Read Online The Age of Miracles by Karen Thompson Walker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Thompson Walker
Tags: Fiction
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everything.”
Ruth was my grandmother’s younger sister. She lived on the East Coast.
“No, thanks, Grandpa,” I said. I hoped he wouldn’t notice that I wasn’t wearing my gold nugget necklace. “You should keep your stuff.”
Before the arthritis, he used to spend his mornings at the beach running a metal detector over the sand, hunting for coins and treasure in the dunes. But now he’d grown eager to hand off his things, as if the weight of his possessions kept him tethered to this earth and, by giving them away, he could snip those strings.
He stood up from his chair and shuffled to the counter for another cup of coffee. He stood at the window. My mother was pacing out there, making hand motions while she talked on the phone. The wind was blowing her hair all to one side, and she kept brushing it out of her face.
“Did I ever tell you that I seen a guy killed out there in that yard once?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“He wasn’t more than seventeen,” he said, shaking his head. “A horse trampled right over top of him.”
“That’s terrible,” I said.
“It sure was.”
My grandfather nodded slightly as if to underline the thought. He had a vast memory for awful things. Somewhere farther back in the house, I could hear a faucet dripping.
“This whole thing reminds me of when I worked in Alaska,” he said. Alaska was one of his favorite subjects. “We had sun all day and all night in the summer. We had sun at two in the morning. The sun never went down. Not for weeks. And then in the winter, it was pitch-dark all day every day for two or three months.… ”
He trailed off. I noticed a television satellite wobbling on a nearby roof, barely visible through the pine trees. I could smell a hint of smoke in the air.
“This whole thing is bullshit, believe me,” he said. “I just can’t figure how.”
“You really think so?”
He looked at me with a serious, steady gaze.
“Do you know that in 1958 the United States government began running a secret nuclear test program right here in this county?” he said. “They were testing the effects of nuclear substances on regular people. They were putting uranium in the water and then monitoring the cancer rates. Have you ever heard that?”
I shook my head. Somewhere under his backyard, a bomb shelter lay abandoned. My grandfather had built it himself in the sixties.
“Of course you haven’t,” he said. “That’s the way they like it. That’s exactly how they like it.”
A gust of wind whooshed past the back of the house, carrying a paper bag past the window.
“Have your mother and dad been taking you to church?” he asked.
“We go sometimes,” I said.
“You should go every week,” he said. He picked up a pair of tiny boots encased in a skin of tarnished silver. “You want these?”
“That’s okay,” I said.
“These were my shoes when I was four years old. Don’t you want anything around here?”
I could hear the labor of his lungs as he breathed, the sound of his air whistling through narrowing passageways.
“Wait a minute. I know what you’d like.” He pointed to a low cupboard on the far side of the kitchen and instructed me to kneel down on the floor. “Now reach all the way inside,” he directed. “Feel that?”
“What?”
I was up to my shoulder in the cupboard. The linoleum was pressing its paisley pattern uncomfortably into my kneecaps. But I didn’t want to hurt him, so I kept going.
“It’s a false back, see?” he said. “Slide it to the right.”
In my grandfather’s house, a cereal box was never full of cereal; soup cans almost always contained a substance more precious than soup. It’s no wonder he believed so fiercely in forces unseen. Behind the false back of the cupboard stood a row of coffee cans, so old I didn’t recognize the labels.
“The Folgers can,” he said. “Give it here.”
He pulled at the lid, wincing. He seemed weaker than usual.
“Let me do it,” I
Ruth was my grandmother’s younger sister. She lived on the East Coast.
“No, thanks, Grandpa,” I said. I hoped he wouldn’t notice that I wasn’t wearing my gold nugget necklace. “You should keep your stuff.”
Before the arthritis, he used to spend his mornings at the beach running a metal detector over the sand, hunting for coins and treasure in the dunes. But now he’d grown eager to hand off his things, as if the weight of his possessions kept him tethered to this earth and, by giving them away, he could snip those strings.
He stood up from his chair and shuffled to the counter for another cup of coffee. He stood at the window. My mother was pacing out there, making hand motions while she talked on the phone. The wind was blowing her hair all to one side, and she kept brushing it out of her face.
“Did I ever tell you that I seen a guy killed out there in that yard once?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“He wasn’t more than seventeen,” he said, shaking his head. “A horse trampled right over top of him.”
“That’s terrible,” I said.
“It sure was.”
My grandfather nodded slightly as if to underline the thought. He had a vast memory for awful things. Somewhere farther back in the house, I could hear a faucet dripping.
“This whole thing reminds me of when I worked in Alaska,” he said. Alaska was one of his favorite subjects. “We had sun all day and all night in the summer. We had sun at two in the morning. The sun never went down. Not for weeks. And then in the winter, it was pitch-dark all day every day for two or three months.… ”
He trailed off. I noticed a television satellite wobbling on a nearby roof, barely visible through the pine trees. I could smell a hint of smoke in the air.
“This whole thing is bullshit, believe me,” he said. “I just can’t figure how.”
“You really think so?”
He looked at me with a serious, steady gaze.
“Do you know that in 1958 the United States government began running a secret nuclear test program right here in this county?” he said. “They were testing the effects of nuclear substances on regular people. They were putting uranium in the water and then monitoring the cancer rates. Have you ever heard that?”
I shook my head. Somewhere under his backyard, a bomb shelter lay abandoned. My grandfather had built it himself in the sixties.
“Of course you haven’t,” he said. “That’s the way they like it. That’s exactly how they like it.”
A gust of wind whooshed past the back of the house, carrying a paper bag past the window.
“Have your mother and dad been taking you to church?” he asked.
“We go sometimes,” I said.
“You should go every week,” he said. He picked up a pair of tiny boots encased in a skin of tarnished silver. “You want these?”
“That’s okay,” I said.
“These were my shoes when I was four years old. Don’t you want anything around here?”
I could hear the labor of his lungs as he breathed, the sound of his air whistling through narrowing passageways.
“Wait a minute. I know what you’d like.” He pointed to a low cupboard on the far side of the kitchen and instructed me to kneel down on the floor. “Now reach all the way inside,” he directed. “Feel that?”
“What?”
I was up to my shoulder in the cupboard. The linoleum was pressing its paisley pattern uncomfortably into my kneecaps. But I didn’t want to hurt him, so I kept going.
“It’s a false back, see?” he said. “Slide it to the right.”
In my grandfather’s house, a cereal box was never full of cereal; soup cans almost always contained a substance more precious than soup. It’s no wonder he believed so fiercely in forces unseen. Behind the false back of the cupboard stood a row of coffee cans, so old I didn’t recognize the labels.
“The Folgers can,” he said. “Give it here.”
He pulled at the lid, wincing. He seemed weaker than usual.
“Let me do it,” I
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