Read Online Gideon - 05 - Blind Judgement by Grif Stockley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Grif Stockley
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helpfully provides a running commentary on their whereabouts. Surprisingly, several are still in or around Bear Creek. Despite the economy, a few whom I knew fairly well have flourished: Jeff Starnes is one of only two physicians in the county; Darby Nails has a CPA business that has offices all over the Arkansas Delta, John Upton farms and owns several businesses, including an insurance agency downtown.
“If you had come to any of the class reunions,” Angela reminds me, “you’d still know everybody.”
I look at John’s picture and wonder how much information he would give me. He and I had been inseparable in junior high before I got shipped off to Subiaco. Each year I would hang out with him during the summers, though our relationship never quite recaptured its adolescent intensity.
“I always had ambivalent feelings about this place,” I confess.
“Rosa was so dark that I was afraid somebody would make a crack about her.”
“If your daughter really looks anything like her, any remark would have been out of envy,” Angela says, not denying the possibility.
“Your mother was so proud of you when you joined the Peace Corps. She thought you were going to save the world, too.”
I tell her, “She would have been delighted if you and I had gotten married even though you were a Yankee. Of course she didn’t know what we were doing in the backseat of her car.”
Angela laughs selfconsciously, and suddenly I feel a sexual charge in the room. She shifts in her seat and studies the place mat in front of her.
“I would have married you,” she says solemnly, “but you never asked.
Though it worked out for the best for us both, how come you never did?”
I look at the top of her head, now bent, and see a small but unruly patch of gray hairs. It has taken her more than a quarter of a century to ask this question, and I still don’t know the answer.
That last summer I loved her as much as I was capable of, but how much was that? My head obsessed with the sacrificial lives of the saints, and the rest of me one unrelenting sex hormone, there wasn’t a lot of room left for single-minded devotion to one girl, however idealistic her mind and rounded her ass.
“I was too young; you remember I was pretty callow back then.”
She shrugs.
“Do you realize you were the only person I ever preached to? I guess I
felt safe with you.”
Angela has begun to worry a spot on the mat with her ring finger. A modest diamond glints in the overhead kitchen light. At this moment an orange and black cat pushes through a tiny door by the kitchen window and leaps onto her lap.
She strokes its back and coos, “This is Baby Dave.”
“Hello, Baby Dave,” I say, wondering what we do now. I’m not sure what Angela needs or even wants. For reasons I do not understand I am attracted to her again as much as I was when I was eighteen. Why? Is it simply nostalgia for lost innocence?
“Am I so middle-aged crazy that I think I can capture that again? In her passionate, arrogant way, Angela embodied ideals I had never encountered. But what is delicious about her now is that there is not even a trace of self-righteousness in her. I can only conclude she is what she seems: a complex, mature, enormously appealing woman my age, and one I can understand, given enough time.
Baby Dave leans back against his owner’s diaphragm and begins to purr.
“Gideon,” Angela says, using my Christian name for the first time, “I’d very much like for us to be friends. I’m still half-crazy right now.”
I know what she means. To get through the day, you have to repress.
But sooner or later, the feelings and memories, bittersweet and painful, come at all hours of the day and night.
“I understand,” I say, truly sympathetic as she drops Baby Dave to the floor and begins to cry again.
I must not take advantage of her, but I don’t stop myself from getting up from my chair. Awkwardly, I reach down and hug her while she sobs
“If you had come to any of the class reunions,” Angela reminds me, “you’d still know everybody.”
I look at John’s picture and wonder how much information he would give me. He and I had been inseparable in junior high before I got shipped off to Subiaco. Each year I would hang out with him during the summers, though our relationship never quite recaptured its adolescent intensity.
“I always had ambivalent feelings about this place,” I confess.
“Rosa was so dark that I was afraid somebody would make a crack about her.”
“If your daughter really looks anything like her, any remark would have been out of envy,” Angela says, not denying the possibility.
“Your mother was so proud of you when you joined the Peace Corps. She thought you were going to save the world, too.”
I tell her, “She would have been delighted if you and I had gotten married even though you were a Yankee. Of course she didn’t know what we were doing in the backseat of her car.”
Angela laughs selfconsciously, and suddenly I feel a sexual charge in the room. She shifts in her seat and studies the place mat in front of her.
“I would have married you,” she says solemnly, “but you never asked.
Though it worked out for the best for us both, how come you never did?”
I look at the top of her head, now bent, and see a small but unruly patch of gray hairs. It has taken her more than a quarter of a century to ask this question, and I still don’t know the answer.
That last summer I loved her as much as I was capable of, but how much was that? My head obsessed with the sacrificial lives of the saints, and the rest of me one unrelenting sex hormone, there wasn’t a lot of room left for single-minded devotion to one girl, however idealistic her mind and rounded her ass.
“I was too young; you remember I was pretty callow back then.”
She shrugs.
“Do you realize you were the only person I ever preached to? I guess I
felt safe with you.”
Angela has begun to worry a spot on the mat with her ring finger. A modest diamond glints in the overhead kitchen light. At this moment an orange and black cat pushes through a tiny door by the kitchen window and leaps onto her lap.
She strokes its back and coos, “This is Baby Dave.”
“Hello, Baby Dave,” I say, wondering what we do now. I’m not sure what Angela needs or even wants. For reasons I do not understand I am attracted to her again as much as I was when I was eighteen. Why? Is it simply nostalgia for lost innocence?
“Am I so middle-aged crazy that I think I can capture that again? In her passionate, arrogant way, Angela embodied ideals I had never encountered. But what is delicious about her now is that there is not even a trace of self-righteousness in her. I can only conclude she is what she seems: a complex, mature, enormously appealing woman my age, and one I can understand, given enough time.
Baby Dave leans back against his owner’s diaphragm and begins to purr.
“Gideon,” Angela says, using my Christian name for the first time, “I’d very much like for us to be friends. I’m still half-crazy right now.”
I know what she means. To get through the day, you have to repress.
But sooner or later, the feelings and memories, bittersweet and painful, come at all hours of the day and night.
“I understand,” I say, truly sympathetic as she drops Baby Dave to the floor and begins to cry again.
I must not take advantage of her, but I don’t stop myself from getting up from my chair. Awkwardly, I reach down and hug her while she sobs
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