Mar/Apr 2015 • Vol. XXXVII No. 2 Fiction |

Triptych

… while my glory passes by I will put you in a cleft of the rock, and I will cover you with my hand until I have passed by. Then I will take away my hand, and you shall see my back, but my face shall not be seen. Exodus 33:22-23                  1 Even when you grow up in Manhattan, everything you know is self-absorbed, unum; the pluribus comes much later. Phyllis grew up imagining that she could shape-shift like Alice in Wonderland. At the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Fifth Avenue, she could grow small and climb the ivory stairs inside carved medieval miniatures. Near giant sculptures in the city's squares and parks and dinosaurs at the Museum of Natural History—and in the midst of the balloons of the Thanksgiving Day parade — Phyllis imagined she loomed large. Born in 1968, she had been a privileged only child. At forty, she was employed at the museum as a restorer. As an intern (through her father's art-world connections), she

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