Read Online Chaneysville Incident by David Bradley - Free Book Online

door.
    “You goin’ somewheres?” he said.
    “Well…” I said.
    “You scared a the boogeyman?”
    It must have been the lateness of the hour, making me cranky, or perhaps it was the whiskey. “Don’t you make fun of me,” I said.
    His eyes grew wide for a moment, and then he nodded his head. “I’m sorry, son,” he said. “I forgot you was Mose’s boy. You want some more?” He gestured with the bottle.
    “No,” I said.
    “Hell, son, I said I was sorry. Now, when a man apologizes, you either take his hand or you let him be, but you don’t sit around takin’ little bites out a him all day long; that’s what women does. Now, you want some more or not?”
    “I’ll take a little.”
    He nodded, took my cup, and mixed the toddy. His hand was a little unsteady; he put in more whiskey than he should have. But I didn’t notice it. All I knew was that the taste was strong and sweet and good, and that the warmth of it moved through me like joy. I sipped with abandon, and put the cup down. He watched me, then came, bringing his own cup, and sat down across from me.
    “You wanna know how I met your daddy?” he said.
    I looked at him, or tried to; my eyes wouldn’t focus right, and all I could see was a dark face swimming in the darkness somewhere beyond the lamp’s glow.
    “Do you?” he said. “You want a story?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Yes, please.”
    “Then fetch me the candle,” he said. “It’s there, by the door.”
    He nodded to show me the direction, and I clambered down from the chair and felt my way through the darkness. I found the candle, a brand-new one, on a small shelf next to a flat, round coffee can.
    “Bring the matches too,” he said. “There, in the can. Can’t have light without strikin’ fire.”
    I took the candle and the can and brought them back to the table, moving slowly, unsure of my footing. He took them from me, opened the can, extracted a match. I stood beside him while he struck it, feeling the acid fumes tickle my nose. He lit the candle and extinguished the match, then he held the candle sideways, over the table. I watched, fascinated, as the melted wax formed a pool on the slate. When he judged it big enough he set the candle in the pool, held it while the wax hardened. We waited then, while the flame steadied, the light from the candle added to that from the lamp making the room seem almost too bright. He leaned over then and blew out the lamp, and the light faded.
    “Put the matches back,” he said. “Always put things back where you found ’em so you’ll know where they are when you need ’em again.”
    There was no answer. The clouds of condensation blossomed in front of my face. I waited, listening. I could hear the sound of my own breathing, the pounding of blood in my ears. I wanted to push the door open and just go in, but you do not do that to a man, not even to save his life. And so I waited, and waited, and raised my hand to knock again. Then I heard the sound coming from behind the weather-ravished door: a long, racking cough. I shoved the door open and stepped inside. “Jack?” I said, as the door swung to behind me.
    He coughed again. His breath came in harsh asthmatic whistles, and after each exhalation I could hear the squeaky sucking sounds of mucus shifting in his chest. Pneumonia. But I didn’t mind; at least he was breathing. I moved towards where he lay and looked down, although I knew I could not see him. I could smell him, though. He stank of urine and feces and unhealthy perspiration. “Jack,” I said stupidly, “you all right?”
    He chuckled, the same deep, throaty chuckle he had always had, and my heart lifted. But then the chuckle ended in a cough, not a rumbling cough, but a high, deep, tight one. I shuddered at the sound of it, for I knew what it was like to lie in a bed feeling the vise closing down on your chest, knew that he would be feeling no relief, just a harsh burning every time he tried to clear his lungs. I