the last book I ever read (Margaret Atwood's Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts, excerpt fifteen)

from Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts by Margaret Atwood:

I was flying back from England with Graeme. After making sure he was okay, I opened up my laptop to do some work on The Casements. But my attention wandered to the seat-back screen, and I found myself watching an engrossing film called Captain Underpants. Once back at the house and in my nightie, I realized that I’d left my laptop on the plane, and… it was open.

This was dire. Stomach churning, I refrained from throwing up and shot into action. I sent a direct message to Air Canada via Twitter, and two angelic beings on @AirCanada worked their magic. The plane was still at the airport, they reported. New message: The laptop had been located. If I would drive out to the airport right now, someone would wait for me and meet me at the curb outside Terminal One, laptop in hand. My walking partner Coleen drove me out: sure enough, there was the promised laptop. And that’s how I regained the highly embargoed Testaments, thus escaping a hanging at the hands of my editors.

the last book I ever read (Margaret Atwood's Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts, excerpt fourteen)

from Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts by Margaret Atwood:

For some time, the condition moved slowly or stayed the same. I could notice no change. Graeme cheerfully told everyone, “I have dementia!” as if announcing he had a new puppy. He was curious about the process, as he had been curious about every process. No one could believe that he was afflicted: he seemed to be carrying on as normal.

When he was eighty, he made the decision to stop driving. He’d continued to be an excellent driver. “But,” he said, “if I’m involved in an accident, even if it’s the other guy’s fault, the fact that I’ve been diagnosed will tell against me.” We had to think up other stratagems for getting around. For Pelee, through our friend Rick Masse, we got hold of two four-wheeled electric scooters with roofs and detachable waterproof sides. The batteries were good for getting to the liquor store and back. We rollicked on as before. Still, there was the sensation of treading water.

the last book I ever read (Margaret Atwood's Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts, excerpt thirteen)

from Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts by Margaret Atwood:

Since Canadians are prone to be offended by the success of other Canadians, I knew it was only a matter of time before someone got in the knife. I walked around looking over my shoulder, but the blow came from an unexpected quarter. My Canadian publisher had been agitating for an interview with the national newspaper, the Globe and Mail, and I finally agreed to do one with a female reporter unknown to me. Her name was Jan Wong. I didn’t know that she’d been a student in China during the Cultural Revolution, by her own account had been all for it, and had denounced her roommate to the Red Guards. It’s hard for anyone to get out of the habit of betraying people, overthrowing the ruling class, or stabbing anyone you perceive as an unfairly bloated target, once you’ve had a taste of the sense of power such stabbings can confer.

As soon as we sat down to lunch, Ms. Wong announced that she herself would not be eating. Having read “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves,” I knew that refusing to break bread with a meal companion was a bad sign. My spidey-sense tingled, but I didn’t need a spidey-sense to detect the hostility radiating from Wong’s every pore. She began asking intrusive personal questions, and I began avoiding them. I refrained from saying “None of your goddamned business,” but it took an effort. “And your daughter?” she asked. This wasn’t a subject I was willing to discuss: children and young people should be protected from the notoriety of their parents as much as possible. I got out of the restaurant as soon as I could.

the last book I ever read (Margaret Atwood's Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts, excerpt twelve)

from Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts by Margaret Atwood:

Soon after we moved in, Shaughnessy Cohen of the raccoon sanctuary came rushing over. “Guess what the locals are saying?” she asked breathlessly.

“What?”

“They’re saying that Margaret Mead has just bought a place on the island!” Margaret Mead had been dead for ten years.

Once they’d figured out who I was and where I lived, the islanders were very discreet. Tourists would ask them, “Does Margaret Atwood live around here?” “Margaret who?” they would say. Or, “I think she’s way down there at the other end of the island.” I didn’t ask them to fib like this, they just knew. Country manners.

the last book I ever read (Margaret Atwood's Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts, excerpt eleven)

from Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts by Margaret Atwood:

In February 1985, our old friend and co-founder of the Writers’ Union, Marian Engel, died of the cancer she’d had since the late 1970s. We said farewell to her intelligent, savvy voice. She turned up in a dream to reassure me: “It’s fine,” she said, meaning death. “You just kind of go out, like a television.” In those days the picture shrank toward the middle of the set before turning off. Later I wrote in my journal, “Seeing my piece on Marian in Saturday Night with a wonderful photo of her—jumping—in Paris—made me realize again how much I miss her.”

It was in Tuscaloosa that we met Valerie Martin, a novelist—originally from New Orleans—who was also guest-teaching at the University of Alabama. She and I had daughters of roughly the same age, so a connection was made. Valerie was smart, funny, and forthright, and has remained a friend ever since. In April, I finished The Handmaid’s Tale. I was worried about it: surely I would be accused of being anti-Christian, an evil feminist, and a heretic re: the religion of America, land of democracy. Valerie was its first reader.

“I think I’m gonna get in trouble,” I said to her.

“I think you’re gonna make a lot of money,” she replied.

the last book I ever read (Margaret Atwood's Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts, excerpt ten)

from Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts by Margaret Atwood:

“Don’t ride a bicycle here,” we were told. “People will think you’re a Communist and run you off the road.”

the last book I ever read (Margaret Atwood's Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts, excerpt nine)

from Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts by Margaret Atwood:

In early 1985, we drove down to Tuscaloosa, Alabama. I’d accepted a guest lectureship—creative writing and a course in Canadian literature I called “Southern Ontario Gothic”: Robertson Davies, Alice Munro, Marian Engel, Graeme Gibson, James Reaney—all from that region of Ontario we nickname Sowesto, between London/ Stratford and Windsor and the southeastern shore of Lake Huron. PREPARE TO MEET THY DOOM highway signs and Black Donnelly Massacre country, at that time. The Alabama students loved these books: twisted secrets, small-town gossip and scandals, ghosts, village idiots, feuds, and murders were old news to them.

We were eager to see the birds of that region: for instance, the large, slow-moving, tasty, and rare limpkin. Graeme found that if we followed the instructions given to us by our colleagues, it was perfectly safe to watch birds. You should park your car by the side of a promising stretch of forest. You should wait. Shortly a pickup would come along. It would have a shotgun in it. The man driving it would ask—politely enough—what you wanted. Once you had explained, he would give you permission. If you walked onto the land without such permission, you’d risk being shot as a trespasser.