Read Online Slow Sculpture by Theodore Sturgeon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Theodore Sturgeon
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Hey …” he breathed, “you better come along home. You wouldn’t want Miz Martin to see you looking the way you do right now.”
Numbly, Anthony Dunglass O’Banion followed him out.
VIII
It was hot, so hot that apparently even Bitty felt it, and after supper went to sit on the verandah. It was very late when at last she came in to do the dishes, but she went ahead without hurrying, doing her usual steady, thorough job. Sam had gone to bed, Mary Haunt wassulking in her room after yet another of those brief, violent brushes with Miss Schmidt. O’Banion was crouching sweatily over some law-books in the parlor, and Halvorsen—
Halvorsen was standing behind her, just inside the kitchen. On his face was a mixture of expressions far too complicated to analyze, but simple in sum—a sort of anxious wistfulness. In his hands was a paper sack, the mouth of which he held as if it were full of tarantulas. His stance was peculiar, strained, and off-balance, one foot advanced, his shoulders askew; his resolution had equated with his diffidence and immobilized him, and there he stayed like a bee in amber.
Bitty did not turn. She went right on working steadily, her back to him, until she finished the pot she was scouring. Still without turning, she reached for another and said, “Well, come on in, Philip.”
Halvorsen literally sagged as her flat, matter-of-fact voice reached him, shattering with its exterior touch his interior deadlock. He grinned, or just bared his teeth, and approached her. “You
do
have eyes in the back of your head.”
“Nup.” She rapped once with her knuckle on the windowpane over the sink. Night had turned it to black glass. Halvorsen watched the little cone of suds her hand had left, then refocused his eyes on the image in the glass—vivid, the kitchen and everything in it. Hoarsely, he said, “I’m disappointed.”
“I don’t keep things I don’t need,” she said bluntly, as if they’d been talking about apple-corers. “What’s on your mind? Hungry?”
“No.” He looked down at his hands, tightened them still more on the bag. “No,” he said again, “I have, I wanted …” He noticed that she had stopped working and was standing still, inhumanly still, with her hands in the dishwater and her eyes on the windowpane. “Turn around, Bitty.”
When she would not, he supported the bottom of the paper bag with one hand and with the other scrabbled it open. He put his hands down inside it. “Please,” he tried to say, but it was only a hiss.
She calmly shook water off her hands, wiped them on a paper towel. When she turned around her face was eloquent—as always, and only because it always was. Its lines were eloquent, and theshape of her penetrating eyes, and the light in them. As a photograph or a painting such a face is eloquent. It is a frightening thing to look into one and realize for the first time that behind it nothing need be moving. Behind the lines of wisdom and experience and the curved spoor of laughter, something utterly immobile could be waiting. Only waiting.
Halvorsen said, “I think all the time.” He wet his lips. “I never stop thinking, I don’t know how. It’s … there’s something wrong.”
Flatly, “What’s wrong?”
“You, Sam,” said Halvorsen with difficulty. He looked down at the bag over his hand. She did not. “I’ve had the … feeling … for a long time now. I didn’t know what it was. Just something wrong. So I talked to O’Banion. Miss Schmidt too. Just, you know, talk.” He swallowed. “I found out. What’s wrong, I mean. It’s the way you and Sam talk to us, all of us.” He gestured with the paper bag. “
You never say anything!
You only ask questions!”
“Is that all?” asked Bitty good-humoredly.
“No,” he said, his eyes fixed on hers. He stepped back a pace.
“Aren’t you afraid that paper bag’ll spoil your aim, Philip?”
He shook his head. His face turned the color of putty.
“You didn’t go
Numbly, Anthony Dunglass O’Banion followed him out.
VIII
It was hot, so hot that apparently even Bitty felt it, and after supper went to sit on the verandah. It was very late when at last she came in to do the dishes, but she went ahead without hurrying, doing her usual steady, thorough job. Sam had gone to bed, Mary Haunt wassulking in her room after yet another of those brief, violent brushes with Miss Schmidt. O’Banion was crouching sweatily over some law-books in the parlor, and Halvorsen—
Halvorsen was standing behind her, just inside the kitchen. On his face was a mixture of expressions far too complicated to analyze, but simple in sum—a sort of anxious wistfulness. In his hands was a paper sack, the mouth of which he held as if it were full of tarantulas. His stance was peculiar, strained, and off-balance, one foot advanced, his shoulders askew; his resolution had equated with his diffidence and immobilized him, and there he stayed like a bee in amber.
Bitty did not turn. She went right on working steadily, her back to him, until she finished the pot she was scouring. Still without turning, she reached for another and said, “Well, come on in, Philip.”
Halvorsen literally sagged as her flat, matter-of-fact voice reached him, shattering with its exterior touch his interior deadlock. He grinned, or just bared his teeth, and approached her. “You
do
have eyes in the back of your head.”
“Nup.” She rapped once with her knuckle on the windowpane over the sink. Night had turned it to black glass. Halvorsen watched the little cone of suds her hand had left, then refocused his eyes on the image in the glass—vivid, the kitchen and everything in it. Hoarsely, he said, “I’m disappointed.”
“I don’t keep things I don’t need,” she said bluntly, as if they’d been talking about apple-corers. “What’s on your mind? Hungry?”
“No.” He looked down at his hands, tightened them still more on the bag. “No,” he said again, “I have, I wanted …” He noticed that she had stopped working and was standing still, inhumanly still, with her hands in the dishwater and her eyes on the windowpane. “Turn around, Bitty.”
When she would not, he supported the bottom of the paper bag with one hand and with the other scrabbled it open. He put his hands down inside it. “Please,” he tried to say, but it was only a hiss.
She calmly shook water off her hands, wiped them on a paper towel. When she turned around her face was eloquent—as always, and only because it always was. Its lines were eloquent, and theshape of her penetrating eyes, and the light in them. As a photograph or a painting such a face is eloquent. It is a frightening thing to look into one and realize for the first time that behind it nothing need be moving. Behind the lines of wisdom and experience and the curved spoor of laughter, something utterly immobile could be waiting. Only waiting.
Halvorsen said, “I think all the time.” He wet his lips. “I never stop thinking, I don’t know how. It’s … there’s something wrong.”
Flatly, “What’s wrong?”
“You, Sam,” said Halvorsen with difficulty. He looked down at the bag over his hand. She did not. “I’ve had the … feeling … for a long time now. I didn’t know what it was. Just something wrong. So I talked to O’Banion. Miss Schmidt too. Just, you know, talk.” He swallowed. “I found out. What’s wrong, I mean. It’s the way you and Sam talk to us, all of us.” He gestured with the paper bag. “
You never say anything!
You only ask questions!”
“Is that all?” asked Bitty good-humoredly.
“No,” he said, his eyes fixed on hers. He stepped back a pace.
“Aren’t you afraid that paper bag’ll spoil your aim, Philip?”
He shook his head. His face turned the color of putty.
“You didn’t go
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