get to the source. “It’s a lovely story, but is it the original?” I remember how she always said that. She thought that the more we tried to retrofit these tales the less power they had. .

She did read me fairy tales and fables, of course. But like any other mother. She wasn’t an expert in them.

JS: Which was your favorite?

MS: I don’t have favorites.

JS: How about your father?

MS: My parents separated when I was four. He didn’t come around much. (very long pause. MS picking at her fingernails.)

Actually -- actually -- my earliest memory of him is a painful one. (another long pause, staring at her hands.)

Very painful. He’d come to take me out and I didn’t want to go. I threw a tantrum. Huge fuss! I must have been kicking and screaming when I suddenly caught sight of his face and he was so sad. Until then I hadn’t known a child could hurt a grown-up’s feelings.

He used to whittle. It embarrassed me, so down-country, so mid-twentieth century. He actually had some talent. He would pick up sticks on the beach and make me dolls from them. They had details, like hair and fingernails and eyeballs and he’d carve them off in a few minutes. But I never wanted to keep them. They didn’t seem like dolls, you know; they didn’t do anything. I used to take them home and then throw them away. He died when I was twenty-three. I hadn’t seen him in ten years.

I’m not so easily disappointed in people now. I’ve learned to be open to whatever it is they bring. I’m just sorry I wasn’t like this when it could have mattered to him. I wish I’d kept some of those dolls. I don’t have anything from him.

Nothing at all. But guilt!