Read Online Cadillac Cathedral by Jack Hodgins - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jack Hodgins
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from trucks roaring past at speeds the makers of a 1930 vehicle could not have imagined. On the Old Highway there would be less traffic and, except for the odd lunatic, most of it slower. This meant they would be travelling past small farms and threading their way through towns and villages, never far from civilization.
The sky was without clouds but still pale, as it often was this early on summer mornings.
Before leaving Portuguese Creek behind they passed several small stump ranches with their green fields and large gardens, their houses out front too close to the highway, with barns and chicken coops and horse paddocks behind. They passed a series of garden stalls at the side of the road selling baskets of raspberries and boxes of yellow squash and long beans.
When they had begun a straight stretch of highway that passed by the long field of a potato farm, Cynthia drove past in her Honda, honking and waving and going far too fast, then disappeared beyond the Henry J and around the corner. If she was heading in to town, Arvo thought, she would discover the stores were not yet open.
Of course she would know this. She must be on a mission of mercy, answering a call for help from one of her lazy nephews.
He followed the Henry J down the highway at a steady pace, but soon grew tired of giving a return salute to all those who yahooed and waved an arm out the window while passing him. He made aneffort to stare straight ahead and behave as though he were just another of those farmers who drove their tractors down the Old Highway pretending not to hear the honking behind them and caring little that they were causing impatient drivers to go crazy. It wasn’t as though he were hogging the road. If they were patient enough to wait a few minutes they’d soon find a break in the traffic and sail by.
At a certain speed, curses sounded the same as praise when flung from an open window.
Some of them would think he was crazy if they’d known what he was up to. Off on a fool’s mission? Well, at least he knew that Myrtle Birdsong was still alive. He’d torn out the newspaper article about the new theatre and kept it in his top dresser drawer, along with the accompanying photograph. Even in the grainy picture he could see in her face what he recalled seeing in the girl — smiling eyes, sharp cheekbones, a certain tilt to her head. His mother had predicted a classic beauty, declaring “It’s in the bones.”
He followed the Henry J down the highway past small farms and the occasional cluster of houses and a long flat-roofed school where children chased one another around the building. The motor ran a little rough but it might still be working out a few kinks.
Beyond a long straight stretch of road lined with farm market buildings, a hitchhiker stood on the gravel shoulder waving a hand in a manner that suggested desperation, but Arvo was not about to invite someone to sit beside him and chew his ear off the whole long way to Myrtle Birdsong’s door. Even so, there was little else he could do when he was close enough to see that the hitch-hiker was Cynthia. Her Honda was parked on the grassy patch between a broad-leafed maple and a pasture fence. Peterson and Herbie Brewer must have driven right past without noticing her attempt to flag down a ride.
“You change your mind and want your loaf back?”
“My car’ll be safe where it is,” she said, lowering his toolbox to the floor and climbing in beside him. She passed a hand across the softness of his mother’s blanket. “If you’re tempted to whisk me off to sunny California, please warn me now. I’ll phone my niece to come by and drive the Honda home.”
“You know where I’m going.”
“I do,” Cynthia said, “but you can’t blame a girl for dreaming.” She waited until they were moving to add, “Fact is, I decided I was a fool to let you men go off to get Martin and have all the fun without me. My niece will look after the place till I’m back. I warned
The sky was without clouds but still pale, as it often was this early on summer mornings.
Before leaving Portuguese Creek behind they passed several small stump ranches with their green fields and large gardens, their houses out front too close to the highway, with barns and chicken coops and horse paddocks behind. They passed a series of garden stalls at the side of the road selling baskets of raspberries and boxes of yellow squash and long beans.
When they had begun a straight stretch of highway that passed by the long field of a potato farm, Cynthia drove past in her Honda, honking and waving and going far too fast, then disappeared beyond the Henry J and around the corner. If she was heading in to town, Arvo thought, she would discover the stores were not yet open.
Of course she would know this. She must be on a mission of mercy, answering a call for help from one of her lazy nephews.
He followed the Henry J down the highway at a steady pace, but soon grew tired of giving a return salute to all those who yahooed and waved an arm out the window while passing him. He made aneffort to stare straight ahead and behave as though he were just another of those farmers who drove their tractors down the Old Highway pretending not to hear the honking behind them and caring little that they were causing impatient drivers to go crazy. It wasn’t as though he were hogging the road. If they were patient enough to wait a few minutes they’d soon find a break in the traffic and sail by.
At a certain speed, curses sounded the same as praise when flung from an open window.
Some of them would think he was crazy if they’d known what he was up to. Off on a fool’s mission? Well, at least he knew that Myrtle Birdsong was still alive. He’d torn out the newspaper article about the new theatre and kept it in his top dresser drawer, along with the accompanying photograph. Even in the grainy picture he could see in her face what he recalled seeing in the girl — smiling eyes, sharp cheekbones, a certain tilt to her head. His mother had predicted a classic beauty, declaring “It’s in the bones.”
He followed the Henry J down the highway past small farms and the occasional cluster of houses and a long flat-roofed school where children chased one another around the building. The motor ran a little rough but it might still be working out a few kinks.
Beyond a long straight stretch of road lined with farm market buildings, a hitchhiker stood on the gravel shoulder waving a hand in a manner that suggested desperation, but Arvo was not about to invite someone to sit beside him and chew his ear off the whole long way to Myrtle Birdsong’s door. Even so, there was little else he could do when he was close enough to see that the hitch-hiker was Cynthia. Her Honda was parked on the grassy patch between a broad-leafed maple and a pasture fence. Peterson and Herbie Brewer must have driven right past without noticing her attempt to flag down a ride.
“You change your mind and want your loaf back?”
“My car’ll be safe where it is,” she said, lowering his toolbox to the floor and climbing in beside him. She passed a hand across the softness of his mother’s blanket. “If you’re tempted to whisk me off to sunny California, please warn me now. I’ll phone my niece to come by and drive the Honda home.”
“You know where I’m going.”
“I do,” Cynthia said, “but you can’t blame a girl for dreaming.” She waited until they were moving to add, “Fact is, I decided I was a fool to let you men go off to get Martin and have all the fun without me. My niece will look after the place till I’m back. I warned
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