Read Online Lauchlin of the Bad Heart by D. R. Macdonald - Free Book Online
Authors: D. R. Macdonald
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she was used to his whims, she’d put it aside.
Nell MacSween was under the sod, and he hadn’t even gone to the wake. The store was empty and quiet. Clement might be home by now, with Tena. She’d been on the road again today, but not this far. How far would she go?
Lauchlin slid off his stool, rolled his sleeves up. He’d squeeze in a little workout, get his blood going. The bag reeled slowly back from his first punch, swung obligingly forward as he stepped back, planted his feet and stopped its momentum with another blow. He stood there with his hands at his sides, skin reddened over the knuckles, his face flushed: already the heart was warning him, or maybe he was just tuned to any tremor of pain behind his breastbone. There had been days when he was reckless, when, bored with himself and the store and his life, he’d ripped into the bag as if daring to be struck down, to receive that final killing strike to the heart. Did it start that time in training when he went down on a solar plexus punch, his chest stunned, breath gone, and he blacked out briefly, or was the heart bad before that and just couldn’t take a hit that knocked it silly for a spell? Later, looking back, he knew he’d never been the same after that, though he’d hidden it successfully from everyone, including himself, as long as he could until the heart finally said no, enough, I’m shutting you down.
He stepped back, the bag swinging slightly in a tight circle, and listened to his pulse, re-member, re-member, re-member. How did you go, Nell? What took you down? An orphan girl from England. The way you leave the world matters more than how you come into it, and you were a good woman all your life. He breathed deeply, flexing and fisting his hands, waiting for pain to rise in his chest like a hidden bruise, but it didn’t. Every now and then, when he had the bag going good and he was moving in that old rhythm, he would let himself believe that maybe he was all right now, maybe he could work up a lather like he used to, grunting and sniffing, that the old animal strength was still there, that he had healed somehow because he was after all still alive, still walking, talking, doing the chores of his life, dull though they were, he was a collection of habits as predictable as dawn. But of course it was not a healable thing and he had to say yes to that, again. It was scarred: when it should dance, it limped, and he would sit himself down again on his old stool and watch the bag come slowly to rest like his heart. But he had the bag on the run now, and when it swung toward him he danced back and stung it good, the shock of the punch satisfied him and, after a few more combinations, he retreated, breathing hard, his fingers on his ribcage, a reflex now, this little seismic check.
The phone rang. Still breathing hard, he let it go for several rings before he picked it up.
“Is this Lauchlin?”
“It is.”
“Tena MacTavish.”
“Hello, Tena. How are you now?”
“I’m good. I wasn’t sure you were open.”
“I’m always open for you, Mrs. MacTavish.”
“That’s very kind. If Clement stops by, would you ask him to bring me brown sugar? I’m baking and here I am, just a spoon of it left.”
He did not want to tell her that the store too was out of brown sugar, or that Clement did not usually stop by in the evening. He was pleased to be linked in a small way to her domestic life.
“I will tell him that, Tena, if he does come in. I heard you were out walking today.”
“That would get around. Everything does here, doesn’t it? But I’m safe home now. Busy, lots of customers?”
“A few, it’s quiet now.” He wanted to keep her talking, but not as Lauchlin the storekeeper. “I had a woodpecker hammering on my house this morning, early. That ever happen to you?”
She laughed. “Do you live in a tree?”
“We’re high on a hill and these woodpecker males, you see, compete with each other for mates. It’s sex, not
Nell MacSween was under the sod, and he hadn’t even gone to the wake. The store was empty and quiet. Clement might be home by now, with Tena. She’d been on the road again today, but not this far. How far would she go?
Lauchlin slid off his stool, rolled his sleeves up. He’d squeeze in a little workout, get his blood going. The bag reeled slowly back from his first punch, swung obligingly forward as he stepped back, planted his feet and stopped its momentum with another blow. He stood there with his hands at his sides, skin reddened over the knuckles, his face flushed: already the heart was warning him, or maybe he was just tuned to any tremor of pain behind his breastbone. There had been days when he was reckless, when, bored with himself and the store and his life, he’d ripped into the bag as if daring to be struck down, to receive that final killing strike to the heart. Did it start that time in training when he went down on a solar plexus punch, his chest stunned, breath gone, and he blacked out briefly, or was the heart bad before that and just couldn’t take a hit that knocked it silly for a spell? Later, looking back, he knew he’d never been the same after that, though he’d hidden it successfully from everyone, including himself, as long as he could until the heart finally said no, enough, I’m shutting you down.
He stepped back, the bag swinging slightly in a tight circle, and listened to his pulse, re-member, re-member, re-member. How did you go, Nell? What took you down? An orphan girl from England. The way you leave the world matters more than how you come into it, and you were a good woman all your life. He breathed deeply, flexing and fisting his hands, waiting for pain to rise in his chest like a hidden bruise, but it didn’t. Every now and then, when he had the bag going good and he was moving in that old rhythm, he would let himself believe that maybe he was all right now, maybe he could work up a lather like he used to, grunting and sniffing, that the old animal strength was still there, that he had healed somehow because he was after all still alive, still walking, talking, doing the chores of his life, dull though they were, he was a collection of habits as predictable as dawn. But of course it was not a healable thing and he had to say yes to that, again. It was scarred: when it should dance, it limped, and he would sit himself down again on his old stool and watch the bag come slowly to rest like his heart. But he had the bag on the run now, and when it swung toward him he danced back and stung it good, the shock of the punch satisfied him and, after a few more combinations, he retreated, breathing hard, his fingers on his ribcage, a reflex now, this little seismic check.
The phone rang. Still breathing hard, he let it go for several rings before he picked it up.
“Is this Lauchlin?”
“It is.”
“Tena MacTavish.”
“Hello, Tena. How are you now?”
“I’m good. I wasn’t sure you were open.”
“I’m always open for you, Mrs. MacTavish.”
“That’s very kind. If Clement stops by, would you ask him to bring me brown sugar? I’m baking and here I am, just a spoon of it left.”
He did not want to tell her that the store too was out of brown sugar, or that Clement did not usually stop by in the evening. He was pleased to be linked in a small way to her domestic life.
“I will tell him that, Tena, if he does come in. I heard you were out walking today.”
“That would get around. Everything does here, doesn’t it? But I’m safe home now. Busy, lots of customers?”
“A few, it’s quiet now.” He wanted to keep her talking, but not as Lauchlin the storekeeper. “I had a woodpecker hammering on my house this morning, early. That ever happen to you?”
She laughed. “Do you live in a tree?”
“We’re high on a hill and these woodpecker males, you see, compete with each other for mates. It’s sex, not
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