At the time, the entire country was recovering from disaster, and he’d felt the sway of sorrow, the sharp pull of grief. But then, gradually, slowly, in the months that followed, he felt a counterpull toward meaning, one that brought with it an almost unexpected hopefulness. He reasoned he should be hopeful. He and Julia were newly married, he’d landed a job teaching in the South, and he was determined that, for all the world’s chaos, he could at least make his own life good, his love more lasting. Now, ten years later, in the midst of their separation, Julia stands in their bedroom and holds up this very mask. Dobbin sees a faint flicker of recognition—the shape of Julia’s mouth changes—before she places the mask on his side of things: snorkel gear from a vacation in the Caribbean, a leather bomber jacket, and binoculars she has fished out from the closet. She is rummaging through old things these days, deciding what is hers and what is rightfully his, splitting up what is both of theirs, in the interest of fairness.
