from this World to the Next without you once setting Eyes upon his Face. How could you risk it?

I am too Joyous to scold, but I wonder at your Willingness to be so much away. There is something unnatural and inhuman about such Detachment, as if you cared no more for us than for the Sheep or the Horses.

Here we live in the Dailiness of each other, that Dailiness that you have fled. Enough. Betty is preparing a Feast, as Johnny arrives today from London. He set out at once on hearing of our Distress, but we were able to reach him by Post with our Joy. When he is finally here, my Joy will be Complete.

Your loving wife,

Mary

November 13, 1715 Dear Lemuel, So much Time has pa.s.sed since I had any Word of you, I fear the Worst. I console myself that you have never come to me in such a Dream as I had of your dear, departed Father. Perhaps this Letter will find you yet.

All is not as well as I could wish. I am sorely troubled for our darling Daughter's sake. She comes to the House with her Children much against William's Desires. Much against my Desires she returns to him. I have seen Marks upon her Wrists and Neck and wish, before I consented to the Marriage, that I had heeded the way he whips his Horses. They are the n.o.blest of Animals and so mild little Anne herself can ride. Yet all have long, deep Scars along their Flanks.

I long to undress Anne and examine her own Legs but have not yet had a Moment to do so. Dearest Annie, who once bubbled like a Brook, has fallen silent and sucks on her Fingers. She hides in the Stables, preferring Beasts to People.

William was able to govern his Temper well enough when Johnny was at Home. He is, of course, within his Rights and so thinks us defenseless against him. He will find otherwise. A Man can be engaged for almost any Purpose, as I have had every Occasion to learn.

It is a wicked World. Your Father told me so when he was most in a Position to know. The more I see of it, the more I wonder at your Desire to see so much of it. We are a wicked Race, we People, and it is better to be acquainted with as few of us as possible.

Do I sound here like your own Mary? I feel quite altered. Johnny has gone to Sea at last and all is Desolation. He sailed for the Indies in September.

I once saw something in William's Face that surprized me. That something was your Face. And I thought, then, of your Father and wondered if he had ever told you of the World's Wickedness, had ever made you feel a Part of it. It has always been too easy to persuade you, my Love. All these Years, all these Voyages-were you protecting us from yourself?

If you will be persuaded by someone, let it be me. First, I would have you believe that every Man and every Woman has a Kingdom of Evil somewhere in their Hearts. Yours is no bigger than some, and smaller than most. You are a Good Man and we are not afraid of you.

Second, you love us. Confess it, you are haunted by us. You can never go far enough to escape. We fill your Thoughts in spite of yourself. You mold your Memories about us, as if you had been here all along.

And now I will turn my Persuasions on myself; I will reason myself out of this Morbid Humour. My Life has not been a hard one. Perhaps I might have asked to be sheltered more. Perhaps I might have asked to live an Arm away from the Wicked World.

But I did not ask this. I asked to see the World, just as you did, so I will make no Complaint at seeing it. There are far worse things to be endured than an absent Husband, as Betty brings me constant Proof. And I am finished forever with blaming you for your Absence. I am hard at work to not blame you for Johnny's.

Indeed, I pray for your Return. Come Home to us now, surprize us just when everyone has said that this Time you are surely lost. Let us embrace again. We will find a way to live together, you and I, your Children and Grandchildren. Stay with us as long as you will, a valued Guest.

And then go. We have no Wish to hold you. We have become the People you would have us be, and you need never fear hurting us again. We will rejoice at your Coming; your Going will cause us no Moment of Suffering. More than this, I think, no Man can ask of his Family.

As always,

Mary

LIESERL.

Einstein received the first letter in the afternoon post. It had traveled in bags and boxes all the way from Hungary, sailing finally through the bra.s.s slit in Einstein's door. Dear Albert, it said. Little Lieserl is here. Mileva says to tell you that your new daughter has tiny fingers and a head as bald as an egg. Mileva says to say that she loves you and will write you herself when she feels better. The signature was Mileva's father's. The letter was sent at the end of January, but arrived at the beginning of February, so even if everything in it was true when written, it was entirely possible that none of it was true now. Einstein read the letter several times. He was frightened. Why could Mileva not write him herself? The birth must have been a very difficult one. Was the baby really as bald as all that? He wished for a picture. What kind of little eyes did she have? Did she look like Mileva? Mileva had an aura of thick, dark hair. Einstein was living in Bern, Switzerland, and Mileva had returned to her parents' home in t.i.tel, Hungary, for the birth. Mileva was hurt because Einstein sent her to Hungary alone, although she had not said so. The year was 1902. Einstein was twenty-two years old. None of this is as simple as it sounds, but one must start somewhere even though such placement inevitably entails the telling of a lie.

Outside Einstein's window, large star-shaped flakes of snow swirled silently in the air like the pretend snow in a gla.s.s globe. The sky darkened into evening as Einstein sat on his bed with his papers. The globe had been shaken and Einstein was the still ceramic figure at its swirling heart, the painted Father Christmas. Lieserl. How I love her already, Einstein thought, dangerously. Before I even know her, how I love her.