Read Online Stones by William Bell - Free Book Online

that it was old, one of the original pioneer homesteadsin Oro going back to the early 1800s. According to Dad, who was up on all that stuff, the original farmhouse had been added to and refurbished over the years. The last surviving Maitland, who lived in California and had left the farm unused for two years after his mother died, finally put the whole place, chattels and all, up for sale.
    Dad really had scored a big one this time. Along with a lot of junk there was furniture, some of it priceless, original paintings, silverware, lamps, carpets, blanket boxes — enough to keep Olde Gold Antiques and Collectibles stocked for a long time. The loot, as Dad called it, would keep me busy for another century, it seemed.
    I set the boxes aside, mumbling that we had enough cracked-leather-bound Dickens and Thackeray and Haliburton and Susanna Moodie to outfit a geriatric library. But nothing could ruin my mood that day.
    I had kissed Raphaella and she had kissed me back.

part TWO

chapter     
    F or someone about to fly halfway around the world, my mother was traveling light. Aside from her laptop in its leather case and a roomy carryall, she had only one bag. The three pieces sat in the hallway by the front door.
    Dad was teaching that morning and had already left the house. But, as usual when Mom was off on one of her career-enhancing jaunts, she and Dad had stayed up most of the night talking, drinking wine, putting off the dawn as long as they could. They’d had breakfast together and said their goodbyes before he left for work.
    When she bounced down the stairs that morning in her usual traveling outfit — work shirt, jeans and leather moccasins — she looked more like a senior counsellor on her way tosummer camp than a tough-minded journalist. But tough-minded or not, she seemed vulnerable to me, not at all equipped to dig out facts in a dangerous place. She hadn’t left yet and I was already worried.
    I hugged her tightly when the airport service mini-bus came to pick her up. “Be careful, Mom. Don’t do anything dumb.”
    She kissed me and pulled the door open. “Okay, Gramps.”
2
    Moving day was, to use an oxymoron, a hectic bore. Dad had planned the whole operation like a military campaign. He went to the new house on Brant and I stayed at the old one. The movers loaded up the truck under my eyes and unloaded again under his.
    I packed up my room — or some of it — and stowed my stuff in the van, because I was moving out to the mobile home, which I hadn’t even seen yet. I was looking forward to living alone, but at the same time I was a little scared by the idea of being independent. I was also pretty sad about leaving the house I had grown up in.
    Late in the afternoon, after the movers had driven off with the last load, I drifted from room to empty room, my footsteps echoing hollowly. The walls of the living and dining rooms had light oblongs on them where paintings had hung or furniture had stood against them. Dustballs lurked in corners. In the kitchen, cupboard doors hung open to reveal empty shelves.
    All day I had been putting off this dark moment. My home was to be occupied by strangers. My mother was halfway around the world. My father would be buzzing around, humming cheerily in the house he’d waited years to buy.
    I decided not to leave yet. I phoned Dad and told him my plans, then went out to the van to get the sleeping bag, recalling with a bit of a shiver the last time I had used it. I called out for a pizza, ate it in the family room, sitting on the floor, back against the wall, listening to tapes of old radio shows from Dad’s collection: “The Shadow,” “Inner Sanctum.” Then I went to sleep.
    I dreamed that I woke up with a fire in my belly, fueled by triple cheese and pepperoni — heartburn. At first I thought I had left the tapedeck running. I reached over and pushed the power button. But the voices kept on. Voices I knew.
    “Oh, no,” I moaned. “No.”
    Eighty wish
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