Read Online Cold Quiet Country by Clayton Lindemuth - Free Book Online Page B

tasted real good, thank you.’”
    “Does he like you?”
    “I don’t know if he likes anything but food.”
    Gwen closed her eyes for a moment. She didn’t add that Gale attended church with the Haudeserts, when they went. Or that when singing, his sweet voice never stumbled in search of words, even when flipping pages in the hymnal. She didn’t mention the way he seemed to pull the lyrics directly from the crucifix behind the pastor, from which his eyes never strayed. “He likes food,” Gwen said. “Food and God.”
    “If you don’t run away with him,” Liz said, “I will.”
    * * *
    The comment wore on Gwen for a month.
    Burt sat at the supper table, brooding as if he looked upon Gale from under a rock. Gale didn’t seem to notice, but instead studied dishes of potatoes and meatloaf. He took the place that had been Cal’s. Jordan fell into the next chair.
    Gwen watched. She imagined a smaller table, a smaller kitchen, with only her and Gale taking seats.
    Normally Gwen would fill her father’s plate and then proceed around the table. Instead, she hoisted Gale’s, carried it back to the other side and filled it. Passing the plate to him, Gwen retracted it at the last moment. “You look like you could do with an extra piece of meatloaf.”
    She doubled his portion.
    Below the table, Burt touched the bare skin of her leg. Gwen stepped sideways. Burt’s face pointed toward Gale, and his lines were taut. Gwen lifted her father’s plate and dropped a slab of meatloaf and a scoop of potatoes. A couple spoonfuls of carrots.
    Burt’s hand crawled higher. Gwen’s mother had been washing dishes used in meal preparation, but the clatter and rattle had died several seconds ago. Gwen faced the sink. Her mother watched with humiliated eyes set above lips like a crack in concrete.
    Gwen stepped away from Burt. Her mother leaned against the counter and looked off through the window.
    “Time to eat, Fay,” Burt said, without turning. “Come sit down.”
    “I’ve lost my appetite.”
    Gwen filled another plate and sat to the right of her mother’s empty chair.
    Burt bowed his head. “Good Lord, we thank you for this food. And do something about the price of corn, would ya?”
    “Amen,” Jordan said.
    Gwen watched Gale. He waited for everyone else to lift a utensil before deciding on his fork, and upon Burt’s first spoonful of mashed potatoes, shoveled a quarter slice of meatloaf into his mouth. Gwen watched his jaw work, the muscles at the hinge, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. He was a queer boy, the way he mixed carrots and potatoes. Oblivious to all save what he ate, as if fearful it might leap from his plate and be forever lost.
    Jordan cleared his throat, flicked his eyes to Burt. Gwen turned. Burt had been watching her. No one moved save Gale, who devoured his victuals with relentless concentration.
    Glass shattered at the sink. Gwen twisted in her chair as Fay stalked away, crushing shards of a broken glass under her feet. She held one hand in the other and blood dripped from both. Burt turned back to the table, and a forkful of loaf that had been arrested in midair continued to his mouth.
    Gwen trailed her mother to the bathroom; found the door closed. She tapped.
    “Ma?”
    Nothing.
    “Ma?”
    “Go away.”
    “I’m opening the door. Ma?”
    “Don’t.”
    Guinevere tried the knob. It was locked. “Unlock the door so I can help you.”
    Silence.
    “Please?”
    “Let her tend herself,” Burt said.
    The lock clicked from inside and Gwen twisted the knob, peered around the corner. A trail of red drops led from the door to the sink. Fay stood with her hand in the basin, her face flushed and her eyes lined with water. Her shoulders shook but no sound issued.
    Gwen closed the door, approached. Blood covered her mother’s hand, the bottom of the bowl.
    Gwen placed her palm on her mother’s back. With her other hand, she twisted the faucet knob. “Run cold water on it.”
    “It’s nothing.”