Read Online Texas Summer by Terry Southern - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Terry Southern
Ads: Link
something,” said Harold, and he tried to catch a doodlebug crawling on a bluebonnet that grew alone between them, but he missed it. So Lawrence bent the flower itself over, to get the stinger to penetrate the stem. “It’ll kill it,” he said. “It’s acid.”
Lawrence held the tail of the hornet tightly between his thumb and finger, squeezing to get more of the stinger out, until it came out too far and stopped moving — and Lawrence, still squeezing, slowly emptied the body of its white filling. Some of it went on his finger. Lawrence smelled it, then he let Harold smell it before he wiped his finger on the grass.
They each lit another cigarette. Big Lawrence threw the match in the water, and a minute after it had floated out, took up the .243, drew a bead, and clipped it just below the burnt head.
“Why?” he asked Harold, handing him the rifle. “Are you goin’ to the show tonight?”
“I might,” Harold said.
“Yeah, but have you got a date?”
“I reckon I could get one,” said Harold, working the bolt.
“I’ve got one with Helen Ward,” said Lawrence.
Harold sighted along the rifle.
“You know her sister?” Lawrence asked.
“Who, Louise?”
“Sure, maybe we could get ’em drunk.”
Harold held his breath, steadying the rifle. Then he took a shot. “Sure I know her,” he said.
They shot water targets, with the rifle, Harold using up the shots Lawrence owed him. Once, however, after he dug an old condensed-milk can out of the bank and sat it afloat on the water, Lawrence took up the shotgun and held the muzzle about a foot from the can.
“TNT,” he said, and pulled the trigger. “Hot damn!”
They sat there for an hour, talking a little and smoking, shooting at crawfish and dragonflies, or underwater rocks that shone through flat yellow or, more often, dull dead brown.
Then they heard the train, the whistle, distant and ghostly.
“Come on,” said Lawrence, tight-lipped.
They left the guns and climbed the bank up to the trestle — to the understructure of it, a labyrinthine tangle of creosote beams, crisscrossed and jutting out abruptly where it had been repaired and shored up over many years, the Tinkertoy work of a mad child.
Under the tracks now, they moved spiderlike through the angled beams toward the middle of the span. The whistle of the train sounded again, closer now — and, beneath their hands and feet, along their arms and legs, whenever their bodies touched the wood of the trestle, they felt the tremor of the approaching train.
At a point near the middle, where two beams crossed about four feet directly beneath the tracks, they stopped, crouching, each with one foot in the V where the beams bisected, their hands grasping the tie above them that separated the tracks. They could tell from the increasing tremor of the structure how much closer the train was — about the length of a football field — and now they could hear the train itself, the rumble of it, still distant, almost peaceful, like a drowsing bull.
Big Lawrence turned, his face flushed almost crimson, so that his grin was strangely incongruous. “ Don’t fergit! ” he said.
“I won’t,” said Harold.
They waited a few seconds more...three, four, five...“Now!” said Lawrence, and they raised their heads up between the tracks so that their chins were resting on the tie.
Even before he looked at the train, Harold was aware how Lawrence, without turning his head, had cut his eyes over quickly to make sure that Harold’s chin was on the railroad tie, the way it was supposed to be, thrusting forward, throat pressing into the wood — and his eyes open. In this position, the tops of their heads were about two inches higher than the rails themselves, and their faces toward the oncoming train.
What Harold saw was like a scene in a movie when the camera is shooting up at an angle from the floor, magnifying and distorting — the locomotive — now in extreme close-up, the lower part
Lawrence held the tail of the hornet tightly between his thumb and finger, squeezing to get more of the stinger out, until it came out too far and stopped moving — and Lawrence, still squeezing, slowly emptied the body of its white filling. Some of it went on his finger. Lawrence smelled it, then he let Harold smell it before he wiped his finger on the grass.
They each lit another cigarette. Big Lawrence threw the match in the water, and a minute after it had floated out, took up the .243, drew a bead, and clipped it just below the burnt head.
“Why?” he asked Harold, handing him the rifle. “Are you goin’ to the show tonight?”
“I might,” Harold said.
“Yeah, but have you got a date?”
“I reckon I could get one,” said Harold, working the bolt.
“I’ve got one with Helen Ward,” said Lawrence.
Harold sighted along the rifle.
“You know her sister?” Lawrence asked.
“Who, Louise?”
“Sure, maybe we could get ’em drunk.”
Harold held his breath, steadying the rifle. Then he took a shot. “Sure I know her,” he said.
They shot water targets, with the rifle, Harold using up the shots Lawrence owed him. Once, however, after he dug an old condensed-milk can out of the bank and sat it afloat on the water, Lawrence took up the shotgun and held the muzzle about a foot from the can.
“TNT,” he said, and pulled the trigger. “Hot damn!”
They sat there for an hour, talking a little and smoking, shooting at crawfish and dragonflies, or underwater rocks that shone through flat yellow or, more often, dull dead brown.
Then they heard the train, the whistle, distant and ghostly.
“Come on,” said Lawrence, tight-lipped.
They left the guns and climbed the bank up to the trestle — to the understructure of it, a labyrinthine tangle of creosote beams, crisscrossed and jutting out abruptly where it had been repaired and shored up over many years, the Tinkertoy work of a mad child.
Under the tracks now, they moved spiderlike through the angled beams toward the middle of the span. The whistle of the train sounded again, closer now — and, beneath their hands and feet, along their arms and legs, whenever their bodies touched the wood of the trestle, they felt the tremor of the approaching train.
At a point near the middle, where two beams crossed about four feet directly beneath the tracks, they stopped, crouching, each with one foot in the V where the beams bisected, their hands grasping the tie above them that separated the tracks. They could tell from the increasing tremor of the structure how much closer the train was — about the length of a football field — and now they could hear the train itself, the rumble of it, still distant, almost peaceful, like a drowsing bull.
Big Lawrence turned, his face flushed almost crimson, so that his grin was strangely incongruous. “ Don’t fergit! ” he said.
“I won’t,” said Harold.
They waited a few seconds more...three, four, five...“Now!” said Lawrence, and they raised their heads up between the tracks so that their chins were resting on the tie.
Even before he looked at the train, Harold was aware how Lawrence, without turning his head, had cut his eyes over quickly to make sure that Harold’s chin was on the railroad tie, the way it was supposed to be, thrusting forward, throat pressing into the wood — and his eyes open. In this position, the tops of their heads were about two inches higher than the rails themselves, and their faces toward the oncoming train.
What Harold saw was like a scene in a movie when the camera is shooting up at an angle from the floor, magnifying and distorting — the locomotive — now in extreme close-up, the lower part
Similar Books
