Rock Island Line David Rhodes (ereader iphone .txt) đ
- Author: David Rhodes
Book online «Rock Island Line David Rhodes (ereader iphone .txt) đ». Author David Rhodes
âBut, like I say, that shouldnât be held against anyone, because we all have our undoingsâwhere reasonâll be cast to the wind. And donât misunderstand me, Iâm not saying here that I admire that or that it impresses me; for instance, in the case of my Aunt Winifred, who let the business with Jack and that girl from Plainsville poison her whole life. In fact, if thereâs any principle to live by, it would be reasonâlive reasonably; a hundred times a day one should stop and ask, âIs this reasonable, what Iâm doing?â There simply canât be enough reasonableness in someoneâs life.â
Despite Johnâs unceasing refusal to let it happen, his mother slid away one night in her sleep, and he found her curled up, the quilt tucked under her chin, the next morning. At first hedidnât react to it at all, closed the door and sat down on the twisted sheets and blankets covering the sofa. Then, when his true feelings began to clear in him, he had a terrific urge to drink, and went to the kitchen in search of a bottle. Underneath the sink, he thought. But there was none. He thought when heâd last seen itâthe bottle of 86-proof bourbon. Then he remembered that heâd given it away. How long? Yes, that would have been to Myraâs boyâfourteen years ago. The realization let another increment of his true feelings loose, and he started back toward the couch. But the full impact came sooner than he expected, and he didnât make it. As he looked at the door to his motherâs room, the thunderhead inside him ripped open. The downpour temporarily blinded him in deep purple, tears flowed like water on his face, and holding his shaking hand out toward the wall to support him, he cried like an animal shot through the stomach.
Sarah and July came downstairs and it was hours before the shaking subsided.
Later, after the funeral, July heard him say, âWhen I was a little boy, I used to lie in bed and imagine that my parents were dead. That very thought terrified me. They told me, âItâs just a make-believe worry. Weâll always be here,â and that comforted me. But now itâs just like it happened then. It could be no worse. . . . Who will take care of me now?â
Julyâs only real interest in his grandmotherâs death was in the mechanics of it. He had wanted to (though he didnât) go into her room and look at herâif, indeed, she was still thereâto see if she looked any different. Sarah told him that âGrandmaâs bodyâher dead bodyâis all thatâs left. Grandma herself is gone.â So he knew that behind the door lay something, but that something wasnât his grandma. Then at the funeral he got to see into the casket, and he wasnât nearly as horrified as he had thought he might be, looking at a personless body. The unrealness of deathâthe chalk color and closed eyesâwas so completelyuninteresting. He realized Della couldnât possibly be lying on the pink pillow, which had been his only fearâthat somehow everyone was wrong and she hadnât been able to get away and was imprisoned inside her dead self. But he could see that wasnât true, and he could see everyone else at the funeral knew that (except maybe his father). The minister talked of heaven and Della being with Wilson, herald angels and the mansion in the sky. Naturally, July accepted it all.
For several weeks, maybe as long as several months, he was troubled by his father, who didnât at all seem to be acting in accordance with the way things were. He acted oddly, as though he hadnât even known Della was just an old lady and was ready to die soon, and now she had and that was good. July could see no reason to be very upsetânot nearly so upset as when their cat had been run over. Old people die and thatâs that. But his father acted as though he didnât know that.
Then slowly the depression lifted, and the face shadow, which had at one time been dark gray, turned ashen, but never went away. From that time on, the past had hold of John, and though he could still be âreasonable,â he no longer desired to go forward. He wanted to go back. Instead of creating, he wanted to recapture. Instead of dreaming, he wanted to remember.
Many times during those first several months John took time off from work to be with his familyâeven afternoons when he refused to return to the garage after lunch, though his lot was filled with people waiting for him. He gave up working Saturdays altogether. He told July, then seven and a half, of a man named Kingfisher. Theyâd gone for a ride and stopped just before dark in a small diner in Liberty. John ordered a cup of coffee and the tired waitress brought that and a strawberry
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