Read Online Nickel Mountain by John Gardner - Free Book Online

“Let me think a minute. Yes, I do. I do mind. You’ve taken up selling Bibles on the side.”
    â€œNow, George,” Henry said.
    â€œWell, shit,” George said, “come on in, then. But don’t tell me why you’re dressed up like that. Either you been to church or you been courting, and whichever it is, I think I might get sick.”
    â€œNow, damn it, George,” Henry said.
    â€œOh, hush up and sit down. It’s good to see you. I’ll see if I still got some whiskey.” He started past the television, paused a moment to watch one of the cowboys shoot the other one, then went on to the cupboard under the sink. “Just a little bourbon left,” he called back.
    â€œThat’s fine,” Henry said. He could use it.
    George talked about television programs while he fixed the drink and brought it over to the metal table. Henry was missing a great deal, George said, refusing to give in to the electronic revolution. He ran on for maybe five minutes or more, Henry merely nodding helplessly, playing with the hat on the table in front of him, missing half of what George said because of the noise from the machine. At last Henry said feebly (it was hardly going exactly as he’d planned), “Could we turn the television off, George, so we could hear?”
    â€œWhat the hell? Sit in the dark?”
    â€œMaybe the room lights still work,” Henry said. He laughed.
    George considered it, then got up and went over to the switch by the door. The lights went on, and George seemed surprised and pleased. He turned off the television. “Ok,” he said then, “what are you selling.”
    â€œI want you to marry Callie Wells,” Henry said. He had not meant to make it quite so blunt, and he felt himself reddening.
    George stared, then looked over at the television as though maybe that had said it. He came over and sat down. “You’re willing to pay me, I suppose?” he said, lifting his glass to drink.
    It seemed to Henry a natural question, though he hadn’t expected it would come up so quickly. He said, “I’ll write you a check right now for a thousand dollars.”
    George choked, set down his glass, and got up to go to the sink. “You crazy old goat,” he began, but another choking fit hit him. The cords of his neck pumped, and it looked as if he might retch. Henry watched, wide-eyed, the checkbook in his fist. “You crazy old goat,” George Loomis roared, “you think I’d marry some girl I hardly know for a thousand dollars? Or ten thousand? Or a thousand million? Look, I don’t love her. I don’t even like her. She stinks. You know that? The word of God!”
    â€œGeorge, that’s not true. You said yourself—”
    â€œI said myself what?”
    â€œYou said you were thinking of marrying her.”
    His eyebrows lowered, and suddenly he wasn’t partly joking any more. He looked scared. “Now, wait a minute,” he said. He looked at his hands, saw they were empty, then came over quickly to the drink on the table. He said when he’d swallowed, “Since the day I was born, Henry Soames, I never said—”
    â€œYes, you did,” Henry said. “That night when you came to my place drunk you said to her—to her, George—”
    â€œJesus God,” George said.
    â€œYou did, George.” He added, inspired, “There were witnesses, too.”
    George Loomis bit his lip, staring. Abruptly, he got up and went over to the cupboard below the sink. The bourbon bottle was empty now. He dropped it in the wood-box beside the stove and opened the cabinet to the left of the sink—full of antique china and real cut glass—then closed it again and went over to the cabinet on the right. At last he came back to the table and sat down. He leaned his forehead on his hands.
    Henry said, “She’s a fine girl, George. It’s the truth.