Read Online If All Else Fails by Craig Strete - Free Book Online Page B

funeral. The old man was going someplace. He couldn't remember
where.
     
    "Did you make him
wear the watch? If he's wearing the watch, he should—"
    "He's an old man,
honey! His mind wanders," said Frank Strong Bull.
    "Dr. Amber is
waiting! Does he think we can afford to pay for every appointment he misses?" snarled Sheila,
run­ning her fingers through the tangled ends of her hair. "Doesn't he ever get anywhere on
time?"
    "He lives by Indian
time. Being late is just something you must expect from—" he began, trying to explain.
    She cut him off.
"Indian this and Indian that! I'm so sick of your goddamn excuses I could vomit!" But—
    "Let's just forget
it. We don't have time to argue about it. We have to be at the doctor's office in twenty minutes.
If we leave now, we can just beat the rush-hour traffic. I just hope your father's there when we
arrive."
    "Don't worry. He'll
be there," said Frank, looking doubtful.
     
    But the deer could
not leave. She went a little distance and then turned and came back. And the old man was moved
because he knew the deer had come back because the boy knew how to look at the deer.
    And the boy was
happy because the deer chose to favor him. And he saw the deer for what she was. Great and golden
and quick in her beauty.
    And the deer knew
that the boy thought her beautiful. For it was the purpose of the deer in this world on that
morning to be beautiful for a young boy to look at.
    And the old man who
was going someplace was grateful to the deer and almost envious of the boy. But he was one with
the boy who was one with the deer and they were all one with the Great Being above. So there was no envy, just the great longing of age
for youth.
     
    "That son of a
bitch!" growled Frank Strong Bull. "The bastard cut me off." He yanked the gearshift out of
fourth and slammed it into third. The tach needle shot into the red and the Mustang backed off,
just missing the foreign car that had swerved in front of it.
    "Oh Christ- We'll
be late," muttered Sheila, turning in the car seat to look out the back window. "Get into the
ex­press lane."
    "Are you kidding?
With this traffic?"
    His hands gripped
the wheel like a weapon. He lifted his right hand and slammed the gearshift. Gears ground, caught
hold, and the Mustang shot ahead. Yanking the wheel to the left, he cut in front of a truck,
which hit its brakes, missing the Mustang by inches. He buried the gas pedal and the car
responded. He pulled up level with the sports car that had cut him off. He honked and made an
obscene gesture as he passed. Sheila squealed with delight.
    "Go! Go!" she
exclaimed.
     
    The old man had
taken liberties in his life. He'd had things to remember and things he wanted to forget. Twice he
had married.
    The first time. He
hated the first time. He'd been blinded by her looks and his hands had got the better of him. He
had not known his own heart and, not knowing, he had let his body decide. It was something he
would always regret.
    That summer he was
an eagle. Free. Mating in the air. Never touching down. Never looking back. That summer. His
hands that touched her were wings. And he flew and the feathers covered the scars that grew where
their bodies had touched.
    He was of the air
and she was of the earth. She muddied his dreams. She had woman's body but lacked woman's spirit. A star is a stone to the
blind. She saw him through crippled eyes. She possessed. He shared. There was no life between
them. He saw the stars and counted them one by one into her hand; that gift that all lovers
share. She saw stones. And she turned away.
    He was free because
he needed. She was a prisoner be­cause she wanted. One day she was gone. And he folded his wings
and the earth came rushing at him and he was an old man with a small son. And he lived in a cage
and was three years dead. And his son was a small hope that melted. He was his mother's son. He
could see that in his son's eyes. It was