Read Online Nickel Mountain by John Gardner - Free Book Online Page B

day Callie took down the curtain and folded up the cot, and that night, when the diner was straightened up, she went home.
    Henry Soames felt more lonely than he could remember ever having felt in his life. He sat in his room sunk in despair, and then, wanting no intrusions on his grief, he turned out every light in the place, then sat for a full two hours on the side of his bed, dressed in the old black suit, brooding. Though the room was dark he could make out the lines of the chairs, the tables, the books distinctly. Outside the room he could hear the faint creaking of the pines. Misty rain was muttering on the gravel driveway and the lean-to roof. He breathed slowly.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he thought, thinking of his father and mother, the injustice he’d done them, his presumption that he knew anything at all about their life.
    A truck was roaring past, building up speed for the hill. Henry listened, feeling his muscles tighten, then grow limp once more. Useless, he thought. He wouldn’t sleep tonight, not unless he knocked himself out, which perhaps he could do by sitting out in the diner with the fluorescent glaring on the page of some dull old book from his father’s shelf. He slid one foot along the side of the bed, hunting for his slippers, but he didn’t get up. There was a sound then, the rattle of a sudden gust, or perhaps a knock. When the knock came again he recognized it, pushed himself up from the bed, and called, “Come on in. I’ll be right with you.”
    â€œDon’t get up,” Callie said. She was wet, and she was breathing hard; she’d been running. When she reached the door of his room she stopped and leaned on the doorpost. She said nothing for a moment, catching her wind. Then: “I’m sorry to bother you. I saw your lights were all off, and I thought—”
    Henry looked down.
    She came into the room and stood by the window. She rubbed the back of a book with her thumb, making the binding gleam, but her eyes did not seem focused on the book. Henry watched the self-conscious movements of her hands. He would hurry her home before her parents woke to worry, he thought.
    â€œYou want to sit down, Callie?”
    She’d left the door of the diner open, and he could feel cool air sweeping across his chest and back. The rain had stopped now. She went on rubbing the book, looking at nothing.
    â€œWhat is it, Callie?” he said.
    Then suddenly she came to him and pressed her wet head against his chest, her fingers digging into his fat. Her back under his hands shook with her sobbing. As always, only his hands could communicate. “He’s a good boy, Callie, and you love him,” he was whispering hurriedly, senselessly now, as though the weighted heat in his chest could be pushed off by words. He’d said these words before with her wet hair against his shirt; but no, that was wrong. Never. And yet she was looking up now as he’d known she would, saying, “No, I don’t. I didn’t. Stop talking, Mr. Soames. Please. I hate you when you talk. I can’t help it, I truly hate you. I’m sorry.” Her face was close, and she hissed it at him, every word increasing the heat in his chest. He thought, if only she could get away someplace, to rest and straighten things out in her mind. He had money, after all; all the money she would need.
    She said, “When I saw your light was off I was certain something had happened to you. I couldn’t stand it, you’ve been like a father to me, almost like—” She broke off. His hands stopped moving on her back. After a long time she said, “Mr. Soames, have I led you to believe—?” She drew back, looking at him, frightened.
    â€œIt’s all right, Callie,” he said. “It’s nothing, nothing.” His lips were trembling, stretching out like a sad clown’s, and he remembered that with his glasses on he looked like a Russian spy.