Read Online Giovanni's Gift by Bradford Morrow - Free Book Online
Authors: Bradford Morrow
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wasnât in his nature, nor even possibly in his best interest, to accept help. He decided, if that kid, whoever he was, whatever he wanted, was brazen enough to turn up here again, it would be far easier for Henry to shoot him than ever make another search of the premises with Noah.
He was overreacting, sure, but couldnât help himself. From the kitchen window he observed Noah backing his car until it faced the rutted lane that would take him down along the creek for several miles, where it widened, fed by uproarious tributaries, and became a deepening river, even as the dirt lane widened into a road and intersected a county highway to town.
The car quickly disappeared into scrims of greenery. It was early afternoon. He took a tomato from the windowsill, I imagine, where Edmé had laid out a row of them to ripen in the sun. After rinsing the dirt off its bright-red skin, under the cold column of spring water from the tap, he wrenched off the pliant stem and bit into it. The tomato tasted rich and sweet and earthy. At once, his mood lightened. He walked down the stairs, across the foreyard, and past the rows of squash, beans, carrots, peas, in the kitchen garden, through a paddock of waist-high grass that led to the rocky beach of the creek. In spring, when it had warmed enough to melt the high snows, these copious stones were burnished in cold water. By August the creek had receded, leaving a treacherous beach for the walker to negotiate. Henry knew which stones would hold his weight without rocking and which wouldnât. He crossed the creek not on the narrow footbridge but by leaping from rock to rock, and climbed the path on the far shore. There were two Henrys who lived at Ash Creek, he thought, as he finished the tomato, which heâd eaten like an apple. The primitive, juvenile, rustic Henry who lived in the tiny rivalries of youth and who moments ago could contemplate the pure barbarism of such a violent response to the boy who taunted him. And then there was the Henry he was more accustomed to, the Henry who had matured, he supposedâand this was the Henry who walked toward the glass and cedar studio that rose into view.
Here it was that he worked for several hours a day, continuing to draw buildings for his megalopolis, his Taliesen of sorts, the Utopian city that obsessed him, more and more fanciful structures that would go into his supercity which would very probably never be built. Here he sat down to gaze out at the wild waters of the creek and reflect on what Giovanniâs shoeâfor he had come to believe that this was what Noah Daiches had discovered up on the hill, the shoe that the intruder had waved over his head the previous night before he lit out into the woodsâcould possibly imply. That is, what it could mean beyond the fact it disproved for once and all that the left foot of his friendâs corpse had not been removed by some poor famished animal come upon the body and taken it for a lucky gift of nature. The shoe had not been there a week earlier, when last he had hiked through that nearby stretch of woods. It was a problem for both Henrys to contemplate.
Twenty-three hours was how long it took for me to arrive at this sleepy little bus depot bathed in the dusty light of dawn. Delays and circling and connections and sitting and more sitting, all the usual tedium of travel. Hours of marching beside others under the anemic fluorescents of airport terminals, with eyes too weary to see. Hours of overhearing monotonous exhausted voices of fellow travelers in concourse after concourse. Moments of temporary resurrection as I washed my face, somewhere, during a layover. And then back into the demimonde of voyagers.
When I arrived finally at the last of these airports, a vast sprawl of runways carved into the high plains, I decided against any more flying. I still had quite some distance to cover, but it was better accomplished without leaving the earth. The bus departed the
He was overreacting, sure, but couldnât help himself. From the kitchen window he observed Noah backing his car until it faced the rutted lane that would take him down along the creek for several miles, where it widened, fed by uproarious tributaries, and became a deepening river, even as the dirt lane widened into a road and intersected a county highway to town.
The car quickly disappeared into scrims of greenery. It was early afternoon. He took a tomato from the windowsill, I imagine, where Edmé had laid out a row of them to ripen in the sun. After rinsing the dirt off its bright-red skin, under the cold column of spring water from the tap, he wrenched off the pliant stem and bit into it. The tomato tasted rich and sweet and earthy. At once, his mood lightened. He walked down the stairs, across the foreyard, and past the rows of squash, beans, carrots, peas, in the kitchen garden, through a paddock of waist-high grass that led to the rocky beach of the creek. In spring, when it had warmed enough to melt the high snows, these copious stones were burnished in cold water. By August the creek had receded, leaving a treacherous beach for the walker to negotiate. Henry knew which stones would hold his weight without rocking and which wouldnât. He crossed the creek not on the narrow footbridge but by leaping from rock to rock, and climbed the path on the far shore. There were two Henrys who lived at Ash Creek, he thought, as he finished the tomato, which heâd eaten like an apple. The primitive, juvenile, rustic Henry who lived in the tiny rivalries of youth and who moments ago could contemplate the pure barbarism of such a violent response to the boy who taunted him. And then there was the Henry he was more accustomed to, the Henry who had matured, he supposedâand this was the Henry who walked toward the glass and cedar studio that rose into view.
Here it was that he worked for several hours a day, continuing to draw buildings for his megalopolis, his Taliesen of sorts, the Utopian city that obsessed him, more and more fanciful structures that would go into his supercity which would very probably never be built. Here he sat down to gaze out at the wild waters of the creek and reflect on what Giovanniâs shoeâfor he had come to believe that this was what Noah Daiches had discovered up on the hill, the shoe that the intruder had waved over his head the previous night before he lit out into the woodsâcould possibly imply. That is, what it could mean beyond the fact it disproved for once and all that the left foot of his friendâs corpse had not been removed by some poor famished animal come upon the body and taken it for a lucky gift of nature. The shoe had not been there a week earlier, when last he had hiked through that nearby stretch of woods. It was a problem for both Henrys to contemplate.
Twenty-three hours was how long it took for me to arrive at this sleepy little bus depot bathed in the dusty light of dawn. Delays and circling and connections and sitting and more sitting, all the usual tedium of travel. Hours of marching beside others under the anemic fluorescents of airport terminals, with eyes too weary to see. Hours of overhearing monotonous exhausted voices of fellow travelers in concourse after concourse. Moments of temporary resurrection as I washed my face, somewhere, during a layover. And then back into the demimonde of voyagers.
When I arrived finally at the last of these airports, a vast sprawl of runways carved into the high plains, I decided against any more flying. I still had quite some distance to cover, but it was better accomplished without leaving the earth. The bus departed the
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