Read Online Look How You Turned Out by Diane Munier - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Diane Munier
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with Marcus. Words that…grown-ups speak who…feel intensely…about the words they say.
I want to comb over each and everything, but I can't come down to the moment, I'm suspended on this surfboard, above the room, the house even, I'm riding a wave of…ohmygod. But it's a big mother, this wave. It's serious.
Myron White was right. I knew that. Didn't I? When I lied, when I told him I couldn't marry him because I loved someone back home, when I reached back there…home…for a lie…for a reason…why I couldn't love this perfectly wonderful man, when I reached back for the lie and wouldn't look at or acknowledge what, who I'd grabbed onto. Wouldn't look directly at those green, penetrating eyes.
Marcus.
Chapter 23
I awaken to the hollow sound the awl makes as it's smashed along the grain of the wood, ripping it into pieces that will fit in the fireplace and the wood stove that connects from outside and helps heat the house.
I know it's him. I look at the clock on the nightstand and holy crud it's five a.m.
Yeah, he does this, cuts the wood. I've watched him…countless times, covertly, overtly, I've watched him wear a flannel shirt in weather that freezes the sweat in his hair, watched him raise the sledgehammer over his head and beat that awl, beat it down the upended sections of trunks and limbs he carts home in his truck. I have watched him stretch long like a big cat and kablam that splitting sound of broken wood, the tumble of the sections off the big stump he cuts on. I've watched him so many times.
Like now. It's still dark, but he's got a lantern. Probably hasn't slept. Doesn't sleep much I've heard him say. He likes this, the chopping. Artie always lets him work it out here. Whatever. This morning I think he's working me out of his system. I strongly suspect he means to.
I've crossed the hall into my room. It overlooks the backyard. I've been sleeping in the front…it's closer to his house…to him. But now I'm here, and so is Juney, sound asleep in my bed. I'm looking down on Marcus and somehow…I think I own some of him…like Juney does with me…somehow we're all entwined.
I have my hand on the glass, the blanket around my shoulders. I never touch the glass cause it'll leave prints and I hate washing windows. But my hand is there now, over his image. I want to touch him.
Smash and split. He resituates the log and smash and split again. Shoulders heaving like a bull-man's might he brings down that hammer like he's pulverizing world hunger.
I can will him to look, and I think that and he does look, well, he's wiping his mouth on his sleeve, sledgehammer posed on the stump like a cane, both hands resting on it, and when he wipes his mouth, he looks up, right at my window. There I am like a ghost, like a waif, and I wonder how many times he's looked here before, and there was nothing.
But he's still, and I know it's hard to see, but Juney has the nightlight on, so it's enough to let him know…I'm watching.
He grabs that tool and sets another chunk of wood on the stump, and he places the awl, and he drives it and drives it through with two well-placed swings like he's ringing the bell at a carnival show.
Here I go again, running around like a fool trying to find my warmest clothes and get dressed enough to run out there and try to stack, to be by him again before it's too late…for something.
When I have enough on over my skin, my boots are the last, still in the mudroom where I left them thinking I'd never wear those things for a hundred years, and here I am. I get them on, and I'm pulling on my gloves when I get outside. He sees me, hard not to with my big red cap, but he doesn't stop, he whacks and whacks and whacks.
I go to where that wood litters the ground all around him. I bend and start to fill my arms and I take it to the stack already running along the back and set that green wood on the orderly pile.
He's stopped now, and he's breathing good. I look at him, I don't smile
I want to comb over each and everything, but I can't come down to the moment, I'm suspended on this surfboard, above the room, the house even, I'm riding a wave of…ohmygod. But it's a big mother, this wave. It's serious.
Myron White was right. I knew that. Didn't I? When I lied, when I told him I couldn't marry him because I loved someone back home, when I reached back there…home…for a lie…for a reason…why I couldn't love this perfectly wonderful man, when I reached back for the lie and wouldn't look at or acknowledge what, who I'd grabbed onto. Wouldn't look directly at those green, penetrating eyes.
Marcus.
Chapter 23
I awaken to the hollow sound the awl makes as it's smashed along the grain of the wood, ripping it into pieces that will fit in the fireplace and the wood stove that connects from outside and helps heat the house.
I know it's him. I look at the clock on the nightstand and holy crud it's five a.m.
Yeah, he does this, cuts the wood. I've watched him…countless times, covertly, overtly, I've watched him wear a flannel shirt in weather that freezes the sweat in his hair, watched him raise the sledgehammer over his head and beat that awl, beat it down the upended sections of trunks and limbs he carts home in his truck. I have watched him stretch long like a big cat and kablam that splitting sound of broken wood, the tumble of the sections off the big stump he cuts on. I've watched him so many times.
Like now. It's still dark, but he's got a lantern. Probably hasn't slept. Doesn't sleep much I've heard him say. He likes this, the chopping. Artie always lets him work it out here. Whatever. This morning I think he's working me out of his system. I strongly suspect he means to.
I've crossed the hall into my room. It overlooks the backyard. I've been sleeping in the front…it's closer to his house…to him. But now I'm here, and so is Juney, sound asleep in my bed. I'm looking down on Marcus and somehow…I think I own some of him…like Juney does with me…somehow we're all entwined.
I have my hand on the glass, the blanket around my shoulders. I never touch the glass cause it'll leave prints and I hate washing windows. But my hand is there now, over his image. I want to touch him.
Smash and split. He resituates the log and smash and split again. Shoulders heaving like a bull-man's might he brings down that hammer like he's pulverizing world hunger.
I can will him to look, and I think that and he does look, well, he's wiping his mouth on his sleeve, sledgehammer posed on the stump like a cane, both hands resting on it, and when he wipes his mouth, he looks up, right at my window. There I am like a ghost, like a waif, and I wonder how many times he's looked here before, and there was nothing.
But he's still, and I know it's hard to see, but Juney has the nightlight on, so it's enough to let him know…I'm watching.
He grabs that tool and sets another chunk of wood on the stump, and he places the awl, and he drives it and drives it through with two well-placed swings like he's ringing the bell at a carnival show.
Here I go again, running around like a fool trying to find my warmest clothes and get dressed enough to run out there and try to stack, to be by him again before it's too late…for something.
When I have enough on over my skin, my boots are the last, still in the mudroom where I left them thinking I'd never wear those things for a hundred years, and here I am. I get them on, and I'm pulling on my gloves when I get outside. He sees me, hard not to with my big red cap, but he doesn't stop, he whacks and whacks and whacks.
I go to where that wood litters the ground all around him. I bend and start to fill my arms and I take it to the stack already running along the back and set that green wood on the orderly pile.
He's stopped now, and he's breathing good. I look at him, I don't smile
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