Read Online Behind the Bonehouse by Sally Wright - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sally Wright
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sipped at it again, then drank the rest down, and wiped his mouth on the rolled-up sleeve of his denim work shirt.
He stood and stared at the big old elms, tall and wide and half dead most of them, twisted gray arms sticking up toward the sky in the darkening dusk. He watched the old willow too, weeping across the ground, being torn by the wind on the far side of the creek just past the edge of his land.
A storm had come up, rolling in fast, whipping leaves across the lawn as the first flash of lightning lit the night somewhere off on the west. He counted seconds till he shuddered from the crash that mustâve been five miles away.
The next bolt exploded closer, and he jumped before he could stop himself. He closed his eyes and shouted at himself, saying what he needed to hear, hoping that this time it might even work. Knowing it wouldnât in the long run. Because by then he was crawling up a hill in Korea, icy rain pouring down his neck, mud sliding under his hands, slipping away from his knees, slithering under his cold soaked boots while artillery shrieked, splitting the sky, as it pounded the world all around him.
Butch pitched his glass at the porch step, watching it shatter, as another flash of lightning hit off to his left, still flying in from the west with a freight train screaming wind. He held his hands over his ears, and waited for the next crash that didnât come. Then he pushed his hair back with both hands and lifted his face to the rain, shouting âDamn Alan Munro! Heâs gettinâ just what he wants!â
Saturday, August 10th, 1963
Carl woke up on the sofa just before six, Cassandra curled on his chest, the ashtray overturned on the floor beside him. He sat up, as Cassandra jumped, and rubbed his eyes with both hands.
The house was silent, which was unexpected. Janie was always up by five, making coffee and fixing breakfast, or working in the studyâand he called her name on his way to the bathroom, but didnât get a reply.
She couldâve been in the garden already, getting a start before it got hot, and he didnât give it much thought.
She wasnât in the bedroom, but her closet door was ajar, and when he opened it all the way, he saw most of her clothes were gone. Her suitcases werenât on the upper shelf, and her two favorite pillows were missing from the unmade bed.
Carl walked into the kitchen to see if her car was on the apron next to the unattached garageâbut it wasnât. Which by that time was no surprise.
He splashed his face in the kitchen sink, looking out at the gardens sheâd made, at the star-shaped leaves of the clematis vine getting tossed against the screen in a soft northerly breeze.
He grabbed a dish towel and patted his face, then went to the fridge for the can of Folgers, and noticed an envelope waiting on the counter addressed to him in her hand.
He turned it over, but laid it down again, then started the percolator, and made himself toast, and poured a glass of orange juice.
He ate the toast and drank the juice, glancing through the
Herald Leader
he hadnât read the day before, and finished his first cup of coffee too, and lit his second Lucky, before he poured another cup, and slit the back of the envelope.
Carl,
I have left you not simply because of the revelations of last evening, but because it served as confirmation of the character traits I have observed in the course of our years together.
When we first met in Bloomington, I felt great compassion for you because of the deprivations you had faced as a child, and your determination to work two jobs to save funds for college.
What I came to see after we married was that you take whatever help you are given as your rightful due because of what you lived through. You were not grateful to the pharmacist who took you into his home and gave you a job in the Depression, any more than you were my brother-in-law for arranging a Chemistry scholarship at IU, and
He stood and stared at the big old elms, tall and wide and half dead most of them, twisted gray arms sticking up toward the sky in the darkening dusk. He watched the old willow too, weeping across the ground, being torn by the wind on the far side of the creek just past the edge of his land.
A storm had come up, rolling in fast, whipping leaves across the lawn as the first flash of lightning lit the night somewhere off on the west. He counted seconds till he shuddered from the crash that mustâve been five miles away.
The next bolt exploded closer, and he jumped before he could stop himself. He closed his eyes and shouted at himself, saying what he needed to hear, hoping that this time it might even work. Knowing it wouldnât in the long run. Because by then he was crawling up a hill in Korea, icy rain pouring down his neck, mud sliding under his hands, slipping away from his knees, slithering under his cold soaked boots while artillery shrieked, splitting the sky, as it pounded the world all around him.
Butch pitched his glass at the porch step, watching it shatter, as another flash of lightning hit off to his left, still flying in from the west with a freight train screaming wind. He held his hands over his ears, and waited for the next crash that didnât come. Then he pushed his hair back with both hands and lifted his face to the rain, shouting âDamn Alan Munro! Heâs gettinâ just what he wants!â
Saturday, August 10th, 1963
Carl woke up on the sofa just before six, Cassandra curled on his chest, the ashtray overturned on the floor beside him. He sat up, as Cassandra jumped, and rubbed his eyes with both hands.
The house was silent, which was unexpected. Janie was always up by five, making coffee and fixing breakfast, or working in the studyâand he called her name on his way to the bathroom, but didnât get a reply.
She couldâve been in the garden already, getting a start before it got hot, and he didnât give it much thought.
She wasnât in the bedroom, but her closet door was ajar, and when he opened it all the way, he saw most of her clothes were gone. Her suitcases werenât on the upper shelf, and her two favorite pillows were missing from the unmade bed.
Carl walked into the kitchen to see if her car was on the apron next to the unattached garageâbut it wasnât. Which by that time was no surprise.
He splashed his face in the kitchen sink, looking out at the gardens sheâd made, at the star-shaped leaves of the clematis vine getting tossed against the screen in a soft northerly breeze.
He grabbed a dish towel and patted his face, then went to the fridge for the can of Folgers, and noticed an envelope waiting on the counter addressed to him in her hand.
He turned it over, but laid it down again, then started the percolator, and made himself toast, and poured a glass of orange juice.
He ate the toast and drank the juice, glancing through the
Herald Leader
he hadnât read the day before, and finished his first cup of coffee too, and lit his second Lucky, before he poured another cup, and slit the back of the envelope.
Carl,
I have left you not simply because of the revelations of last evening, but because it served as confirmation of the character traits I have observed in the course of our years together.
When we first met in Bloomington, I felt great compassion for you because of the deprivations you had faced as a child, and your determination to work two jobs to save funds for college.
What I came to see after we married was that you take whatever help you are given as your rightful due because of what you lived through. You were not grateful to the pharmacist who took you into his home and gave you a job in the Depression, any more than you were my brother-in-law for arranging a Chemistry scholarship at IU, and
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