Read Online Only Love Can Break Your Heart by Ed Tarkington - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ed Tarkington
Ads: Link
dressed in a frontiersman’s knickers and calico shirt and hat, smoking a Camel Light.
After what seemed like a long while, the car came to a stop. I sat up and looked out the window. Paul had parked in front of Twin Oaks. The house was dark, but the exterior was illuminated by a new set of floodlights installed in the flower beds beneath the windows. The remodeling job was nearly finished. The Culvers were set to move in less than a month later, after their return from a vacation in Europe with their college-age daughter, who had been living in England since graduating from a boarding school there.
“Can you walk?” Paul asked me.
“Yes,” I said.
He opened the door for me. I climbed out into the cool night air. I still felt a bit ill, but much better. I had no coat—just a pair of dungarees and a long-sleeved rugby-style shirt. I could still taste the bile and the beer and the cigarette smoke. My lips began to tremble.
I followed Paul out to the edge of the driveway and peered down the hill. In front of our house sat a police cruiser.
“I’m sorry, Rocky,” Paul said.
“You left me,” I said, more as an observation than an accusation.
“I know,” he said.
“Why did you do that?”
“I can’t say,” Paul said.
I looked for his face in the darkness. A whimper broke in my throat.
“Don’t cry, Rocky,” Paul said.
I felt his hand on my shoulder.
“I want to go home,” I said.
“I’m going to have to let you go from here,” Paul said.
“I don’t want to go alone,” I said.
“I know,” he said.
Paul kneeled and grabbed my shoulders and pulled me into him. He held me there, unsteady on his knees, his arms shaking. I could hear his heart rumbling in his chest like the beat of a fast, familiar song.
When I think of that moment, there on that hill, I imagine Paul standing at the edge of a terrible abyss.
“There,” Paul whispered. “Just walk toward the porch lights. I’ll watch you all the way.”
I did as he said. I trudged down the hill whimpering, my stomach still sick, the dew soaking through my tennis shoes and the cuffs of my dungarees in the high grass.
When I reached the bottom of the hill, I turned and looked back. I could just see the faint flicker of Paul’s cigarette lighter and the yellow bloom of his face illuminated by the flame in front of the stark, freshly painted white columns of Twin Oaks.
At last I came into the light of our front porch. As I walked up the steps and reached for the door handle, I looked back and saw the Nova’s headlights flick on and heard the faint rumble of the engine coming to life. Down deep, I must have understood as I listened to that sound that I was hearing it for the last time.
Part Two
All That False Instruction
5
TH E EVENING AFTER PAUL left me there in front of Twin Oaks, Judge Bowman called our house. His voice was loud and angry enough to be easily overheard through the receiver cupped to the Old Man’s ear.
“That bastard son of yours has stolen my daughter,” he bellowed.
Once he left me, Paul had raced back to Leigh’s house in Charlottesville. After an intense discussion on the porch, Leigh led Paul inside and into her room. The next morning, Becky and the other girls found a note from Leigh on the kitchen table. A neighbor had seen the two of them loading Leigh’s backpack and sleeping bag into the trunk of Paul’s car.
“You’ve got to press charges, Dick,” Judge Bowman said.
“For what?” the Old Man asked.
“For kidnapping.”
“It doesn’t sound like he kidnapped her to me,” the Old Man said.
“Not her,” Bowman snapped. “Your boy.”
Judge Bowman knew what Paul had done; by that time, the whole town knew, but Bowman was among the first to hear about it, thanks to my mother, who had asked him to contact Leigh. This was the call Leigh’s roommate Becky was referring to when she asked Paul if someone had died.
“He transported your son over sixty miles without consent,” Bowman
After what seemed like a long while, the car came to a stop. I sat up and looked out the window. Paul had parked in front of Twin Oaks. The house was dark, but the exterior was illuminated by a new set of floodlights installed in the flower beds beneath the windows. The remodeling job was nearly finished. The Culvers were set to move in less than a month later, after their return from a vacation in Europe with their college-age daughter, who had been living in England since graduating from a boarding school there.
“Can you walk?” Paul asked me.
“Yes,” I said.
He opened the door for me. I climbed out into the cool night air. I still felt a bit ill, but much better. I had no coat—just a pair of dungarees and a long-sleeved rugby-style shirt. I could still taste the bile and the beer and the cigarette smoke. My lips began to tremble.
I followed Paul out to the edge of the driveway and peered down the hill. In front of our house sat a police cruiser.
“I’m sorry, Rocky,” Paul said.
“You left me,” I said, more as an observation than an accusation.
“I know,” he said.
“Why did you do that?”
“I can’t say,” Paul said.
I looked for his face in the darkness. A whimper broke in my throat.
“Don’t cry, Rocky,” Paul said.
I felt his hand on my shoulder.
“I want to go home,” I said.
“I’m going to have to let you go from here,” Paul said.
“I don’t want to go alone,” I said.
“I know,” he said.
Paul kneeled and grabbed my shoulders and pulled me into him. He held me there, unsteady on his knees, his arms shaking. I could hear his heart rumbling in his chest like the beat of a fast, familiar song.
When I think of that moment, there on that hill, I imagine Paul standing at the edge of a terrible abyss.
“There,” Paul whispered. “Just walk toward the porch lights. I’ll watch you all the way.”
I did as he said. I trudged down the hill whimpering, my stomach still sick, the dew soaking through my tennis shoes and the cuffs of my dungarees in the high grass.
When I reached the bottom of the hill, I turned and looked back. I could just see the faint flicker of Paul’s cigarette lighter and the yellow bloom of his face illuminated by the flame in front of the stark, freshly painted white columns of Twin Oaks.
At last I came into the light of our front porch. As I walked up the steps and reached for the door handle, I looked back and saw the Nova’s headlights flick on and heard the faint rumble of the engine coming to life. Down deep, I must have understood as I listened to that sound that I was hearing it for the last time.
Part Two
All That False Instruction
5
TH E EVENING AFTER PAUL left me there in front of Twin Oaks, Judge Bowman called our house. His voice was loud and angry enough to be easily overheard through the receiver cupped to the Old Man’s ear.
“That bastard son of yours has stolen my daughter,” he bellowed.
Once he left me, Paul had raced back to Leigh’s house in Charlottesville. After an intense discussion on the porch, Leigh led Paul inside and into her room. The next morning, Becky and the other girls found a note from Leigh on the kitchen table. A neighbor had seen the two of them loading Leigh’s backpack and sleeping bag into the trunk of Paul’s car.
“You’ve got to press charges, Dick,” Judge Bowman said.
“For what?” the Old Man asked.
“For kidnapping.”
“It doesn’t sound like he kidnapped her to me,” the Old Man said.
“Not her,” Bowman snapped. “Your boy.”
Judge Bowman knew what Paul had done; by that time, the whole town knew, but Bowman was among the first to hear about it, thanks to my mother, who had asked him to contact Leigh. This was the call Leigh’s roommate Becky was referring to when she asked Paul if someone had died.
“He transported your son over sixty miles without consent,” Bowman
Similar Books
