Read Online Country of the Bad Wolfes by James Blake - Free Book Online
Authors: James Blake
Ads: Link
plans and demanded no accounting of his past. He was an able bartender, efficient and circumspect, and as the job called for more listening thantalking, it suited him well. The place catered to a respectable patronage, most of it neighborhood shopkeepers and residents, regular customers of long standing. Their gazes at his brand were mostly discreet, and he was never questioned about the war that gave it to him.
He had told MarÃa Palomina of his liking for the hornpipe and having been taught to play it by his grandfather, and she one day spied one in a pawnshop window and bought it for him. He found he could clutch it well enough with his clawed hand while the fingers of his good one worked the note holes. She clapped and shouted âBravo!â when in spite of his bad hip he managed a few hobbling steps of a sailorâs jig as he played a tweedling tune.
He acquired the habit of a daily walk around the neighborhood before lunch, but never went farther than three blocks in any direction. Whenever he approached that outer boundary he got a hollow feeling in his stomach, a peculiar sensation that if he went any farther he would have a hard time finding his way back. It was not something he could fully explain even to himself and he would never even try to explain it to anyone else.
His enduring pleasure was drink. Every night after the café closed he would sit at the bar with a bottle and glass for another few hours, on occasion until nearly dawn. MarÃa Palomina sometimes joined him for a drink or two and sometimes old Bruno as well, but usually they left him to imbibe by himself, as they sensed he preferred to do. He was a quiet drunk and a tidy one, never clumsy or impolite, and possessed a constitution that well tolerated hangover. If MarÃa Palomina ever wondered what thoughts he kept in those late inebriate nights, she never asked. Had she done so, and had he answered truthfully, he could only have said that he was fairly sure he thought of nothing at all, and when he did think about things, he could never remember them the morning after, nor tried very hard to.
Their first child, Gloria Tomasina, was born the next winter, and a year later came Bruno Tomás. The year after that saw the birth of Mariano, who lived but six days. A month after the infantâs funeral their grief was enlarged when Old Bruno died in his sleep. Their last child, born in the summer of 1853, they christened SofÃa Reina.
DARTMOUTH DAYS
J ohn Roger had not really expected Samuel Thomas to post a letter to him from every port as he had promised, but as winter gave way to the first muddy thaw of spring he was sorely disappointed not to have received even a note from him in the six months since theyâd last seen each other. He was expecting him to appear in Hanover any day now, perhaps with explanation for his lack of correspondence, perhaps with no reference to it whatever. In either case, he knew his brother would be smiling and full of confidence and have stories to tell, and knew that his pique toward Samuel Thomas would not withstand the pleasure of seeing him again.
Then the trees were greening and beginning to bloom, and he completed his freshman final examinationsâand still there was no word from Samuel Thomas. And now he began to be worried.
He wrote to the Portsmouth harbormasterâs office, inquiring after the Atropos, and was informed the ship had been delayed on its return voyage, incurring damage in a storm off Cape Hatteras. The vessel had been under repair for weeks before again setting sail, and it was now due to make Portsmouth in the middle of June. John Roger was relieved but also vexed. How much effort would it have taken for Samuel Thomas to write him a note about the delay? He had planned on going to Portsmouth to greet him at the dock but now thought he might rather accept the invitation of some college friends to spend a few weeks in Boston. Let that thoughtless blockhead do a little
He had told MarÃa Palomina of his liking for the hornpipe and having been taught to play it by his grandfather, and she one day spied one in a pawnshop window and bought it for him. He found he could clutch it well enough with his clawed hand while the fingers of his good one worked the note holes. She clapped and shouted âBravo!â when in spite of his bad hip he managed a few hobbling steps of a sailorâs jig as he played a tweedling tune.
He acquired the habit of a daily walk around the neighborhood before lunch, but never went farther than three blocks in any direction. Whenever he approached that outer boundary he got a hollow feeling in his stomach, a peculiar sensation that if he went any farther he would have a hard time finding his way back. It was not something he could fully explain even to himself and he would never even try to explain it to anyone else.
His enduring pleasure was drink. Every night after the café closed he would sit at the bar with a bottle and glass for another few hours, on occasion until nearly dawn. MarÃa Palomina sometimes joined him for a drink or two and sometimes old Bruno as well, but usually they left him to imbibe by himself, as they sensed he preferred to do. He was a quiet drunk and a tidy one, never clumsy or impolite, and possessed a constitution that well tolerated hangover. If MarÃa Palomina ever wondered what thoughts he kept in those late inebriate nights, she never asked. Had she done so, and had he answered truthfully, he could only have said that he was fairly sure he thought of nothing at all, and when he did think about things, he could never remember them the morning after, nor tried very hard to.
Their first child, Gloria Tomasina, was born the next winter, and a year later came Bruno Tomás. The year after that saw the birth of Mariano, who lived but six days. A month after the infantâs funeral their grief was enlarged when Old Bruno died in his sleep. Their last child, born in the summer of 1853, they christened SofÃa Reina.
DARTMOUTH DAYS
J ohn Roger had not really expected Samuel Thomas to post a letter to him from every port as he had promised, but as winter gave way to the first muddy thaw of spring he was sorely disappointed not to have received even a note from him in the six months since theyâd last seen each other. He was expecting him to appear in Hanover any day now, perhaps with explanation for his lack of correspondence, perhaps with no reference to it whatever. In either case, he knew his brother would be smiling and full of confidence and have stories to tell, and knew that his pique toward Samuel Thomas would not withstand the pleasure of seeing him again.
Then the trees were greening and beginning to bloom, and he completed his freshman final examinationsâand still there was no word from Samuel Thomas. And now he began to be worried.
He wrote to the Portsmouth harbormasterâs office, inquiring after the Atropos, and was informed the ship had been delayed on its return voyage, incurring damage in a storm off Cape Hatteras. The vessel had been under repair for weeks before again setting sail, and it was now due to make Portsmouth in the middle of June. John Roger was relieved but also vexed. How much effort would it have taken for Samuel Thomas to write him a note about the delay? He had planned on going to Portsmouth to greet him at the dock but now thought he might rather accept the invitation of some college friends to spend a few weeks in Boston. Let that thoughtless blockhead do a little
Similar Books
