Read Online Northwest Corner by John Burnham Schwartz - Free Book Online
Authors: John Burnham Schwartz
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just a few minutes, to fuck this sad beautiful boy and befucked by him, hard and permanently, with a raw need unlike anything she’s known before, except maybe her unquenchable longing, during the total eclipse following his death, for the restoration of her brother to the world.
The house is locked and boarded up. Neither of them wants to go into the barn where the old guy blew his brains out, so they remain outside in the cold, pressed and heaving against a rusted feed trough. A few inches of rainwater pooled in the bottom—and in that water, she can’t help noticing, the three-quarter moon hanging like a glass Christmas ornament; till their bodies set the trough to rocking, and the water ripples, breaking the moon apart.
Wet already as a licked kitten, she reaches down into his loose jeans. His gasp a small explosion in her ear. His grip suddenly fierce at her hips, hands pawing down her jeans: in the next moment she feels herself heaved up in his strong arms and fitted onto him like a missing part, a hovering sack of need. She cries out, imagining reaching into his chest and touching his beating heart. Her fingers accidentally rake the side of his face, though he seems oblivious of any pain, just repeats her name over and over under his breath, his half-closed eyes glazed with moonlight, right up to the second he bursts.
Afterward, he sets her down gingerly—as if, now that it’s finished, she, like the moon, might break into pieces. In silence, they pull up and refasten their clothes. The left side of his jaw scarlet where she scratched him. She isn’t sorry. She’s swimming with him, leaking him into her underwear, smelling him with every breath, shaking so badly that Sam has to cover her with his body like a blanket. Not cold anymore, finally not anything. He lifts the hair that’s fallen over her face and kisses her there between her eyes—such a tender, mature, manlike thing to do that she has to wonder who, by fucking each other, they’ve just become.
DWIGHT
S AM IS STILL CONKED OUT at eight the next morning as I stand in my kitchen, facing the open refrigerator. Food reserves totally inadequate for long-term occupancy, it must be said, or even guest residency by more than a single individual. Though I’m not thinking very straight about the matter, having been up since half past five, rattling around in my sun-filled cage like a lab hamster, waiting for my son to emerge from his room.
So that I might offer him what, exactly? A fatherly speech? A morning hug? A plan for living? Almost a relief that he continues to sleep—as tired, it seems, as if he walked all the way from Connecticut. And yet still the note I leave for him on the kitchen table rambles on too long about murky topics that have nothing to do, let’s face it, with breakfast. Topics like family and the future. I give my cell number in case he has questions or simply wants to check in while I’m out (unlikely). Tell him that I’ll be back in an hour and look forward to having breakfast together. That he should think of mi casa as su casa for as long as he feels like staying. Maybe we’ll talk more over dinner about his plans, such as they are, though absolutely no pressure to cannonball into the familial deep end all at once if he’s not in the mood. By now I’m on the back side of the page ripped from the SoCal memo pad, and it’s time—even I can see—to bring this baby home. Keep the tone light and parent-friendly, but not too. After lengthy deliberations with myself, I sign the note “Dad,” which is simple fact, but cautiously leave out “love”: I don’t want to antagonize my son or, in truth, to dredge up recollections (unwanted, I feel certain, by both of us) that might lead him to thejudgment that I’ve yet again failed to earn something out. There’ll be opportunity enough for that. My handwriting, jacked up on a second cup of black, is jittery, as if possessed.
Then, before leaving the house, I call my boss at
The house is locked and boarded up. Neither of them wants to go into the barn where the old guy blew his brains out, so they remain outside in the cold, pressed and heaving against a rusted feed trough. A few inches of rainwater pooled in the bottom—and in that water, she can’t help noticing, the three-quarter moon hanging like a glass Christmas ornament; till their bodies set the trough to rocking, and the water ripples, breaking the moon apart.
Wet already as a licked kitten, she reaches down into his loose jeans. His gasp a small explosion in her ear. His grip suddenly fierce at her hips, hands pawing down her jeans: in the next moment she feels herself heaved up in his strong arms and fitted onto him like a missing part, a hovering sack of need. She cries out, imagining reaching into his chest and touching his beating heart. Her fingers accidentally rake the side of his face, though he seems oblivious of any pain, just repeats her name over and over under his breath, his half-closed eyes glazed with moonlight, right up to the second he bursts.
Afterward, he sets her down gingerly—as if, now that it’s finished, she, like the moon, might break into pieces. In silence, they pull up and refasten their clothes. The left side of his jaw scarlet where she scratched him. She isn’t sorry. She’s swimming with him, leaking him into her underwear, smelling him with every breath, shaking so badly that Sam has to cover her with his body like a blanket. Not cold anymore, finally not anything. He lifts the hair that’s fallen over her face and kisses her there between her eyes—such a tender, mature, manlike thing to do that she has to wonder who, by fucking each other, they’ve just become.
DWIGHT
S AM IS STILL CONKED OUT at eight the next morning as I stand in my kitchen, facing the open refrigerator. Food reserves totally inadequate for long-term occupancy, it must be said, or even guest residency by more than a single individual. Though I’m not thinking very straight about the matter, having been up since half past five, rattling around in my sun-filled cage like a lab hamster, waiting for my son to emerge from his room.
So that I might offer him what, exactly? A fatherly speech? A morning hug? A plan for living? Almost a relief that he continues to sleep—as tired, it seems, as if he walked all the way from Connecticut. And yet still the note I leave for him on the kitchen table rambles on too long about murky topics that have nothing to do, let’s face it, with breakfast. Topics like family and the future. I give my cell number in case he has questions or simply wants to check in while I’m out (unlikely). Tell him that I’ll be back in an hour and look forward to having breakfast together. That he should think of mi casa as su casa for as long as he feels like staying. Maybe we’ll talk more over dinner about his plans, such as they are, though absolutely no pressure to cannonball into the familial deep end all at once if he’s not in the mood. By now I’m on the back side of the page ripped from the SoCal memo pad, and it’s time—even I can see—to bring this baby home. Keep the tone light and parent-friendly, but not too. After lengthy deliberations with myself, I sign the note “Dad,” which is simple fact, but cautiously leave out “love”: I don’t want to antagonize my son or, in truth, to dredge up recollections (unwanted, I feel certain, by both of us) that might lead him to thejudgment that I’ve yet again failed to earn something out. There’ll be opportunity enough for that. My handwriting, jacked up on a second cup of black, is jittery, as if possessed.
Then, before leaving the house, I call my boss at
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