Read Online A Different Sun: A Novel of Africa by Elaine Neil Orr - Free Book Online
Authors: Elaine Neil Orr
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fishing and filleted the fish and fried them with cornmeal. “Why are you still here; why don’t you move on?” he said to himself.
The next night when he went to the bar he saw the black chips in the blue of her irises.
They met the following day, riding to a place where trees leaned over the water. They swam in their underclothes. “
Dame un beso
,” she said, “give me a kiss,” and she pulled him close. Later, she led him to her place. It seemed to have been bored out of the ground after the hotel was built. He followed her down a set of steps to a room divided by a curtain. As they entered, another woman left. A girl slept on the only bed. Her hair was like something cut out of a night with rain and he knew right away she was part Mexican. They met so for weeks while the daughter slept. Henry worked at the stable and put away spending money. He never asked about the girl.
One night Laurie wasn’t at the bar. When Henry asked for her, the men laughed, as if he were a boy. He walked out.
So I will leave now
, he thought. Then he heard her pleading. At the back of the hotel, a Mexican careened on a horse, the daughter hauled into him. Laurie had caught the reins and leaned against them like someone might a sail on a tilting craft. The horse fretted and pulled, and Henry started toward them, but the Mexican pulled out his pistol; he had another one still holstered. Henry stood motionless and Laurie watched him, then let her arms go limp, releasing the horse before sinking to the ground. The other woman came out of the house and pulled Laurie in to her. Henry did not mean to fight another Mexican, though he regretted it for his own sake, and for hers. He turned away, Laurie’s cry behind him.
He rode out at daybreak, making it clear into Alabama before he stopped to sleep. When he did sleep, he dreamed of the Indian boy. The child was beautiful—his locks long and dark, and he was speared in the side. The following morning Henry mused on the dream. The boy was meant as Jesus. He had helped crucify him.
Drink and women and even killing were so much scrollwork on the frame of a painting compared to the central subject, Henry’s cardinal sin, ignoring his Redeemer. In the quiet of the countryside, he led the horse and moved slowly. At moments, he was filled with remorse so great his heart felt like a millstone, and he stopped to sit in the road and cry, his face to the ground. He shivered in the heat. Then he sweated something terrible. “God forgive me,” he cried. “Give me another chance.” When the chill returned, he wrapped himself in a blanket to ride. It seemed logical he would be ill—sickened with his own sinning.
Late in the day, he came upon an abandoned house. There were some gnarly apples in the fenced-in yard and a well. He watered the horse and left him to graze. Then he sat on the porch, gnawed on his last bit of jerky, and ate the fruit. Before sundown, he made his pallet on the porch and sank into sleep. He woke sick to his stomach and heaved until there was nothing left. He felt his side sore and thought it was his spleen.
I need water
, he considered, and reached for the canteen, but he had not refilled it. He tried to stand but fell into the yard. He turned on his back, rested his hand on his sore abdomen, and slept again. A cramp in his leg woke him. Both legs seized up, the pain like daggers to his calves. He tried again to stand but could not. He cried out in every foul phrase he knew, rocking in agony until finally he called, “God help me.” In a moment the pain subsided. He slept through the day and night. Early in the morning, a sweet wind blew through. Henry looked up to see a fellow sitting on the porch. He wore overalls and a straw hat.
“I knew you would wake before long,” the man said. “You might could use some water.”
Henry saw his canteen beside him. He picked it up to find it full. He drank eagerly.
“Figured you might want something besides apples to eat. I
The next night when he went to the bar he saw the black chips in the blue of her irises.
They met the following day, riding to a place where trees leaned over the water. They swam in their underclothes. “
Dame un beso
,” she said, “give me a kiss,” and she pulled him close. Later, she led him to her place. It seemed to have been bored out of the ground after the hotel was built. He followed her down a set of steps to a room divided by a curtain. As they entered, another woman left. A girl slept on the only bed. Her hair was like something cut out of a night with rain and he knew right away she was part Mexican. They met so for weeks while the daughter slept. Henry worked at the stable and put away spending money. He never asked about the girl.
One night Laurie wasn’t at the bar. When Henry asked for her, the men laughed, as if he were a boy. He walked out.
So I will leave now
, he thought. Then he heard her pleading. At the back of the hotel, a Mexican careened on a horse, the daughter hauled into him. Laurie had caught the reins and leaned against them like someone might a sail on a tilting craft. The horse fretted and pulled, and Henry started toward them, but the Mexican pulled out his pistol; he had another one still holstered. Henry stood motionless and Laurie watched him, then let her arms go limp, releasing the horse before sinking to the ground. The other woman came out of the house and pulled Laurie in to her. Henry did not mean to fight another Mexican, though he regretted it for his own sake, and for hers. He turned away, Laurie’s cry behind him.
He rode out at daybreak, making it clear into Alabama before he stopped to sleep. When he did sleep, he dreamed of the Indian boy. The child was beautiful—his locks long and dark, and he was speared in the side. The following morning Henry mused on the dream. The boy was meant as Jesus. He had helped crucify him.
Drink and women and even killing were so much scrollwork on the frame of a painting compared to the central subject, Henry’s cardinal sin, ignoring his Redeemer. In the quiet of the countryside, he led the horse and moved slowly. At moments, he was filled with remorse so great his heart felt like a millstone, and he stopped to sit in the road and cry, his face to the ground. He shivered in the heat. Then he sweated something terrible. “God forgive me,” he cried. “Give me another chance.” When the chill returned, he wrapped himself in a blanket to ride. It seemed logical he would be ill—sickened with his own sinning.
Late in the day, he came upon an abandoned house. There were some gnarly apples in the fenced-in yard and a well. He watered the horse and left him to graze. Then he sat on the porch, gnawed on his last bit of jerky, and ate the fruit. Before sundown, he made his pallet on the porch and sank into sleep. He woke sick to his stomach and heaved until there was nothing left. He felt his side sore and thought it was his spleen.
I need water
, he considered, and reached for the canteen, but he had not refilled it. He tried to stand but fell into the yard. He turned on his back, rested his hand on his sore abdomen, and slept again. A cramp in his leg woke him. Both legs seized up, the pain like daggers to his calves. He tried again to stand but could not. He cried out in every foul phrase he knew, rocking in agony until finally he called, “God help me.” In a moment the pain subsided. He slept through the day and night. Early in the morning, a sweet wind blew through. Henry looked up to see a fellow sitting on the porch. He wore overalls and a straw hat.
“I knew you would wake before long,” the man said. “You might could use some water.”
Henry saw his canteen beside him. He picked it up to find it full. He drank eagerly.
“Figured you might want something besides apples to eat. I
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