Read Online Covered Bridge by Brian Doyle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brian Doyle
Tags: JUV039020
Ads: Link
days (I called them cloux days), Mrs. OâDriscoll and I sat under her two rowan-wood trees and watched a monarch butterfly chase Nerves around the yard. As soon as Nerves got settled down again and curled up for a snooze, the monarch was back right at his nose and Nerves was on his feet showing his teeth and being pretty ferocious. Then the monarch went out and came in again, this time not fluttering and playing but gliding and diving straight for Nerves, and Nerves took off across the sideroad until herealized he was heading right for the potato field and 10,000 potato bugs. He screeched to a stop and made a quick right and headed down towards the ice house and Mushrat Creek, and we waited for the splash.
I went again to the covered bridge to wait for Oscar to come by in his coupe. Lately I had gone part way with him. We even talked together a couple of times. He always seemed to be going to say something but heâd never say it.
If he didnât have stuff piled in the rumble seat I could sometimes ride back there. You felt like a king riding back there. Riding through your kingdom. Waving at the farmers along the road. The breeze flapping your shirt. You reach up sometimes, try to slap the leaves. You see a red-winged blackbird showing off his dive. You try to catch a handful of chokecherries when Oscar is rounding a curve close to the edge. Your hand is purple and sticky from the chokecherry juice. You watch the groundhogs praying in the fields, sitting up straight, just like in Foolish Father Foleyâs church. You are blinking at the sun flashing through the trees, following you along. Listening to the crows complaining about nothing. Smelling the sweetgrass and the clover. Hearing the heat bugs.
The King of Mushrat Creek.
Until you stop. Then the dust swirls up around you and youâd better hold your breath for a minute.
The trouble with riding outside like that though was that I wouldnât be able to talk to Oscar, find out moreabout his life, about his dead lover Ophelia, about what happened.
Ophelia dead.
Sometimes I walked down to Brennanâs Hill for a small can of white paint maybe to touch up our milk separator shack. Past Old Mickey Malarkeyâs house, the road was lined with chokecherry trees and plum. Some of the plums were ripe enough to eat but were a bit hard, but the chokecherries were soft and juicy. Trouble was they turned your mouth purple and made you feel after like you just ate a cardboard box. I timed it so I would get to the General Store in Brennanâs Hill at half past five. That gave me time to get the paint, talk for a while (this is where I learned to tell the different evergreen trees apart), and then walk over to meet the train from Ottawa at ten to six.
I stood beside Oscar McCrackenâs mail car and watched the train. The whistle echoed all over the valley between the hills and then the train rounded the curve out of the trees and roared and coughed and chuckled and burped and farted and screeched and stopped.
And the steam floating across the platform there tasted like metal.
Some people got off.
Nobody I knew, though.
One cloux day, Nerves and I strolled over to see if Old Mac Gleason had any news. It was fun watching Nerves try to stroll.
Old Mac sucked on his pipe for a while.
Then Nerves and Old Mac started a long staring contest.
Nerves often did this to people. Especially strangers. I never saw him lose one of those staring matches. I think that Nerves, in his other life, must have been a hypnotist. Old Mac looked away finally and Nerves lay down for a little snooze.
âAnd howâs little Nerves today? Youâre looking well, Nerves. Keeping busy, are you?â Old Mac didnât like Nerves. Too much competition.
Nerves opened one eye. Then he wagged one ear as if to say, âIâm fine, Old Mac Gleason. And how are
you
this fine morning? Howâs your veranda doing? Do you think weâll get some rain? What do you
I went again to the covered bridge to wait for Oscar to come by in his coupe. Lately I had gone part way with him. We even talked together a couple of times. He always seemed to be going to say something but heâd never say it.
If he didnât have stuff piled in the rumble seat I could sometimes ride back there. You felt like a king riding back there. Riding through your kingdom. Waving at the farmers along the road. The breeze flapping your shirt. You reach up sometimes, try to slap the leaves. You see a red-winged blackbird showing off his dive. You try to catch a handful of chokecherries when Oscar is rounding a curve close to the edge. Your hand is purple and sticky from the chokecherry juice. You watch the groundhogs praying in the fields, sitting up straight, just like in Foolish Father Foleyâs church. You are blinking at the sun flashing through the trees, following you along. Listening to the crows complaining about nothing. Smelling the sweetgrass and the clover. Hearing the heat bugs.
The King of Mushrat Creek.
Until you stop. Then the dust swirls up around you and youâd better hold your breath for a minute.
The trouble with riding outside like that though was that I wouldnât be able to talk to Oscar, find out moreabout his life, about his dead lover Ophelia, about what happened.
Ophelia dead.
Sometimes I walked down to Brennanâs Hill for a small can of white paint maybe to touch up our milk separator shack. Past Old Mickey Malarkeyâs house, the road was lined with chokecherry trees and plum. Some of the plums were ripe enough to eat but were a bit hard, but the chokecherries were soft and juicy. Trouble was they turned your mouth purple and made you feel after like you just ate a cardboard box. I timed it so I would get to the General Store in Brennanâs Hill at half past five. That gave me time to get the paint, talk for a while (this is where I learned to tell the different evergreen trees apart), and then walk over to meet the train from Ottawa at ten to six.
I stood beside Oscar McCrackenâs mail car and watched the train. The whistle echoed all over the valley between the hills and then the train rounded the curve out of the trees and roared and coughed and chuckled and burped and farted and screeched and stopped.
And the steam floating across the platform there tasted like metal.
Some people got off.
Nobody I knew, though.
One cloux day, Nerves and I strolled over to see if Old Mac Gleason had any news. It was fun watching Nerves try to stroll.
Old Mac sucked on his pipe for a while.
Then Nerves and Old Mac started a long staring contest.
Nerves often did this to people. Especially strangers. I never saw him lose one of those staring matches. I think that Nerves, in his other life, must have been a hypnotist. Old Mac looked away finally and Nerves lay down for a little snooze.
âAnd howâs little Nerves today? Youâre looking well, Nerves. Keeping busy, are you?â Old Mac didnât like Nerves. Too much competition.
Nerves opened one eye. Then he wagged one ear as if to say, âIâm fine, Old Mac Gleason. And how are
you
this fine morning? Howâs your veranda doing? Do you think weâll get some rain? What do you
Similar Books
