Read Online Fadeaway Girl by Martha Grimes - Free Book Online Page B

behind Ulub’s problem; I don’t think he needed to worry about mispronouncing words.
    I had come here after visiting Dwayne. Not to put myself in the way of Ulub’s elocution lesson, I sat patiently, trying to understand his words before Mr. Root barged in and translated. It was a particular point of pride with Mr. Root that he was the only one of us who could understand Ulub.
    Ubub could understand his brother, but that came from a lifetime of listening. Ubub’s speech wasn’t exactly like FDR’s or Winston Churchill’s, but it wasn’t as bad as Ulub’s.
    Mr. Root was reciting, “ ‘Keep cold, young orchard. Good-by and keep cold.’ ” He turned to me. “That still sounds like dumb advice.”
    Dumb advice? What was he talking about?
    Back to Ulub: “Now, you say that, Ulub.” Mr. Root held up his hands as if he had a symphony orchestra he was trying to conduct.
    â€œOng . . .”
    â€œâ€˜Young, young, orchard—’ ”
    â€œno-or—”
    Mr. Root shook his head. “Well, ‘orchard’ is a pretty hard word. Let’s take it from ‘Dread fifty above more than fifty below.’ Okay? ‘Dread,’ ‘Dread fifty . . .’ ” and down came his hand on the beat.
    â€œEd. Ed ifny.”
    I heard no improvement, though Mr. Root apparently did, or pretended he did, for he slapped Ulub on the back and told him he was getting much better. There was a small notebook on the bench; Mr. Root picked it up and made some kind of note with a pencil. “You get good marks today, Ulub.”
    I hoped he wasn’t actually giving Ulub grades. “What’s the poem, Mr. Root?” I asked.
    He took the book from Ulub. It was a paperback, not very thick. I saw it was the poetry of Robert Frost. “But I thought you didn’t like Robert Frost. You were all against ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.’ Remember?”
    â€œThat one, yeah. But he’s wrote a couple good ones. I kind of put’em in between Emily’s, you know, to give Ulub a rest.” Mr. Root cleared his throat and intoned in a singsong fashion:
    This saying good-by on the edge of the dark—
    It shut my eyes, that line did, as sure as a hand passing over them. “Oh,” I said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNothing.”
    He read on, although I was still back there on the edge of the dark.
    Then he came to:
    I wish I could promise to lie in the night
And think of an orchard’s ar-bor-e-al plight
When slowly (and nobody comes with a light)
Its heart sinks lower under the sod.
    My eyes snapped shut again. I had never heard anything so fearfully sad. I bit my lip to keep from crying. I could almost see it, the trees too young to be left alone, waiting for someone or something to come, and finally knowing no one ever would.
    â€œYep,” said Mr. Root. “Some of his, well, I’d say he knows what he’s talking about. Straight talk. That’s what Frost was really good at, none of those namby-pamby poems about your Greek urns and stuff. Nope”—he held up the book—“just your plainspoken, to-the-point words about nature and stuff.” He handed the book back to Ulub.
    Ulub did not look happy to receive it.
    â€œMr. Root,” I said, “I don’t think he’s plainspoken. He means a lot more than what he seems to be saying.”
    Mr. Root pushed his feed cap back on his head and scratched his forehead.
    Ulub bobbed his head up and down, briskly. I thought he wanted to agree with me because I might be a way out for him.
    â€œWhat do you mean by that?” His eyes narrowed as if I might be insulting him.
    I didn’t really want to talk about it; I don’t know why I had to open my big mouth. “Well, I think he means something different from what he’s saying. Or seems to be saying.”
    Ulub felt free enough now to come and sit beside me on the