Read Online Carter Beats the Devil by Glen David Gold - Free Book Online
Authors: Glen David Gold
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on the front stoop with brooms they used to sweep out the old year. But the atmosphere around the house was so still and ascetic that no amount of presents, and this year there were even more presents than usual, could fool James or Charles into believing they were having fun.
There were many parcels from Boston, with elaborate labels and ornaments from their mother. New catcher’s mitts. Sheet music (“Oh yes, you boys were supposed to be continuing your piano lessons,” Mr. Carter muttered. “I’ll catch whatfor from your mother. What’s next?”). Next was clothing for them to rough and tumble in. A kaleidoscope. A magic kit. Charles moped through the gifts, though, as he still felt guilty for having lost the nickel, and he tried several times to hug his father, who shooed him away so that the present opening could continue.
Mr. Carter was increasingly distracted, handing out presents quickly, saying “lovely” or “that’s a keeper” even as he reached for the next one. Charles wished he could arrest his father’s attention, even for a moment. He knew his mother had a reflective side, and she, even in her letters from Boston, was forever asking him questions about his inner self. Yet Charles had so far not found his father’s inner self. He wanted on Christmas morning to unlock the gates to that secret place, whatever it was, and in the process to be forgiven minor sins, such as losing a certain coin.
When the boys finished, Mr. Carter leaned forward in his chair. “Charles, James, do you know what a land forfeiture is?”
Charles shook his head, but James, admiring the gloss on a tin soldier he was turning end over end, nodded absently. Charles was about to punch him in the arm but then James said, “It’s when property goes up for auction before the end of the year.”
James was not yet seven years old. “It is not!” Charles shouted.
“Actually, that’s very close. Someone’s been paying attention,” Mr. Carter smiled. And then he explained it to them. “Boys, there’s a land forfeiture in Sonoma this Friday. A vineyard. Usually, the bank postsnotices at ninety days and sixty days before any auction to give prospective bidders time to prepare. But this land is owned by a down-at-their-heels family, and they’re considered a flight risk.” As he talked, he became more and more passionate, and Charles realized that unlike when he told their bedtime stories, if he cared about the subject matter, Mr. Carter could be a very good reader indeed.
In short, an incredible financial opportunity awaited him, but he had to travel to Sacramento immediately. He would be back in forty-eight hours, possibly as the owner of four thousand acres of prime vineyard land. They would all celebrate together when he came back, and until then they had Cook and Patsy to depend on, and it would be a great adventure for the boys, a maturing experience.
When the boys awoke the next morning, their father was gone. James, who seemed privy to areas of his father’s life that Charles couldn’t understand, was tranquil, and sure that all was right with the world.
For two days, Cook and Patsy, the laundress, were their caretakers in name. But Cook was given to hectoring them with stories she said were true that always ended with little boys going to hell, and Patsy was jittery and brittle, worried at every moment the boys would break like china, so the boys spent as little time as possible in the servants’ presence. They washed themselves and dressed for bed themselves and presented their fingernails for inspection to Patsy, who was so eager to be done with them she didn’t even rub their forearms to see if they squeaked with cleanliness.
Mr. Carter was due back at dusk on the twenty-eighth of December. That afternoon, Charles and James sat on the floor of the playroom to play Stealing Bundles with a deck of cards they’d fished out of one of their toy chests. It was frightfully cold; the boys were done up in
There were many parcels from Boston, with elaborate labels and ornaments from their mother. New catcher’s mitts. Sheet music (“Oh yes, you boys were supposed to be continuing your piano lessons,” Mr. Carter muttered. “I’ll catch whatfor from your mother. What’s next?”). Next was clothing for them to rough and tumble in. A kaleidoscope. A magic kit. Charles moped through the gifts, though, as he still felt guilty for having lost the nickel, and he tried several times to hug his father, who shooed him away so that the present opening could continue.
Mr. Carter was increasingly distracted, handing out presents quickly, saying “lovely” or “that’s a keeper” even as he reached for the next one. Charles wished he could arrest his father’s attention, even for a moment. He knew his mother had a reflective side, and she, even in her letters from Boston, was forever asking him questions about his inner self. Yet Charles had so far not found his father’s inner self. He wanted on Christmas morning to unlock the gates to that secret place, whatever it was, and in the process to be forgiven minor sins, such as losing a certain coin.
When the boys finished, Mr. Carter leaned forward in his chair. “Charles, James, do you know what a land forfeiture is?”
Charles shook his head, but James, admiring the gloss on a tin soldier he was turning end over end, nodded absently. Charles was about to punch him in the arm but then James said, “It’s when property goes up for auction before the end of the year.”
James was not yet seven years old. “It is not!” Charles shouted.
“Actually, that’s very close. Someone’s been paying attention,” Mr. Carter smiled. And then he explained it to them. “Boys, there’s a land forfeiture in Sonoma this Friday. A vineyard. Usually, the bank postsnotices at ninety days and sixty days before any auction to give prospective bidders time to prepare. But this land is owned by a down-at-their-heels family, and they’re considered a flight risk.” As he talked, he became more and more passionate, and Charles realized that unlike when he told their bedtime stories, if he cared about the subject matter, Mr. Carter could be a very good reader indeed.
In short, an incredible financial opportunity awaited him, but he had to travel to Sacramento immediately. He would be back in forty-eight hours, possibly as the owner of four thousand acres of prime vineyard land. They would all celebrate together when he came back, and until then they had Cook and Patsy to depend on, and it would be a great adventure for the boys, a maturing experience.
When the boys awoke the next morning, their father was gone. James, who seemed privy to areas of his father’s life that Charles couldn’t understand, was tranquil, and sure that all was right with the world.
For two days, Cook and Patsy, the laundress, were their caretakers in name. But Cook was given to hectoring them with stories she said were true that always ended with little boys going to hell, and Patsy was jittery and brittle, worried at every moment the boys would break like china, so the boys spent as little time as possible in the servants’ presence. They washed themselves and dressed for bed themselves and presented their fingernails for inspection to Patsy, who was so eager to be done with them she didn’t even rub their forearms to see if they squeaked with cleanliness.
Mr. Carter was due back at dusk on the twenty-eighth of December. That afternoon, Charles and James sat on the floor of the playroom to play Stealing Bundles with a deck of cards they’d fished out of one of their toy chests. It was frightfully cold; the boys were done up in
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