Read Online Pacific Avenue by Anne L. Watson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anne L. Watson
Ads: Link
Penitentiary in Angola.
~ 9 ~
November 1972
Baton Rouge
Kathy
A blue norther cold front rode behind the winter rain. The
morning after Thanksgiving, I woke to the clicking of the heating system. I was
thirsty and headachy from sleeping too warm, so I padded to the kitchen to get
a drink of water.
The rooms were closed-curtain dim, with slices of brightness
where the sun sneaked in. The ashy smell of last night’s fire was like the day
after a disaster.
I wanted to talk to Richard, but he didn’t have a
phone. No classes today, either—I’d have to catch him at home. I dressed
quickly and slipped out the back door.
A flash of sunlight caught me as I stepped off the
porch. I sneezed. The north wind brought the stink of the paper mill in St.
Francisville, the smell of winter. Remembering too late that my gloves were in
my other jacket, I pushed my hands into my pockets and picked my way through
the mud in the yard to my car, parked on the street.
Richard’s neighborhood was like a ghost town—no strolling
students, not even many cars parked along Chimes Street. Right across the
street from campus was his building, the Ghetto. His apartment was at the far
end.
When I knocked, a shadow passed across the pane of his
door, and then I didn’t see anything for a moment. I was sure he was home, so I
knocked again. He cracked the door open and peered out.
“Come out and have breakfast with me,” I said.
He stepped out onto the porch, pulling the door closed
behind him. I pulled him into my arms and held him to me. After a second, he
put his arms around me too, and we stood on the porch in the wind and the
bright sun. We were so relieved to have each other back that it didn’t occur to
us that anyone might be looking.
“I feel like I’m hugging a teddy bear,” he said,
stepping back. “Come in and take off your coat.”
“Let’s go get something to eat. I’m starving.”
“Come in and I’ll fix you some teddy bear food.” He
laughed and pushed the door open. When we were inside, he shut it and locked
it.
I took off my jacket and laid it on the bookcase. I was
trying to be cool about the dinner party. Where do I start? How do I say
this?
Since the kitchen corner was too small for both of us,
I sat at the table while he fixed coffee and toast.
“Richard, last night . . . . Well, does
that kind of thing happen often?” I started fiddling with some papers on the table,
then jerked my hand back. He’ll think I’m prying.
“Not anymore.” He rummaged in a cabinet. “I guess I was
nervous about the party, and the noise caught me by surprise.”
He set the graniteware coffeepot and two unmatched cups
on the table, then went back for the toast. He pulled a couple of paper towels
off a roll and laid them carefully beside our places for napkins.
“Not any more ?
You mean you used to do stuff like that all the time?”
“Not every minute.” His eyes evaded mine. “Too much,
though.”
I didn’t know what to say next. I tried to cover up my
confusion by turning my attention to my breakfast. But after we’d eaten in
silence for a few minutes, that seemed worse.
Maybe Richard thought so too. He suddenly looked up
from his plate and said, “I don’t want to talk about the war.”
I still couldn’t think of a thing to say. Couldn’t find
decent words for what I needed to know: Was it something you saw, or
something you did?
He seemed to read the question in my face. “Okay, if
you really want to know, I’ll tell you. I was in the artillery. I probably did
a lot of damage—hell, I was supposed to
do a lot of damage—but I never saw it up close. Sometimes I have nightmares
where I see what my rounds really do. Sometimes I think I’ll go to hell and
have to look at that over and over, forever.”
A picture exploded into my mind. Oh, Jesus.
Hieronymus Bosch with guns and uniforms. I
pushed it away. “Do you even believe in hell?”
“I was raised a Baptist—they sure believe in it. But
~ 9 ~
November 1972
Baton Rouge
Kathy
A blue norther cold front rode behind the winter rain. The
morning after Thanksgiving, I woke to the clicking of the heating system. I was
thirsty and headachy from sleeping too warm, so I padded to the kitchen to get
a drink of water.
The rooms were closed-curtain dim, with slices of brightness
where the sun sneaked in. The ashy smell of last night’s fire was like the day
after a disaster.
I wanted to talk to Richard, but he didn’t have a
phone. No classes today, either—I’d have to catch him at home. I dressed
quickly and slipped out the back door.
A flash of sunlight caught me as I stepped off the
porch. I sneezed. The north wind brought the stink of the paper mill in St.
Francisville, the smell of winter. Remembering too late that my gloves were in
my other jacket, I pushed my hands into my pockets and picked my way through
the mud in the yard to my car, parked on the street.
Richard’s neighborhood was like a ghost town—no strolling
students, not even many cars parked along Chimes Street. Right across the
street from campus was his building, the Ghetto. His apartment was at the far
end.
When I knocked, a shadow passed across the pane of his
door, and then I didn’t see anything for a moment. I was sure he was home, so I
knocked again. He cracked the door open and peered out.
“Come out and have breakfast with me,” I said.
He stepped out onto the porch, pulling the door closed
behind him. I pulled him into my arms and held him to me. After a second, he
put his arms around me too, and we stood on the porch in the wind and the
bright sun. We were so relieved to have each other back that it didn’t occur to
us that anyone might be looking.
“I feel like I’m hugging a teddy bear,” he said,
stepping back. “Come in and take off your coat.”
“Let’s go get something to eat. I’m starving.”
“Come in and I’ll fix you some teddy bear food.” He
laughed and pushed the door open. When we were inside, he shut it and locked
it.
I took off my jacket and laid it on the bookcase. I was
trying to be cool about the dinner party. Where do I start? How do I say
this?
Since the kitchen corner was too small for both of us,
I sat at the table while he fixed coffee and toast.
“Richard, last night . . . . Well, does
that kind of thing happen often?” I started fiddling with some papers on the table,
then jerked my hand back. He’ll think I’m prying.
“Not anymore.” He rummaged in a cabinet. “I guess I was
nervous about the party, and the noise caught me by surprise.”
He set the graniteware coffeepot and two unmatched cups
on the table, then went back for the toast. He pulled a couple of paper towels
off a roll and laid them carefully beside our places for napkins.
“Not any more ?
You mean you used to do stuff like that all the time?”
“Not every minute.” His eyes evaded mine. “Too much,
though.”
I didn’t know what to say next. I tried to cover up my
confusion by turning my attention to my breakfast. But after we’d eaten in
silence for a few minutes, that seemed worse.
Maybe Richard thought so too. He suddenly looked up
from his plate and said, “I don’t want to talk about the war.”
I still couldn’t think of a thing to say. Couldn’t find
decent words for what I needed to know: Was it something you saw, or
something you did?
He seemed to read the question in my face. “Okay, if
you really want to know, I’ll tell you. I was in the artillery. I probably did
a lot of damage—hell, I was supposed to
do a lot of damage—but I never saw it up close. Sometimes I have nightmares
where I see what my rounds really do. Sometimes I think I’ll go to hell and
have to look at that over and over, forever.”
A picture exploded into my mind. Oh, Jesus.
Hieronymus Bosch with guns and uniforms. I
pushed it away. “Do you even believe in hell?”
“I was raised a Baptist—they sure believe in it. But
Similar Books
