Rock Island Line David Rhodes (ereader iphone .txt) 📖

and looked back to the screen. “Now, I want some of that eaten by the time I get back,” she continued, kindly, but as though she would take no monkey business either. Then she stayed for a silent moment longer and went back inside, leaving the door open. He was glad when she was gone. She made him feel small. Until four days ago he’d never seen her—or didn’t remember. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her, or that he was incapable of recognizing the kindness . . . only that he felt he was being watched naked. In fact, he’d liked her from the first moment, but it was irrelevant: his understanding went deeper.

Four days ago. He got off the schoolbus. There was a car in the driveway. He didn’t know who it belonged to. Inside were Mr. and Mrs. Binford, whom he’d never seen outside Sunday mornings at the church. They stood up when he came in and looked as though they’d been interrupted while stealing silverware. He thought they must owe his father money and were waiting for his mother to come out of the bathroom. He took the square-folded lunch sack out of his back pocket and put it on the kitchen table. He wondered if the Binfords would be like his friends at school—would think it was the mark of poverty to have to save your sack and not squash it up in a ball with the waxpaper and half a sandwich inside and throw it in the trash. (Actually, no one had ever said it, but he knew what they thought. He’d told it to his mother and she had said, “Foolishness,” and that had been the end of it.) Usually he would try to fold it up when no one was looking, but out of pride would not do this if it took much effort. The Binfords were talking nervously together and they came into the kitchen. He had the feeling that his mother wasn’t in the bathroom. Like suspected thieves, they talked to him about school. He opened the refrigerator and looked for last night’s dessert—black-bottom pie. But even the plate was gone. So were the potato chips from under the counter. July was beside himself with how to be rid of the Binfords. Finally, he could stand it no longer and in the living room called “Mom”at the top of his lungs, both as a statement that it wasn’t his responsibility to entertain them, and in the hope that she was upstairs somewhere and would come down. But she didn’t, and they came rushing back into the living room. “ Your mother isn’t here,” said Mr. Binford, and seated himself nervously, absurdly, on the couch. “She won’t be coming back,” said Mrs. Binford. “She’s dead,” they said together. “They’re both dead,” said Mr. Binford alone. Then Mrs. Binford sat down beside her husband and they folded their hands and looked as they did in church. The telephone rang, and they both jumped. July sat looking out the window, and heard the receiver taken up—then murmured talking from Della’s old bedroom—as far away as the cord would reach. The first time anyone tried to kill him he was ten years old. Then the receiver was put back.

Whenever he turned and looked at them, they were sitting in church, hands folded. Four hours passed. It became dark outside. Mrs. Binford turned on a light, on low beam, and went back to looking without direction. Finally, a car came into the driveway. The lights were shut off. Walking sounds. A knock on the door. The Binfords opened it together. Mumbled talking. Then his Aunt Becky burst into the room wearing a light green dress, her voice loud. “All right,” she said. “Are you July?”

He nodded his head.

“Good. I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Becky, your Aunt Becky. I came as quickly as I heard. God, it’s like a dungeon in here.” She ran around snapping on lights. The Binfords were watching her from next to the opened door. “Go on now,” she said to them. “July and I will manage just fine. Get on out of here.” They inched their way out and Aunt Becky gently slammed the door as soon as they were in the yard. “Now!” She sat down fatly on the sofa. “We must get things straight. First, as I guess you know, your parents have both been killed—in an automobile accident. Second, it was nobody’s fault, but that doesn’t matter. He was my brother. My name’s Becky Frunt. My husband Perry will be here for the funeral. At that time we’lldecide whether or not to live here. But don’t think about that now. You’ll live with us whatever, and get along fine. We have one girl, but she’s ten years older than you and will be going away to college in the fall. You’ll stay home from school until after the funeral, then you’ll be going back. Until then there are many things to be done. First, where’s your room? . . . No, later. Have you eaten?” July shook his head. “Then we’ll have to make dinner, won’t we?” He nodded, and they went into the kitchen.

After dinner, though July didn’t eat because he couldn’t swallow, they went up to his room with a white ball of string. Together they strung the string from the corner of his bed, across the hall into the guest room, up to the ceiling and to a small brass bell above the guest bed. “There,” said Aunt Becky when they were finished. July had looked several times at her enormous rear end. “Now, if you need anything you can just pull the string. OK. Fine. Do you have any games?” They went downstairs and July got out a Clue set and they played until far after midnight. She won nearly every game.

He was eternally grateful for her, and during those four days as he came out of shock and into the horror of