five foot ten, which has only recently become fashionable. I also have enormous feet. Size ten on a good day.

When I was young, I hated my tall, too thin, sticklike figure, which my mother described as willowy. She’d argue that my looks were special and would be appreciated when I got older. Just give yourself time, she’d say. You’ll see. You’ll outshine all those other girls with hourglass figures. I felt like Frankie in The Member of the Wedding, “a big freak…legs too long… shoulders too narrow…belonging to no club and a member of nothing in the world.”

It wasn’t just my appearance. I always felt like an oddball, the exception in a world where I imagined other families were normal and happy. Virginia and I endured the secrets and shame of an absent father and an alcoholic mother, and the few friends I had, I kept at a distance, always relieved when they didn’t come over. The fact of the matter was that I was embarrassed that my mother couldn’t cope and, in some ways, she passed that on to me.

I shut my eyes as I get into the tub. I have purposely made the water scalding hot and when I dip my foot in, my toes turn red and start to sting. Too hot. I add a little cold, letting the water run through my fingers as I listen to a tinny version of Coltrane blasting out “Love Supreme.” Paul Desmond once said that listening to late night jazz is like having a very dry martini. I think he’s right.

I stick my foot back in and then ease my body into the water. Still too hot. I twist the spigot with my toes, adding more cold. There. Perfect. I pick up The Transit of Venus, a more obscure novel by Shirley Hazard, whose newest book, The Great Fire, has become a favorite among book clubs. The premise is fascinating. It’s about two beautiful