Read Online Bicycle Days by John Burnham Schwartz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Burnham Schwartz
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poured out the opening, briefly painting the darkness a cloudy white before disappearing. He rested the back of his head against the rim of the small, deep tub. Eyes closed, he listened to his breathing as it became more and more relaxed. He crossed his arms underwater, hugging himself.
His mind filled with pictures. Some of them were real, some imagined. His mother appeared in every one of them. In one she was playing Chopin on the piano, a half smile on her face as her fingers danced and hopped across the keyboard. In another she was reading aloud to him as he sat next to her on the sofa, her finger following the words so he would know where she was inthe
story.
But the most frequent picture was of the kitchen table. It was old and unvarnished, thick and bare like a chopping block, with burns, nicks, and gauges on its surface. Its length fit snugly against one wall of the large kitchen, so that there was just enough room for a wooden stool at each end and two folding chairs along one side. In the mornings, Alec liked to sit on his stool across from Mark, watching his mother make breakfast.
Mark had already begun playing team sports after school, leaving Alec to come home alone after classes were done. His mother was almost always in the kitchen, preparing dinner. In between trips to the stove she sat at the table, on Mark’s stool, with a couple of magazines open in front of her. The sleeves of her blouse were rolled up, and there were light streaks of flour on her dark green apron. Her blond hair was tied back from her face. She drank lukewarm coffee with milk in it from a gray pottery mug.
Alec learned that there were no rules in the afternoons. She would look up from her magazines or from the counter where she had her hands in a large cooking bowl and ask him questions. She wanted to know if he was scared when he went to school on the first day of classes every year or what he remembered of the books she used to read to him when he had been small. Some of the questions were hard in that way, and he had to think for a minute before answering.
She encouraged him to ask her questions. She said once that there was nothing he could ask her that she wouldn’t answer. Nothing. Alec felt older when she said that; he took it seriously. Once he asked her why he sometimes heard her and his father yelling at each other at night through the closed door of their bedroom, when they thought he and Mark would be asleep. Her face tightened then, he knew it did, and she told him that all parents fight once in a while, even when they love each other very much.
* * *
It was hard to know exactly when the look and feel of the pictures in his mind changed permanently. But whenever it was, it seemed to Alec that suddenly the pictures were too sharp and clear to belong to anyone, least of all himself. There were no fingerprints on them, nothing to show that they had ever been touched.
Things might have changed when he was eleven, on the afternoon when his mother left the apartment to begin her job. It was a good job, she said, teaching piano a few afternoons a week at a nearby music school. He heard her voice through the closed door of his room, where he had taken his glass of milk. She said that sometimes she needed to get out of the house, too. Alec didn’t tell her what he was feeling, even though she asked him twice. He drank his milk and stared at the wall of his room. He didn’t tell her anything.
After that, he came home to the empty apartment three times a week and began to make tours. He would drop his knapsack on the floor, walk into the high-ceilinged living room, and sit on the formal chairs. He would lie down on the long sofa, imagining people sitting around him at his own dinner party. He would light cigarettes and set them in the ashtray to burn.
Then he would go into the library, where the upright piano stood against one wall. He would lift the lid of the keyboard and lay out sheets of music as though he were going to
His mind filled with pictures. Some of them were real, some imagined. His mother appeared in every one of them. In one she was playing Chopin on the piano, a half smile on her face as her fingers danced and hopped across the keyboard. In another she was reading aloud to him as he sat next to her on the sofa, her finger following the words so he would know where she was inthe
story.
But the most frequent picture was of the kitchen table. It was old and unvarnished, thick and bare like a chopping block, with burns, nicks, and gauges on its surface. Its length fit snugly against one wall of the large kitchen, so that there was just enough room for a wooden stool at each end and two folding chairs along one side. In the mornings, Alec liked to sit on his stool across from Mark, watching his mother make breakfast.
Mark had already begun playing team sports after school, leaving Alec to come home alone after classes were done. His mother was almost always in the kitchen, preparing dinner. In between trips to the stove she sat at the table, on Mark’s stool, with a couple of magazines open in front of her. The sleeves of her blouse were rolled up, and there were light streaks of flour on her dark green apron. Her blond hair was tied back from her face. She drank lukewarm coffee with milk in it from a gray pottery mug.
Alec learned that there were no rules in the afternoons. She would look up from her magazines or from the counter where she had her hands in a large cooking bowl and ask him questions. She wanted to know if he was scared when he went to school on the first day of classes every year or what he remembered of the books she used to read to him when he had been small. Some of the questions were hard in that way, and he had to think for a minute before answering.
She encouraged him to ask her questions. She said once that there was nothing he could ask her that she wouldn’t answer. Nothing. Alec felt older when she said that; he took it seriously. Once he asked her why he sometimes heard her and his father yelling at each other at night through the closed door of their bedroom, when they thought he and Mark would be asleep. Her face tightened then, he knew it did, and she told him that all parents fight once in a while, even when they love each other very much.
* * *
It was hard to know exactly when the look and feel of the pictures in his mind changed permanently. But whenever it was, it seemed to Alec that suddenly the pictures were too sharp and clear to belong to anyone, least of all himself. There were no fingerprints on them, nothing to show that they had ever been touched.
Things might have changed when he was eleven, on the afternoon when his mother left the apartment to begin her job. It was a good job, she said, teaching piano a few afternoons a week at a nearby music school. He heard her voice through the closed door of his room, where he had taken his glass of milk. She said that sometimes she needed to get out of the house, too. Alec didn’t tell her what he was feeling, even though she asked him twice. He drank his milk and stared at the wall of his room. He didn’t tell her anything.
After that, he came home to the empty apartment three times a week and began to make tours. He would drop his knapsack on the floor, walk into the high-ceilinged living room, and sit on the formal chairs. He would lie down on the long sofa, imagining people sitting around him at his own dinner party. He would light cigarettes and set them in the ashtray to burn.
Then he would go into the library, where the upright piano stood against one wall. He would lift the lid of the keyboard and lay out sheets of music as though he were going to
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