Read Online Odds : A Love Story (9781101554357) by Stewart O'Nan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stewart O'Nan
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whitecaps surged past. The blue water turned a sea-green like the curl of a wave, broke and flew, foaming in overlapping sheets as it fell away, constantly, endlessly. She’d forgotten the raw force of it—the exhilarating danger the reason they were all there.
Opposite, on Goat Island, a quarter mile across the invisible border, their American compatriots waved. Sun sparkled off the relentless water. At her feet, beyond the railing, clinging to the badly patched concrete wall, rested pennies people had tossed for luck. A paper cup slalomed between the rocks like a toy boat, dipped out of sight at the last second, then rose, flipped into the air as if thrown and went over. How soothing it must be to the suicidal, she thought, knowing all you had to do was jump the railing. But you still had to jump. People came from all over the world to do it. She wondered how many had stood right here, unable to take that last step.
He squeezed her hand. “Don’t move,” he said, and vanished into the crowd.
She was surprised at the number of Indian families, the women’s saris flowing below their winter coats. The men circled, concentrating like cinematographers on their video cameras, intent on capturing every moment. She remembered Art doing the same thing at Gettysburg or SeaWorld, and missed the children, if not those strained and shrill years. From bitter experience, Celia had told her not to stay for their sake, and while Marion believed she hadn’t, if she and Art had accomplished nothing else, she was grateful they’d been able to provide them with a stable home.
As she reflected on what this meant now that they were breaking up the house, he returned holding a red rose in a cellophane cone like the street vendors sold at stoplights. She thought of tossing it over the railing and immediately disowned the gesture as mad. He was sweet, he was devoted to her. Wasn’t that enough?
“You know we already have roses.”
“I can take it back.”
“Yeah, just try.”
He took a shot of her sniffing it, prompting a German woman to offer to shoot them together. He hugged her from behind, his arms crossed over hers as if to keep her warm. When he kissed her neck, a drop of water snuck under her collar, making her squirm.
“Sorry.”
“That’s all right, I’m already soaked. Where’s this horse-and-buggy ride you keep promising? And more important, is it dry?”
It was the wrong weekend for a carriage ride. The line snaked halfway around the welcome center. She didn’t think she could make it without something to eat, so they compromised, wandering the food gallery on the ground floor until they found a sushi place for a fortifying bowl of udon noodles, the Japanese equivalent of grandma’s chicken soup. The windows were steamed, and the hot broth made her want to stay there and people-watch, but he was determined to romance her.
There were only five carriages. For more than an hour they waited in the cold as the line shuffled by the great floral clock, its blooms browned and iced over, its hands stilled for the winter. They huddled for warmth, groaned with everyone else when the wind pushed the spray their way. A number of the couples were newlyweds, including a bridal party that must have had a reservation, because they went directly to the head of the line, their own photographer taking shots of the bride and groom in a gilded white carriage with the Falls and its ever-present rainbow behind them, first alone, then attended by their bridesmaids and groomsmen, with their respective families, and finally all together. It took a while, the other carriages loading and unloading to one side as the photographer and the bride’s mother fussed with the bride’s dress. Marion watched the lucky couple leaning in and whispering, laughing and touching, kissing for the camera. How young they were, how new. Today they were celebrities, set apart like royalty. She remembered the feeling and felt sorry for them, knowing it
Opposite, on Goat Island, a quarter mile across the invisible border, their American compatriots waved. Sun sparkled off the relentless water. At her feet, beyond the railing, clinging to the badly patched concrete wall, rested pennies people had tossed for luck. A paper cup slalomed between the rocks like a toy boat, dipped out of sight at the last second, then rose, flipped into the air as if thrown and went over. How soothing it must be to the suicidal, she thought, knowing all you had to do was jump the railing. But you still had to jump. People came from all over the world to do it. She wondered how many had stood right here, unable to take that last step.
He squeezed her hand. “Don’t move,” he said, and vanished into the crowd.
She was surprised at the number of Indian families, the women’s saris flowing below their winter coats. The men circled, concentrating like cinematographers on their video cameras, intent on capturing every moment. She remembered Art doing the same thing at Gettysburg or SeaWorld, and missed the children, if not those strained and shrill years. From bitter experience, Celia had told her not to stay for their sake, and while Marion believed she hadn’t, if she and Art had accomplished nothing else, she was grateful they’d been able to provide them with a stable home.
As she reflected on what this meant now that they were breaking up the house, he returned holding a red rose in a cellophane cone like the street vendors sold at stoplights. She thought of tossing it over the railing and immediately disowned the gesture as mad. He was sweet, he was devoted to her. Wasn’t that enough?
“You know we already have roses.”
“I can take it back.”
“Yeah, just try.”
He took a shot of her sniffing it, prompting a German woman to offer to shoot them together. He hugged her from behind, his arms crossed over hers as if to keep her warm. When he kissed her neck, a drop of water snuck under her collar, making her squirm.
“Sorry.”
“That’s all right, I’m already soaked. Where’s this horse-and-buggy ride you keep promising? And more important, is it dry?”
It was the wrong weekend for a carriage ride. The line snaked halfway around the welcome center. She didn’t think she could make it without something to eat, so they compromised, wandering the food gallery on the ground floor until they found a sushi place for a fortifying bowl of udon noodles, the Japanese equivalent of grandma’s chicken soup. The windows were steamed, and the hot broth made her want to stay there and people-watch, but he was determined to romance her.
There were only five carriages. For more than an hour they waited in the cold as the line shuffled by the great floral clock, its blooms browned and iced over, its hands stilled for the winter. They huddled for warmth, groaned with everyone else when the wind pushed the spray their way. A number of the couples were newlyweds, including a bridal party that must have had a reservation, because they went directly to the head of the line, their own photographer taking shots of the bride and groom in a gilded white carriage with the Falls and its ever-present rainbow behind them, first alone, then attended by their bridesmaids and groomsmen, with their respective families, and finally all together. It took a while, the other carriages loading and unloading to one side as the photographer and the bride’s mother fussed with the bride’s dress. Marion watched the lucky couple leaning in and whispering, laughing and touching, kissing for the camera. How young they were, how new. Today they were celebrities, set apart like royalty. She remembered the feeling and felt sorry for them, knowing it
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