Stuart Mill that, when I read it, moved the world: “It is a subject on which
nothing final can be known.” The subject Mill had in mind was the nature of
women. Mill claimed that women have been coaxed, cajoled, shoved and
squashed into a series of feminine contortions for so many centuries, that it is
now quite impossible to define their natural abilities or aspirations.
Blood rushed to my brain; I felt an animating surge of adrenaline, of
possibility, of a frontier being pushed outward. Of the nature of women,
nothing final can be known. Never had I found such comfort in a void, in the
black absence of knowledge. It seemed to say: whatever you are, you are
woman.
In December, after I had submitted my last essay, I took a train to London
and boarded a plane. Mother, Audrey and Emily picked me up at the airport
in Salt Lake City, and together we skidded onto the interstate. It was nearly
midnight when the mountain came into view. I could only just make out her
grand form against the inky sky.
When I entered the kitchen I noticed a gaping hole in the wall, which led to
a new extension Dad was building. Mother walked with me through the hole
and switched on the light.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” she said. “Amazing” was the word.
It was a single massive room the size of the chapel at church, with a
vaulted ceiling that rose some sixteen feet into the air. The size of the room
was so ridiculous, it took me a moment to notice the decor. The walls were
exposed Sheetrock, which contrasted spectacularly with the wood paneling
on the vaulted ceiling. Crimson suede sofas sat cordially next to the stained
upholstery love seat my father had dragged in from the dump many years
before. Thick rugs with intricate patterns covered half the floor, while the
other half was raw cement. There were several pianos, only one of which
looked playable, and a television the size of a dining table. The room suited
my father perfectly: it was larger than life and wonderfully incongruous.
Dad had always said he wanted to build a room the size of a cruise ship but
I’d never thought he’d have the money. I looked to Mother for an explanation
but it was Dad who answered. The business was a roaring success, he
explained. Essential oils were popular, and Mother had the best on the
market. “Our oils are so good,” he said, “we’ve started eating into the profits
of the large corporate producers. They know all about them Westovers in
Idaho.” Dad told me that one company had been so alarmed by the success of