Read Online Summer of Joy by Ann H. Gabhart - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ann H. Gabhart
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add and subtract, I suppose. No brothers or sisters.”
He paused to take a breath, and Jocie said, “I’m sorry.” When he looked at her as if he didn’t know what she was talking about, she added, “For your father dying.”
“Why? Nobody else was. Certainly not me. He wasn’t a nice man.” He didn’t miss a twirl.
“Oh.” Jocie thought about saying she was sorry again— this time because his father wasn’t a nice man—but she decided against it. Instead she concentrated on writing down what he’d said while the silence in the room pushed against her ears. Finally she looked up and said, “And you say your mother is in the Peace Corps.”
“Oh yes. Inspired by our late president’s fiery oratory about asking what we can do for our country. God and country. I can almost hear the national anthem playing, can’t you? My dear mother always committed to the greater good. She never worried a lot about what the greater good was for those closest to her.”
“Oh,” Jocie said, not sure what he expected her to say to that. “Well, it must be pretty neat, though, having a mother in the Peace Corps.”
“Neat. That’s as good a word as any.” He looked bored as he went on. “And what else do you want to know? Let’s see. People usually want to know where I taught before, as if last year had anything to do with this year. Different schools. Different reluctant minds to pry open. Same parts of speech to pour in.” He let out an elaborate sigh. “At any rate, last year I taught in Cincinnati. My first position was in New York. I don’t like staying in one place for long.”
Jocie asked, “Why?”
“Why what?” He stopped twirling his pen and stared at her.
“Why don’t you like staying in one place for long?”
“I am a writer. A writer needs to experience new things, fill his mind with characters in all sorts of situations to people his stories. No doubt Hollyhill will help fill my reservoir of odd characters to the brim.”
“Is that why you are an English teacher—because you like to write?” Jocie glanced up at him from her scribbled notes. He was looking at her as if she’d just asked the dumbest question ever.
“I don’t like to write. I do write.” He sounded insulted as his eyes narrowed on her.
“Oh, okay. Sorry.” Jocie looked down at her notepad, but she could still feel him frowning at her. “What do you write?”
“Whatever my muse suggests. I doubt you even know what a muse is.”
“Your inspiration to write?” Jocie said.
“Go to the head of the class.” His frown was replaced with an amused look. “I’ll wager you have dreamed of being a writer yourself someday. Oh, the somedays that we might have.”
Jocie’s cheeks felt warm. She ducked her head and scribbled some notes as she answered, “I write for the newspaper already.” She wasn’t about to tell him about her journals and how she liked to write down people’s stories. He’d laugh for sure.
“So you do. Does your father give you bylines?”
“He probably will for this story,” Jocie said.
“Amazing. I’m the reason for a byline for a child of what? Thirteen? Fourteen?”
“Fourteen.” Jocie searched through her notes for a question to get the interview back to business. His business. She cleared her throat and asked, “So are you inspired to write stories? Or maybe poems?”
“Literature. I write literature.” He leaned forward in his chair and hit the end of his pen down hard on the pile of papers on his desk in front of him. Jocie couldn’t keep from jumping. “Shakespeare. Hemingway. Fitzgerald. Poe. They surely didn’t have to start out this way—marking papers. Alas, what depths a man must sink to before he reaches his destiny!”
For a moment Jocie thought he might leap up and start reciting Shakespeare or something. She shrank back in her seat. The man was strange. Plain and simple. Or not so simple. She licked her lips and managed to say, “Right.” Her eyes
He paused to take a breath, and Jocie said, “I’m sorry.” When he looked at her as if he didn’t know what she was talking about, she added, “For your father dying.”
“Why? Nobody else was. Certainly not me. He wasn’t a nice man.” He didn’t miss a twirl.
“Oh.” Jocie thought about saying she was sorry again— this time because his father wasn’t a nice man—but she decided against it. Instead she concentrated on writing down what he’d said while the silence in the room pushed against her ears. Finally she looked up and said, “And you say your mother is in the Peace Corps.”
“Oh yes. Inspired by our late president’s fiery oratory about asking what we can do for our country. God and country. I can almost hear the national anthem playing, can’t you? My dear mother always committed to the greater good. She never worried a lot about what the greater good was for those closest to her.”
“Oh,” Jocie said, not sure what he expected her to say to that. “Well, it must be pretty neat, though, having a mother in the Peace Corps.”
“Neat. That’s as good a word as any.” He looked bored as he went on. “And what else do you want to know? Let’s see. People usually want to know where I taught before, as if last year had anything to do with this year. Different schools. Different reluctant minds to pry open. Same parts of speech to pour in.” He let out an elaborate sigh. “At any rate, last year I taught in Cincinnati. My first position was in New York. I don’t like staying in one place for long.”
Jocie asked, “Why?”
“Why what?” He stopped twirling his pen and stared at her.
“Why don’t you like staying in one place for long?”
“I am a writer. A writer needs to experience new things, fill his mind with characters in all sorts of situations to people his stories. No doubt Hollyhill will help fill my reservoir of odd characters to the brim.”
“Is that why you are an English teacher—because you like to write?” Jocie glanced up at him from her scribbled notes. He was looking at her as if she’d just asked the dumbest question ever.
“I don’t like to write. I do write.” He sounded insulted as his eyes narrowed on her.
“Oh, okay. Sorry.” Jocie looked down at her notepad, but she could still feel him frowning at her. “What do you write?”
“Whatever my muse suggests. I doubt you even know what a muse is.”
“Your inspiration to write?” Jocie said.
“Go to the head of the class.” His frown was replaced with an amused look. “I’ll wager you have dreamed of being a writer yourself someday. Oh, the somedays that we might have.”
Jocie’s cheeks felt warm. She ducked her head and scribbled some notes as she answered, “I write for the newspaper already.” She wasn’t about to tell him about her journals and how she liked to write down people’s stories. He’d laugh for sure.
“So you do. Does your father give you bylines?”
“He probably will for this story,” Jocie said.
“Amazing. I’m the reason for a byline for a child of what? Thirteen? Fourteen?”
“Fourteen.” Jocie searched through her notes for a question to get the interview back to business. His business. She cleared her throat and asked, “So are you inspired to write stories? Or maybe poems?”
“Literature. I write literature.” He leaned forward in his chair and hit the end of his pen down hard on the pile of papers on his desk in front of him. Jocie couldn’t keep from jumping. “Shakespeare. Hemingway. Fitzgerald. Poe. They surely didn’t have to start out this way—marking papers. Alas, what depths a man must sink to before he reaches his destiny!”
For a moment Jocie thought he might leap up and start reciting Shakespeare or something. She shrank back in her seat. The man was strange. Plain and simple. Or not so simple. She licked her lips and managed to say, “Right.” Her eyes
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