Read Online Jacob Have I Loved by Katherine Paterson - Free Book Online
Authors: Katherine Paterson
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golden perfection without cutting away at me? Was she to allow me no virtueâno shard of pride or decency?
By now I was screaming. Wasnât it I who brought in the extra money that paid for her trips to Salisbury? She ought to be on her knees thanking me for all I did for her. How dare she criticize? How dare she?
Her eyes would widen. Even as I yelled, I could feel a tiny rivulet of satisfaction invading the flood of my anger. She knew I was right, and it unsettled her. But the lovely eyes would quickly narrow, the lips set. Without a word, she would turn and leave me before I was through, shutting off my torrent, so that my feelings, thus dammed, raged on in my chest. She would not fight with me. Perhaps that was the thing that made me hate her most.
Hate. That was the forbidden word. I hated my sister. I, who belonged to a religion which taught that simply to be angry with another made one liable to the judgment of God and that to hate wasthe equivalent of murder.
I often dreamed that Caroline was dead. Sometimes I would get word of her deathâthe ferry had sunk with her and my mother aboard, or more often the taxi had crashed and her lovely body had been consumed in the flames. Always there were two feelings in the dreamâa wild exultation that now I was free of her andâ¦terrible guilt. I once dreamed that I had killed her with my own hands. I had taken the heavy oak pole with which I guided my skiff. She had come to the shore, begging for a ride. In reply I had raised the pole and beat, beat, beat. In the dream her mouth made the shape of screaming, but no sound came out. The only sound of the dream was my own laughter. I woke up laughing, a strange shuddering kind of laugh that turned at once into sobs.
âWhatâs the matter, Wheeze?â I had awakened her.
âI had a bad dream,â I said. âI dreamed you were dead.â
She was too sleepy to be troubled. âIt was only a dream,â she said, turning her face once more to the wall and snuggling deep under her covers.
But it was I who killed you! I wanted to scream itout, whether to confess or frighten, I donât know. I beat you with my pole. Iâm a murderer. Like Cain. But she was breathing quietly, no longer bothered by my dream or by me.
Sometimes I would rage at God, at his monstrous almighty injustice. But my raging always turned to remorse. My wickedness was unforgivable, yet I begged the Lord to have mercy on me, a sinner. Hadnât God forgiven David who had not only committed murder, but adultery as well? And then I would remember that David was one of Godâs pets. God always found a way to let his pets get by with murder. How about Moses? How about Paul, holding the coats while Stephen was stoned?
I would search the Scriptures, but not for enlightenment or instruction. I was looking for some tiny shred of evidence that I was not to be eternally damned for hating my sister. Repent and be saved! But as fast as I would repent, resolving never again to hate, some demon would slip into my soul, tug at the corner, and whisper, âSee the look on your motherâs face as she listens to Caroline practice? Has she ever looked at you that way?â And I would know she hadnât.
Only on the water was there peace. When schoollet out in the middle of May, I began getting up long before dawn to go crabbing. Call went along, somewhat grudgingly, because I was unwilling to explain my great zeal for work. I had formulated a plan for escape. I was going to double my crab catch and keep half the money for myself, turning over to my mother the usual amount. My half I would save until I had enough to send myself to boarding school in Crisfield. On Smith Island to the south of us there was no high school, not even the pretense of one that we had on Rass. The state, therefore, sent any Smith Islanders who continued school after the elementary level to a boarding school in Crisfield. The prices were not out
By now I was screaming. Wasnât it I who brought in the extra money that paid for her trips to Salisbury? She ought to be on her knees thanking me for all I did for her. How dare she criticize? How dare she?
Her eyes would widen. Even as I yelled, I could feel a tiny rivulet of satisfaction invading the flood of my anger. She knew I was right, and it unsettled her. But the lovely eyes would quickly narrow, the lips set. Without a word, she would turn and leave me before I was through, shutting off my torrent, so that my feelings, thus dammed, raged on in my chest. She would not fight with me. Perhaps that was the thing that made me hate her most.
Hate. That was the forbidden word. I hated my sister. I, who belonged to a religion which taught that simply to be angry with another made one liable to the judgment of God and that to hate wasthe equivalent of murder.
I often dreamed that Caroline was dead. Sometimes I would get word of her deathâthe ferry had sunk with her and my mother aboard, or more often the taxi had crashed and her lovely body had been consumed in the flames. Always there were two feelings in the dreamâa wild exultation that now I was free of her andâ¦terrible guilt. I once dreamed that I had killed her with my own hands. I had taken the heavy oak pole with which I guided my skiff. She had come to the shore, begging for a ride. In reply I had raised the pole and beat, beat, beat. In the dream her mouth made the shape of screaming, but no sound came out. The only sound of the dream was my own laughter. I woke up laughing, a strange shuddering kind of laugh that turned at once into sobs.
âWhatâs the matter, Wheeze?â I had awakened her.
âI had a bad dream,â I said. âI dreamed you were dead.â
She was too sleepy to be troubled. âIt was only a dream,â she said, turning her face once more to the wall and snuggling deep under her covers.
But it was I who killed you! I wanted to scream itout, whether to confess or frighten, I donât know. I beat you with my pole. Iâm a murderer. Like Cain. But she was breathing quietly, no longer bothered by my dream or by me.
Sometimes I would rage at God, at his monstrous almighty injustice. But my raging always turned to remorse. My wickedness was unforgivable, yet I begged the Lord to have mercy on me, a sinner. Hadnât God forgiven David who had not only committed murder, but adultery as well? And then I would remember that David was one of Godâs pets. God always found a way to let his pets get by with murder. How about Moses? How about Paul, holding the coats while Stephen was stoned?
I would search the Scriptures, but not for enlightenment or instruction. I was looking for some tiny shred of evidence that I was not to be eternally damned for hating my sister. Repent and be saved! But as fast as I would repent, resolving never again to hate, some demon would slip into my soul, tug at the corner, and whisper, âSee the look on your motherâs face as she listens to Caroline practice? Has she ever looked at you that way?â And I would know she hadnât.
Only on the water was there peace. When schoollet out in the middle of May, I began getting up long before dawn to go crabbing. Call went along, somewhat grudgingly, because I was unwilling to explain my great zeal for work. I had formulated a plan for escape. I was going to double my crab catch and keep half the money for myself, turning over to my mother the usual amount. My half I would save until I had enough to send myself to boarding school in Crisfield. On Smith Island to the south of us there was no high school, not even the pretense of one that we had on Rass. The state, therefore, sent any Smith Islanders who continued school after the elementary level to a boarding school in Crisfield. The prices were not out
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