The Whore's Child Read Online Free PDF

conversation in which an actress would explain how that next shot would reveal or emphasize some terrible imperfection she was determined to conceal. Axelrod, whose face had been badly burned in childhood, handled them as well as anybody. “Look at me,” he’d say quietly. “Look at this face and then tell me
you’re
ugly.” They loved him for that, sometimes, Martin suspected, even sleeping with him out of gratitude. Back in his director’s chair, he’d give the actress a few minutes to compose herself, explaining to the waiting crew, in his most confidential tones, “Everybody wants to be perfect. I certainly hope this isn’t a perfect movie we’re making.” Whereupon he would be assured they weren’t.
    Strangely, when Axelrod himself wed, late in life, the woman he married might have been Beth’s sister, a flawless beauty some twenty years his junior with a face and body whose perfect symmetry seemed computer-generated. Which probably meant that men, ultimately,
were
to blame. That’s certainly what Joyce would say. It was men, after all, who were responsible for setting the standards of feminine beauty. Someday, Martin felt certain, it would be discovered what women were responsible for, though probably not in his lifetime.
    When he looked up from his brochure, Martin saw that the island’s lighthouse had come into view above the dark line of trees, so he got up and went over to the rail for a better look. A few minutes later, the ferry rounded the southernmost tip of the island and chugged into the tiny harbor with its scattering of small buildings built into the hillside. High above and blindingly white, the lighthouse was straight out of a Hopper painting, presiding over a village starkly brilliant in its detail. Martin could feel his eyes welling up in the stiff breeze, and when he felt Beth at his elbow, he tried to wipe the tear out of the corner of his left eye with the heel of his hand, a gesture he hoped looked natural. She must have noticed, though, because she said, “Don’t be jealous, babe. God lit this one.”
    It wasn’t until they’d disembarked from the ferry, until they located their bags on the dock and started up the hill toward the second-best accommodations on the island, that Martin turned back and saw the name painted on the ferry’s transom:
The Laura B.
    He’d told Beth nothing of his wife, except that she’d died several years ago and that they’d stayed married, he supposed, out of inertia. Beth seemed content with this slender account, but she rarely wanted more information than Martin had already offered about most anything. He would have concluded that she was genuinely incurious except that sometimes, if he’d been particularly evasive, she’d pose a follow-up question, days or even weeks after the fact, as if it had taken her all that time to realize he’d not been terribly forthcoming. Worse, she always remembered his precise words, which meant he couldn’t plead misunderstanding when a subject got unpleasantly revisited. Often her questions took the form of statements, as was the case now.
    â€œThat woman didn’t appear to like you very much,” she observed over her chicken Caesar salad.
    They were the only two people in the dining room. They’d checked in just after two and were told that the dining room was closed, though the young woman working in the kitchen said she supposed, inasmuch as they were guests of the hotel, they might be fed something if what they wanted wasn’t too complicated. Martin had ordered a bowl of chowder, figuring something of that sort was probably what the woman had in mind. Beth had ordered the chicken Caesar, which was what she would have ordered if the woman had been mute on the subject of what they might and might not have. When she brought their food a few minutes later, the woman said that the last seating for dinner would