Read Online Tampico (James A. Michener Fiction Series) by Toby Olson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Toby Olson
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chicken light on a long cord and a place to hang it near the door, and as they stood admiring their work, his mother called out, and they turned and saw the young man trudging up the rutted drive.
It was 1920, and his father had lost everything in horses in Lexington and his mother had lost the proper family she imagined they were becoming. His father had kept enough to buy the collapsing house and the ten acres and the truck that came with it, and he’d taken up the hauling of anything that was available for hauling and that he could lift, and Frank had quit school in his third year and went to work fixing up the house. His father had a wicker rocking chair he’d salvaged and a place for it, under a large old oak on a hill in sight of the house, and Frank would watch from the porch as he sat and rocked there and looked back in the direction of Lexington a good hour away. He’dsip from a bottle and at times would raise his fist to his mouth and press his knuckles between his teeth. They worked together on weekends, and at times Frank would go out in the truck with him, but they had very little to say to one another, almost nothing, and Frank did most of his talking with his mother, listening mostly to her stories of their horsey past and their ascendance in a time he was too young to remember and the things she had planned for this “new” house. She put no time limit on the accomplishment of her vivid images, since there was no money and little hope for it, which was something she avoided mentioning.
The young man was dusty and hatless and the sweaty creases in his brow and cheeks were sharpened by wet dust and he looked older than he was. He needed to wash up, he said, and if there was any work around the place he’d do that, for food, and if there was more to do he could stay on for a while, just for a bed and meals. Frank had moved down from the coop, and the young man looked over at him where he stood below the porch. He said his name was Adam, what’s yours?, and Frank’s mother looked up the hill to where his father stood at the coop’s side, and when Frank turned he saw his father nod, and in that nod he saw his disengagement, knowing even then that things were heading toward some ending.
There was plenty to do around the place. The roof leaked, windows hung in rotted frames, the useless barn was a hazard in its tilting and needed dismantling. The house sat below a hill, and rain had flooded down exposing two feet of stone foundation. They needed a runoff trench, and the earth was thick clay after a few inches and a shovel would hardly touch it. Only a pickaxe.
The young man worked hard, and this caused Frank to work even harder. Frank’s mother brought tea out in a jug to darken on the porch, and she watched the young man work, and when Frank moved into her line of vision she seemed to look past him. He knew very little of passion then, almost nothing, but he knew of a kind of absence and had never seen his parents touch each other. His mother, he thought, was in the wrong life, but then his father was too, and he thought that were they to find the right ones they wouldn’t be the same. She took to wearing a kerchief in her hair, a little makeup on her lids, and at dinner he noticed her pared nails when she passed the plates and bowls. The wrong life, he thought. It should be the horsey set, those dresses like soft bells and lawn parties and English saddles, nothing she’d ever had in actuality, though she’d seen it across fences, but a world in yearning, so actual she could almost taste and touch it.
He was heading up to the coop for candling. His father had a two-day-trip job, the moving of farm equipment over in the west side of the state, near Sturgis, and he’d set out with him, but had climbed off at Wilmore. The truck’s cab was close, and there were flies and mosquitoes in it, and a smell of scorched oil came up through the vents and burned in his nostrils, and he got sick to his stomach
It was 1920, and his father had lost everything in horses in Lexington and his mother had lost the proper family she imagined they were becoming. His father had kept enough to buy the collapsing house and the ten acres and the truck that came with it, and he’d taken up the hauling of anything that was available for hauling and that he could lift, and Frank had quit school in his third year and went to work fixing up the house. His father had a wicker rocking chair he’d salvaged and a place for it, under a large old oak on a hill in sight of the house, and Frank would watch from the porch as he sat and rocked there and looked back in the direction of Lexington a good hour away. He’dsip from a bottle and at times would raise his fist to his mouth and press his knuckles between his teeth. They worked together on weekends, and at times Frank would go out in the truck with him, but they had very little to say to one another, almost nothing, and Frank did most of his talking with his mother, listening mostly to her stories of their horsey past and their ascendance in a time he was too young to remember and the things she had planned for this “new” house. She put no time limit on the accomplishment of her vivid images, since there was no money and little hope for it, which was something she avoided mentioning.
The young man was dusty and hatless and the sweaty creases in his brow and cheeks were sharpened by wet dust and he looked older than he was. He needed to wash up, he said, and if there was any work around the place he’d do that, for food, and if there was more to do he could stay on for a while, just for a bed and meals. Frank had moved down from the coop, and the young man looked over at him where he stood below the porch. He said his name was Adam, what’s yours?, and Frank’s mother looked up the hill to where his father stood at the coop’s side, and when Frank turned he saw his father nod, and in that nod he saw his disengagement, knowing even then that things were heading toward some ending.
There was plenty to do around the place. The roof leaked, windows hung in rotted frames, the useless barn was a hazard in its tilting and needed dismantling. The house sat below a hill, and rain had flooded down exposing two feet of stone foundation. They needed a runoff trench, and the earth was thick clay after a few inches and a shovel would hardly touch it. Only a pickaxe.
The young man worked hard, and this caused Frank to work even harder. Frank’s mother brought tea out in a jug to darken on the porch, and she watched the young man work, and when Frank moved into her line of vision she seemed to look past him. He knew very little of passion then, almost nothing, but he knew of a kind of absence and had never seen his parents touch each other. His mother, he thought, was in the wrong life, but then his father was too, and he thought that were they to find the right ones they wouldn’t be the same. She took to wearing a kerchief in her hair, a little makeup on her lids, and at dinner he noticed her pared nails when she passed the plates and bowls. The wrong life, he thought. It should be the horsey set, those dresses like soft bells and lawn parties and English saddles, nothing she’d ever had in actuality, though she’d seen it across fences, but a world in yearning, so actual she could almost taste and touch it.
He was heading up to the coop for candling. His father had a two-day-trip job, the moving of farm equipment over in the west side of the state, near Sturgis, and he’d set out with him, but had climbed off at Wilmore. The truck’s cab was close, and there were flies and mosquitoes in it, and a smell of scorched oil came up through the vents and burned in his nostrils, and he got sick to his stomach
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