Read Online All Things Cease to Appear by Elizabeth Brundage - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Brundage
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had. It was his souvenir now. Again he shook it, watching the flakes swirl, and wondered if the boy would even realize it was gone.
4
THEIR UNCLE KEPT a used 1967 Cadillac hearse in his barn that he’d take out now and again for what he called State Occasions. It still had the white curtains in the windows and he kept a good shine on it. Sometimes he’d go out and sit in it and Vida would leave him be. Death is closer than you think, he told Cole. You can wake up one day not even knowing it’s your last. By sundown it’s all over.
His other prized possession was an old Harley-Davidson with hornet-green fenders. He’d tinker around with it sometimes, but he never took it out. How come you never ride it? Cole asked him one afternoon.
Rainer looked over at the bike longingly. Someday I’ll tell you a story, he said, and wandered off, scratching his head.
Cole decided it was a sad story that had to do with a woman. He had found a dusty old Polaroid in his uncle’s desk of this woman who looked like Pocahontas, sitting on the bike with her arms crossed, smirking at whoever was taking the picture. Cole had a feeling that his uncle had missed out on some things. But there were a lot of people like that. This thing or that had happened, or they’d done something stupid. And suddenly their lives weren’t what they’d thought. Cole wondered what had happened to this woman, and if his uncle even knew.
At school, people kept their distance, as if the bad thing that had happened to his family was a smell on his clothes, like skunk spray. But there was this one kid, Eugene. Free period, they’d go down the street to Windowbox for burgers. Or they’d walk around the corner to St. Anthony’s to see Patrice. She was always hanging around the doors without her coat, shivering. She’d wander over to the fence at the last minute, after the nun blew her whistle. They’d only have a second, her eyes roaming over his face as if she was looking for something. Their hands touching on the fence, her fingertips like raindrops. She had stopped wearing baggy knee socks. Now they hugged her scrawny calves, and her hair was coiled up on the back of her head like a doughnut. Blue powder dusted her eyelids like sky dust, if that even existed. They had something between them, something quiet, true.
Eugene’s grandmother lived above Hack’s Grocery. His father was in prison for running drugs off the trains. He never spoke of his mother, but one time a picture of her fell out of his pocket when he took out some change and Cole picked it up off the sidewalk. She’s dead, Eugene told him. It was something they shared, dead mothers. His grandma worked at the plastics factory. She was a sorter and had the biggest hands he’d ever seen on a woman, like scooped-out tortoise shells. She would rest them on her lap and weave her fingers together. Eugene was serious about school. They did homework together at the library. People would always look at Eugene on account he was black and stood out. The library was in an old house, and when it was cold out they’d light a fire, and the fireplace was so big you could walk into it, with an old black kettle hanging there like the kind witches use. The books sat on their shelves like spectators and smelled of all the dirty hands that had turned their pages. The regulars sat in the green leather chairs, geezers with sharp red faces, or ladies who looked like teachers, sourpusses, Eugene called them, snapping their pages, pursing their lips. Old people were always ready to condemn you for something. Even his own grandfather used to beat him with a rolled-up newspaper when he hadn’t even done anything. There was this one guy who sat up in the stacks at his own personal table, with papers all over the place. He’d made an impressive chain out of gum wrappers, the length of his arm. Once, he offered Cole a piece of Wrigley’s Spearmint. A day or so later, Cole remembered the stick of gum in his pocket,
4
THEIR UNCLE KEPT a used 1967 Cadillac hearse in his barn that he’d take out now and again for what he called State Occasions. It still had the white curtains in the windows and he kept a good shine on it. Sometimes he’d go out and sit in it and Vida would leave him be. Death is closer than you think, he told Cole. You can wake up one day not even knowing it’s your last. By sundown it’s all over.
His other prized possession was an old Harley-Davidson with hornet-green fenders. He’d tinker around with it sometimes, but he never took it out. How come you never ride it? Cole asked him one afternoon.
Rainer looked over at the bike longingly. Someday I’ll tell you a story, he said, and wandered off, scratching his head.
Cole decided it was a sad story that had to do with a woman. He had found a dusty old Polaroid in his uncle’s desk of this woman who looked like Pocahontas, sitting on the bike with her arms crossed, smirking at whoever was taking the picture. Cole had a feeling that his uncle had missed out on some things. But there were a lot of people like that. This thing or that had happened, or they’d done something stupid. And suddenly their lives weren’t what they’d thought. Cole wondered what had happened to this woman, and if his uncle even knew.
At school, people kept their distance, as if the bad thing that had happened to his family was a smell on his clothes, like skunk spray. But there was this one kid, Eugene. Free period, they’d go down the street to Windowbox for burgers. Or they’d walk around the corner to St. Anthony’s to see Patrice. She was always hanging around the doors without her coat, shivering. She’d wander over to the fence at the last minute, after the nun blew her whistle. They’d only have a second, her eyes roaming over his face as if she was looking for something. Their hands touching on the fence, her fingertips like raindrops. She had stopped wearing baggy knee socks. Now they hugged her scrawny calves, and her hair was coiled up on the back of her head like a doughnut. Blue powder dusted her eyelids like sky dust, if that even existed. They had something between them, something quiet, true.
Eugene’s grandmother lived above Hack’s Grocery. His father was in prison for running drugs off the trains. He never spoke of his mother, but one time a picture of her fell out of his pocket when he took out some change and Cole picked it up off the sidewalk. She’s dead, Eugene told him. It was something they shared, dead mothers. His grandma worked at the plastics factory. She was a sorter and had the biggest hands he’d ever seen on a woman, like scooped-out tortoise shells. She would rest them on her lap and weave her fingers together. Eugene was serious about school. They did homework together at the library. People would always look at Eugene on account he was black and stood out. The library was in an old house, and when it was cold out they’d light a fire, and the fireplace was so big you could walk into it, with an old black kettle hanging there like the kind witches use. The books sat on their shelves like spectators and smelled of all the dirty hands that had turned their pages. The regulars sat in the green leather chairs, geezers with sharp red faces, or ladies who looked like teachers, sourpusses, Eugene called them, snapping their pages, pursing their lips. Old people were always ready to condemn you for something. Even his own grandfather used to beat him with a rolled-up newspaper when he hadn’t even done anything. There was this one guy who sat up in the stacks at his own personal table, with papers all over the place. He’d made an impressive chain out of gum wrappers, the length of his arm. Once, he offered Cole a piece of Wrigley’s Spearmint. A day or so later, Cole remembered the stick of gum in his pocket,
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