Read Online Boonville by Robert Mailer Anderson - Free Book Online Page B

empty fruit crates for storage. There were too many cushions on the couch. He cut the number in half. He took decorative baskets, flowers, and feathers off the walls. He let hang a Georgia O’Keeffe print of an aroused lily and a photograph of Grandma as a girl, staring into the camera like a gunfighter. A painting of a seascape done oncardboard with glue and sand crumbled in his hands when he tried to center it. There was a rusted wheelbarrow full of broken glass standing near the front door as if someone had intended to dump the shards onto the living room floor as a prank. John decided it was sculpture. Instead of rolling it outside, he moved it closer to the front window so it could catch the light. Lastly, he placed a picture of Christina on the nightstand near his bed.
    Just a bit of torture, he told himself. Just a bit of home.
    That done, John shut the windows and looked for a newspaper to start a fire in the woodburning stove that stood on bricks in the corner of the living room. It had never been cold enough in Miami to start an actual fire. People didn’t have central heating there, let alone fireplaces. Children didn’t go through a pyro stage in Florida because it was so hot. There was only air conditioning. John’s nose twitched.
    Not finding any newspaper, he turned to the bookshelves. Except for Grandma’s copy of Emily Dickinson’s poetry, most of it looked like metaphysics, stuff he could torch without much moral conflict. He selected a book by John White Eagle Free Soul, a discourse on inner peace through intuitive strength. Where did they get their names? What was Free Soul supposed to be? Irish? And White Eagle? He must have picked that up in the seventies when everybody was claiming to be half Cherokee or part Seminole. If they were going to change their names, those authors should be forced to name themselves Horseshit or Asshole, he thought, and then number themselves off like Muslims: Horseshit no. 1, Asshole no. 56.
    Another book of poetry caught John’s eye, Puppies Make a Porch More Cute by Margaret Washington. He knew she lived in the area and Grandma had belonged to her Radical Petunia Arts Community. He also knew the film based on her book Cecilia was touted as an important feminist statement. After seeing it, John had wanted his money back and two hours of his life returned. Christina had cried. The theater was thick with Kleenex. Leaving the cineplex, John saw a line of moviegoers wrapping around the block, waiting for their turn to weep. He didn’t want to ruin Christina’s experience, so he said nothing on the ride home. But his silence revealed to her that he had not been moved. She accused him of insensitivity. He was going to tell her that he cried every time he saw Dumbo , but she switched on the radio andturned away from him. They didn’t have sex for a month.
    John opened Puppies Make a Porch More Cute to see it had been inscribed: “Ruth, Remember in order to give birth you have to experience labor pains, Peace and love, Margaret Washington.”
    Flipping pages, John read a poem entitled “All White Men Are Evil Rapists.”
Our foremothers cooked and cleaned and smiled
    as they stirred the pots that fed us all,
    sweat slipping down beautiful black skin
    while being repeatedly abused,
    though always standing strong.
    But if the world were perfect,
    we would sit in a green field holding hands;
    a calm constructive conversation,
    even the cows would join in.
    But no white men,
    because all white men are evil rapists.
    John tore that page out first, feeling it crumple in his hand before he tossed it into the stove. Without reading another sentence, the rest of the book followed. He threw on a dozen squirrel sculptures for kindling, a large one for a log. He lit the fire with a foot-long match, feeling the heat on his face. Lying down on the carpet, he tried not to think about Grandma or Margaret Washington, instead concentrating on the