Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,29
Atreus. There’s a film, a Western from the 1950s, called The Furies, and a 1976 historical novel by someone named John Jakes. And it’s the name of the newspaper of The Furies Collective, a Washington, DC–based organization. I’d like to know more about that.
At femalefury.net, I learn about an all-girl third wave proto-punk band, based in Athens, Georgia, that’s now defunct. Discography: 1986: Debut album: “The Furies Rise.” The title track and another cut, Born from the Balls of Uranus, received strong airplay on college radio stations and the band toured (small clubs and campuses) until disbanding due to personality and artistic clashes. Rumors persist that the group is planning a comeback. They maintain a small but passionate cult following. It’s too bad they broke up. I wonder if I can find a video or their CD.
There’s lots more. Furies. Infuriated. Furious. I stroke He-Cat’s fur as my printer spits out everything I can find. I want to be prepared for tomorrow, our first scheduled practice session, even though we haven’t figured out a place to meet yet.
The lair of the Leech is obviously out of the question. When I call Stephanie, she complains that her parents work at home a lot. Alix says no way are we meeting at her place. No explanation why, and she’s cagey about it. I get the sense that she’s embarrassed about where she lives.
“You want me. You need me,” Raymond says with a clogged nose when he volunteers to host what he is calling The Great Power Shift. “To your gathering I will bring a healthy skepticism, a runny nose, and a mom who will serve her world-famous triple ginger cookies.”
* * *
So that’s how we wind up at Raymond’s house the next day after school. When we step inside the front door, a cascading scale of violin notes from upstairs greets us. Raymond must be feeling better. His mom makes a special point of giving me a big hug and asking how I am. She does that every time she sees me, and I’m getting used to it. It’s not phony at all. Then she hands me a plate of cookies and leads us to Raymond’s room. She blows each of us an individual kiss before shutting the bedroom door behind her.
“Gawd, I just love my mom,” Raymond says. He’s propped up in bed, pillows fluffed, violin at his side, and wearing his favorite pjs with the retro cowboy pattern. I notice Alix and Stephanie exchanging glances. That’s one more thing we have in common: none of us has ever publicly declared love for our mom, and not because it’s an uncool thing to do but because we don’t have moms like Raymond’s. I’d give anything to have a parent who feels about me like she feels about him. She gets a kick out of Raymond being Raymond, exactly the way he is. You can just tell that she doesn’t want to change a thing about him.
Sneeze. Cough. Raymond doesn’t waste another minute before getting down to business. “My research on the matter in question,” he announces. “There’s a lot to be said for being home sick. School can definitely get in the way of an education.” He opens a computer file and reads, “Those Who Walk in Darkness, blah-blah-blah. Alecto, Tisiphone, Megaera.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Alix reaches for one of Raymond’s stuffed animals, a cross between a bear and a chicken, and puts it behind her head as a pillow.
“Hold on, Ms. Patience. I have more. Female deities of vengeance and anger. Horrible to look at. Blood dripping from their eyes. Snakes in their hair. What they lack in good cheekbones they make up in horrendous BO.”
“Hey!” I protest.
Raymond mimes giving me a reassuring hug, and then explains that the horrible part is only one aspect of the Furies’ image. Artists and playwrights throughout history sometimes portray them as gorgeous temptresses, a trio of luscious-smelling goddesses.
“That’s more like it,” I say.
“And what personalities! Sheer determination. Without mercy, they punish all crime. They mess with your mind. They leave no foul deed unavenged. They are”—he picks up his violin and plays a dramatic, high-pitched da-da-da-da—“the Furies.”
I add an interesting tidbit from my own research. “Furies, as in furious. And infuriated. Derived from—”
“Enough grammar.” Alix is on her third cookie. “I don’t care what they call them or why. I wanna know if it’s true about us. What can we do and when can we start doing it?”
“If we can do