Read Online Homebody by Orson Scott Card - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Orson Scott Card
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business with you,” she said with a grin. Then she bounded down the stairs and walked across the lawn. He stood in the open doorway and watched her all the way to the car, watched as she got in, started it up, and drove away. And then just stood there a while longer in the open door.
6
Lemonade
Without a building permit or title to the house, Don had about reached the limit of work he could do. Yet he wasn’t interested in sitting around the house the rest of the evening, and he had no place he wanted to go. He had long since learned that movies and books were either stupid or not. If they were stupid, it made him impatient and angry to spend time with them. If they were not, then they had the power to unlock emotions that he had no desire to face again. Work was the solution, and so work is what he did.
If he couldn’t do anything with the house, there was always the yard. This being North Carolina, anything that you mowed became a lawn, so under the deep scraggly weeds on the property there was a lawn just waiting to be uncovered. It took all his extension cords to get his Weed Eater out to the front of the property, and there was no way he’d get it all the way to the back, but anything he did would be an improvement. Maybe he should have bought a gasoline-powered machine, but he didn’t like carrying flammable liquids around with him.
The afternoon had turned hot, and he was soaked with sweat by the time he finished with the front and side yards and as much of the back yard as he could reach. He was also covered with flecks of weeds, most of which he was probably a little bit allergic to, so he itched as well. What a great job to do when you’ve got no shower, he thought. As he coiled up the cords and put everything away inside the house, he tried to decide whether he should go get a shower and then put on some of his dirty clothes, or go do a laundry while he was still so filthy that touching clean clothes would only get them dirty again. It was getting on toward dusk when he locked the front door and headed for the truck.
“Hey! Hardworkin’ man!”
It was the old white woman from next door. She was standing behind their picket fence, holding a plate with a checkered cloth over it.
“Look at this!” she said.
Dutifully he went over to the fence and waited for her to pull away the cloth with a theatrical gesture. It was a loaf of hot fresh bread, and even though he was more thirsty than hungry, and too hot to wish for anything but cold food, there was no resisting the yeasty smell of the stuff.
“I don’t know why that smells so good to me,” he said. “My mother never baked bread.”
“Jesus had to tell us not to live by bread alone because if we had our druthers we’d try,” she said. “We also got stew, which I know is too hot tosound good to you right now, but you need something to stick to your ribs. And we got lemonade.”
“I’m in no shape to be decent company, ma’am,” said Don. “There’s no water working in the house yet and I’m filthy as a fieldhand.”
“I’ve sat at table with fieldhands before,” she said, “and there’s nothin’ to be ashamed of in it. Now don’t give me no argument. I seen you lock that door, so you can’t pretend you ain’t done working for the day.”
“I just couldn’t put you out.” He almost told her that he had to get some laundry done, but stopped himself in time—the mood she was in, she’d snatch the laundry right out of his hands and insist on washing it herself.
She raised a quizzical eyebrow. “If I ever seen a hungry man it’s now, so what are you afraid of, that we’ll talk you to death? Maybe we will, but we won’t make you talk, so you can just shovel in the food and pour lemonade down your throat and pay us no heed, we’re used to that since we hardly listen to each other anymore.”
Don laughed in spite of his effort to keep a courteously sober face.
“There,” she said. “Besides which, if you got no
6
Lemonade
Without a building permit or title to the house, Don had about reached the limit of work he could do. Yet he wasn’t interested in sitting around the house the rest of the evening, and he had no place he wanted to go. He had long since learned that movies and books were either stupid or not. If they were stupid, it made him impatient and angry to spend time with them. If they were not, then they had the power to unlock emotions that he had no desire to face again. Work was the solution, and so work is what he did.
If he couldn’t do anything with the house, there was always the yard. This being North Carolina, anything that you mowed became a lawn, so under the deep scraggly weeds on the property there was a lawn just waiting to be uncovered. It took all his extension cords to get his Weed Eater out to the front of the property, and there was no way he’d get it all the way to the back, but anything he did would be an improvement. Maybe he should have bought a gasoline-powered machine, but he didn’t like carrying flammable liquids around with him.
The afternoon had turned hot, and he was soaked with sweat by the time he finished with the front and side yards and as much of the back yard as he could reach. He was also covered with flecks of weeds, most of which he was probably a little bit allergic to, so he itched as well. What a great job to do when you’ve got no shower, he thought. As he coiled up the cords and put everything away inside the house, he tried to decide whether he should go get a shower and then put on some of his dirty clothes, or go do a laundry while he was still so filthy that touching clean clothes would only get them dirty again. It was getting on toward dusk when he locked the front door and headed for the truck.
“Hey! Hardworkin’ man!”
It was the old white woman from next door. She was standing behind their picket fence, holding a plate with a checkered cloth over it.
“Look at this!” she said.
Dutifully he went over to the fence and waited for her to pull away the cloth with a theatrical gesture. It was a loaf of hot fresh bread, and even though he was more thirsty than hungry, and too hot to wish for anything but cold food, there was no resisting the yeasty smell of the stuff.
“I don’t know why that smells so good to me,” he said. “My mother never baked bread.”
“Jesus had to tell us not to live by bread alone because if we had our druthers we’d try,” she said. “We also got stew, which I know is too hot tosound good to you right now, but you need something to stick to your ribs. And we got lemonade.”
“I’m in no shape to be decent company, ma’am,” said Don. “There’s no water working in the house yet and I’m filthy as a fieldhand.”
“I’ve sat at table with fieldhands before,” she said, “and there’s nothin’ to be ashamed of in it. Now don’t give me no argument. I seen you lock that door, so you can’t pretend you ain’t done working for the day.”
“I just couldn’t put you out.” He almost told her that he had to get some laundry done, but stopped himself in time—the mood she was in, she’d snatch the laundry right out of his hands and insist on washing it herself.
She raised a quizzical eyebrow. “If I ever seen a hungry man it’s now, so what are you afraid of, that we’ll talk you to death? Maybe we will, but we won’t make you talk, so you can just shovel in the food and pour lemonade down your throat and pay us no heed, we’re used to that since we hardly listen to each other anymore.”
Don laughed in spite of his effort to keep a courteously sober face.
“There,” she said. “Besides which, if you got no
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