Read Online Dust of Eden by Thomas Sullivan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Thomas Sullivan
Tags: Horror
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that the Twins were still leading their division? "They'll blow it," his father would say, and he would take his mother's role of optimism and remind him of the World Series victory in '91. Then they could just go on like that. Small talk forever.
"Guess we'd better get going, Dad. Do you have to go to the bathroom?"
Martin stood in the living room, breathless from having donned his sweater. It was summer, but he was always chilled. He shook his head, moved his lips as though he wanted to say something else.
"Do you want your hat?"
âNo.â
"Okay, then."
What he really meant was, Say farewell to your life. Say good-bye to the house you're never going to see again. Walk away from every semblance of your life, the old familiar things, the artifacts, the sacred surfaces that Beth and Tiffany touched a million times and that will be profaned by the next garage-sale shopper, or the next owner of the house, or the sanitation engineer when he leaps out of his truck to make the heave. That was what he meant to say.
And through the opacity of his father's expression, there came just a glint for a moment. Not a doubt, really, but a question. Denny turned away and pulled the door open against the swollen jamb, trying in vain not to stir the clapper in the little bell his mother had hung there.
Then came the slow, unsteady journey onto the steps, his father groping for the grab post Denny had installed on the porch (four lag boltsâsee how much I love you?), shuffling down the sidewalk, stopping for breath, opening the car doors, moving the seat backâa crude ballet of clutching hands, lowering, pivoting, ducking. The terminal sound of slamming doors. Then the key turning in the ignition. Look, Dad! Look at the house. You won't see it again. Don't you want to see the house for the last time?
But he didn't know it was the last time, of course.
Denny's emotions were singing so loudly that even the old man must have heard, he thought. He was swallowing sand by the mouthful. His father, though a great pragmatist, nevertheless had his intuitive moments, and this could be one. The silence between them became expectancy, as if Denny should explain, but the merciless car made all the irreverent noises that cars do. You couldn't say delicate things with the bumpkin thud of gears in the background, or the hiss and oscillating whine as you rolled down the drive pumping the brakes. So they got under way, the center of his father's life receding behind them, and each ticking second was like another foot of safety rope.
He started out for the cemetery where his mother was interred, but it wasn't five minutes before his father asked aloud where they were going. And what was the point of following through with the awful misdirection if his father had forgotten? Just get to the place. Don't go to the graveyard in Little Canada. Get out of the suburbs, away from the Twin Cities. Take him to KNEAL. New Eden. Home . . . .
"I can't leave you alone anymore, Dad. You wander, you start fires. What's going to happen when I'm back at school full-time this fall?"
"You don't have to worry about me."
"Yes, I do."
"I can take care of myself."
"Dad . . . you can't. That's a factâyou can't. I don't want to hurt your self-esteem or mess with your independence, but you could get hurt or killed."
"What difference does it make?" Martin asked wearily. "Your mother was the only reason I was alive. She was the best thing that ever happened to me."
"I know. But you can't expect me to let go of you like that, Dad. When God calls you in . . . okay. I'll accept that. But you can't ask me to just ignore you. What kind of a son would I be if I did that? You care about me, don't you? You wouldn't want to leave me with a legacy of guilt."
It was the only thing that worked anymore. This suggestion that his father still had an obligation to him. They lapsed into silence until they were jouncing up the eroding asphalt drive to the old farmhouse, and
"Guess we'd better get going, Dad. Do you have to go to the bathroom?"
Martin stood in the living room, breathless from having donned his sweater. It was summer, but he was always chilled. He shook his head, moved his lips as though he wanted to say something else.
"Do you want your hat?"
âNo.â
"Okay, then."
What he really meant was, Say farewell to your life. Say good-bye to the house you're never going to see again. Walk away from every semblance of your life, the old familiar things, the artifacts, the sacred surfaces that Beth and Tiffany touched a million times and that will be profaned by the next garage-sale shopper, or the next owner of the house, or the sanitation engineer when he leaps out of his truck to make the heave. That was what he meant to say.
And through the opacity of his father's expression, there came just a glint for a moment. Not a doubt, really, but a question. Denny turned away and pulled the door open against the swollen jamb, trying in vain not to stir the clapper in the little bell his mother had hung there.
Then came the slow, unsteady journey onto the steps, his father groping for the grab post Denny had installed on the porch (four lag boltsâsee how much I love you?), shuffling down the sidewalk, stopping for breath, opening the car doors, moving the seat backâa crude ballet of clutching hands, lowering, pivoting, ducking. The terminal sound of slamming doors. Then the key turning in the ignition. Look, Dad! Look at the house. You won't see it again. Don't you want to see the house for the last time?
But he didn't know it was the last time, of course.
Denny's emotions were singing so loudly that even the old man must have heard, he thought. He was swallowing sand by the mouthful. His father, though a great pragmatist, nevertheless had his intuitive moments, and this could be one. The silence between them became expectancy, as if Denny should explain, but the merciless car made all the irreverent noises that cars do. You couldn't say delicate things with the bumpkin thud of gears in the background, or the hiss and oscillating whine as you rolled down the drive pumping the brakes. So they got under way, the center of his father's life receding behind them, and each ticking second was like another foot of safety rope.
He started out for the cemetery where his mother was interred, but it wasn't five minutes before his father asked aloud where they were going. And what was the point of following through with the awful misdirection if his father had forgotten? Just get to the place. Don't go to the graveyard in Little Canada. Get out of the suburbs, away from the Twin Cities. Take him to KNEAL. New Eden. Home . . . .
"I can't leave you alone anymore, Dad. You wander, you start fires. What's going to happen when I'm back at school full-time this fall?"
"You don't have to worry about me."
"Yes, I do."
"I can take care of myself."
"Dad . . . you can't. That's a factâyou can't. I don't want to hurt your self-esteem or mess with your independence, but you could get hurt or killed."
"What difference does it make?" Martin asked wearily. "Your mother was the only reason I was alive. She was the best thing that ever happened to me."
"I know. But you can't expect me to let go of you like that, Dad. When God calls you in . . . okay. I'll accept that. But you can't ask me to just ignore you. What kind of a son would I be if I did that? You care about me, don't you? You wouldn't want to leave me with a legacy of guilt."
It was the only thing that worked anymore. This suggestion that his father still had an obligation to him. They lapsed into silence until they were jouncing up the eroding asphalt drive to the old farmhouse, and
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