Read Online The Coldest Night by Robert Olmstead - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Olmstead
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in the warm sultry air, the darkness like velvet. He thought how far from home, from the stables, from the mountain, from the Gaylen horse.
“Not yet,” she said, and told him they needed to wait a little bit longer and pick up a key.
Chapter 11
I N N EW O RLEANS THERE was a second-floor apartment owned by an old woman, a relation of Mercy’s with whom she’d conspired to make her escape. They entered a courtyard and went down a cindered path. They entered again and waited in a high-ceilinged foyer until the door cracked open. The caretaker, a gray-haired woman, had glasses that magnified her eyes. When Mercy explained who they were, she smiled and let them in. She told them she was expecting them.
Inside the paint was peeling and the plaster spalling. The floor was stained with watermarks and the carpets were mildewed and pitted with cigarette burns. When she returned with the keys, she told Mercy she’d cleaned and stocked the pantry and the icebox. The linens were fresh and if she needed anything, anything at all, just to come by and she would see to it. She handed Mercy an envelope that was addressed to her. Inside there was an affectionate letter from her aunt with a number of hundred-dollar bills in the fold.
The door to their apartment was painted red. Henry fitted the key in the lock and turned and pushed it open. The apartment they entered was painted gold with white wainscoting, the curtains violet, the scrims transparent. Upholstered in pale matching silks were two sofas, two armchairs, and four side chairs and a center table.
Their rooms had tall palladium windows, storm shutters, and a balcony with a railing and there were flowerpots in the corners. In their upstairs rooms, the floor was covered with sweetgrass and there were sachets of honeysuckle in every drawer. The bedroom was a painted mural, bowers of full-blown roses. There was a canopy bed, a bureau, and a highboy. There were votive candles in the cupboards to light, to keep them dry of mildew. All about the rooms were Chinese porcelains encircled with dragons, marble statues slim in head, throat, and feet. There were mirrors framed in flames or shell-like curves, or wrapped in reeds and palms, a wall clock entwined in leafy melting branches. Where the sweetgrass separated, the floor was sticky to their feet and the soles of their shoes peeled with each step. The rooms were the spirit of a merely beautiful world: gilded, disfigured, and enchanted. They were softness and prettiness, the scene of their new existence. It smelled like brown sugar and they had a view of churches through the spreading.
Over the days she applied a salve and Henry’s burns healed. In the closets were lace and antique clothes, satin high heels, bias-cut slinks, a black and ivory satin halter gown, chiffon bedroom coats and jackets. Mercy tried them on one by one and sashayed about the rooms, her head held high. The clothes caressed the curves of her body and rippled when she walked and it was as if she were clothed in water.
These fashion shows were the prelude to making love and at this they were very good. They would go until their hips were bruised and their bodies were thinned and dry and tasted salty. The room dark and hot and Mercy in a white slip and wearing lipstick, the sun setting down the east wall. He watched her as she sat on the tub wall and lifted her skirt to unclasp her stockings and slide them down her legs. Then she stood and, with her skirt still raised, slid her garter belt over her hips. At the sink she washed out her stockings and hung them over the shower curtain.
“What did you do today?” she said.
“I wandered about some.”
“What did you see?”
“I watched a dog eat a bee,” he said.
With a pick he chipped ice and filled tall glasses with the shards. Mercy draped her arms over his shoulders. The scrims lifted in a brief wind and then settled as he quartered and divided again a lemon.
“Let’s move on,” Henry
“Not yet,” she said, and told him they needed to wait a little bit longer and pick up a key.
Chapter 11
I N N EW O RLEANS THERE was a second-floor apartment owned by an old woman, a relation of Mercy’s with whom she’d conspired to make her escape. They entered a courtyard and went down a cindered path. They entered again and waited in a high-ceilinged foyer until the door cracked open. The caretaker, a gray-haired woman, had glasses that magnified her eyes. When Mercy explained who they were, she smiled and let them in. She told them she was expecting them.
Inside the paint was peeling and the plaster spalling. The floor was stained with watermarks and the carpets were mildewed and pitted with cigarette burns. When she returned with the keys, she told Mercy she’d cleaned and stocked the pantry and the icebox. The linens were fresh and if she needed anything, anything at all, just to come by and she would see to it. She handed Mercy an envelope that was addressed to her. Inside there was an affectionate letter from her aunt with a number of hundred-dollar bills in the fold.
The door to their apartment was painted red. Henry fitted the key in the lock and turned and pushed it open. The apartment they entered was painted gold with white wainscoting, the curtains violet, the scrims transparent. Upholstered in pale matching silks were two sofas, two armchairs, and four side chairs and a center table.
Their rooms had tall palladium windows, storm shutters, and a balcony with a railing and there were flowerpots in the corners. In their upstairs rooms, the floor was covered with sweetgrass and there were sachets of honeysuckle in every drawer. The bedroom was a painted mural, bowers of full-blown roses. There was a canopy bed, a bureau, and a highboy. There were votive candles in the cupboards to light, to keep them dry of mildew. All about the rooms were Chinese porcelains encircled with dragons, marble statues slim in head, throat, and feet. There were mirrors framed in flames or shell-like curves, or wrapped in reeds and palms, a wall clock entwined in leafy melting branches. Where the sweetgrass separated, the floor was sticky to their feet and the soles of their shoes peeled with each step. The rooms were the spirit of a merely beautiful world: gilded, disfigured, and enchanted. They were softness and prettiness, the scene of their new existence. It smelled like brown sugar and they had a view of churches through the spreading.
Over the days she applied a salve and Henry’s burns healed. In the closets were lace and antique clothes, satin high heels, bias-cut slinks, a black and ivory satin halter gown, chiffon bedroom coats and jackets. Mercy tried them on one by one and sashayed about the rooms, her head held high. The clothes caressed the curves of her body and rippled when she walked and it was as if she were clothed in water.
These fashion shows were the prelude to making love and at this they were very good. They would go until their hips were bruised and their bodies were thinned and dry and tasted salty. The room dark and hot and Mercy in a white slip and wearing lipstick, the sun setting down the east wall. He watched her as she sat on the tub wall and lifted her skirt to unclasp her stockings and slide them down her legs. Then she stood and, with her skirt still raised, slid her garter belt over her hips. At the sink she washed out her stockings and hung them over the shower curtain.
“What did you do today?” she said.
“I wandered about some.”
“What did you see?”
“I watched a dog eat a bee,” he said.
With a pick he chipped ice and filled tall glasses with the shards. Mercy draped her arms over his shoulders. The scrims lifted in a brief wind and then settled as he quartered and divided again a lemon.
“Let’s move on,” Henry
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