Read Online The Coldest Night by Robert Olmstead - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Olmstead
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whispered.
“Where is better than here?” she asked, taking a step back.
“Maybe Texas. Maybe California.”
“But that’s so far from home,” she said.
“But isn’t that what we’re doing? Running away?”
“This love will take care of us.”
When words were no longer enough, they took up where they left off with their lovemaking and they stayed in New Orleans because for her it seemed far enough from home. Those days in New Orleans were half bronze and half dream—to be in love and to be loved forever, and to be taken care of by that love.
In the still hours of the morning, Mercy looked up from his shoulder and a scream caught in her throat. She pointed and he turned to see a man standing outside the window. The man was pointing at them and he was smiling. He wore the headgear of a jester and a multicolored suit festooned with white flickering lights. He was not standing on their balcony or propped to a ladder but was walking in the street.
“Look,” she said, her fright turning to laughter. “There’s a clown outside the window.”
She drew the sheet to cover her nakedness and Henry went to the opening in the wall where the lighted man stood. Outside was a man on stilts and there were dozens more and another man, smaller of stature, though who could know, and he was yelling at the stilt walkers through a megaphone trying to get them into some kind of order as if rehearsing for a parade. The stilt walker outside their window bowed contritely asking forgiveness. Henry nodded and the man smiled and stilt-walked his way into line.
That morning they came down from their rooms and entered into the Quarter. The air was thick and near to suffocating, so dense it was like a great stone inside his chest vying with his lungs for space. They entered a small chapel and there they were married and it became something they would do several more times for they found it to be a salutary experience.
When they returned, they sat on the balcony and ate oranges and grapefruit. Tank wagons came through with water hoses, washing the streets and raising up the sour smell of liquor and urine left from the night before, and crews of black men followed the trucks, sweeping water and trash and smell before them. Shortly after they passed by their balcony, the air was clean and the sun shone a little brighter.
“I think that’s a job I could do,” Henry said.
“Don’t be silly,” she said.
“Still,” he said, “I should ask.”
“If you were to ask to do such a job, not only would they turn you away, they would be suspicious.”
“But I ought to have a job.”
“I don’t want you working,” Mercy said, and explained that when he was away from her, her back would go to fire and her nerves would fray.
“Besides,” she said, “of late, I have considered giving up the act of walking and if I decide to I would need you here to carry me from room to room.”
“I’ll work at night while you sleep,” Henry said.
“Then who will watch over me? I want my husband to stay with me.”
“What about money?” Henry said.
“We have plenty of money, enough for both of us for a long time.”
“What happens when that runs out?”
“I have enough relatives who hate my father and they will give us what we need.”
O N MONDAYS THEY ate red beans and rice and in the afternoons they ate beignets and drank café au lait. There was a black man with blue cataracts who drew their portraits in charcoal for a dime. By day, the Quarter was alternately suffused with calmness and torrid heat, and the day was like a wetted rag with the scent of sugars and syrups, coffee and animal. In the evenings pastel shadows moved across the old brick, and slices of shadow appeared behind the wrought-iron balconies, dapples of shadows on the cobbles in the street. Some nights there were soldiers in the street. They would get drunk and begin fighting and be hauled off to the riot pens. Mercy would light candles and they’d lie awake,
“Where is better than here?” she asked, taking a step back.
“Maybe Texas. Maybe California.”
“But that’s so far from home,” she said.
“But isn’t that what we’re doing? Running away?”
“This love will take care of us.”
When words were no longer enough, they took up where they left off with their lovemaking and they stayed in New Orleans because for her it seemed far enough from home. Those days in New Orleans were half bronze and half dream—to be in love and to be loved forever, and to be taken care of by that love.
In the still hours of the morning, Mercy looked up from his shoulder and a scream caught in her throat. She pointed and he turned to see a man standing outside the window. The man was pointing at them and he was smiling. He wore the headgear of a jester and a multicolored suit festooned with white flickering lights. He was not standing on their balcony or propped to a ladder but was walking in the street.
“Look,” she said, her fright turning to laughter. “There’s a clown outside the window.”
She drew the sheet to cover her nakedness and Henry went to the opening in the wall where the lighted man stood. Outside was a man on stilts and there were dozens more and another man, smaller of stature, though who could know, and he was yelling at the stilt walkers through a megaphone trying to get them into some kind of order as if rehearsing for a parade. The stilt walker outside their window bowed contritely asking forgiveness. Henry nodded and the man smiled and stilt-walked his way into line.
That morning they came down from their rooms and entered into the Quarter. The air was thick and near to suffocating, so dense it was like a great stone inside his chest vying with his lungs for space. They entered a small chapel and there they were married and it became something they would do several more times for they found it to be a salutary experience.
When they returned, they sat on the balcony and ate oranges and grapefruit. Tank wagons came through with water hoses, washing the streets and raising up the sour smell of liquor and urine left from the night before, and crews of black men followed the trucks, sweeping water and trash and smell before them. Shortly after they passed by their balcony, the air was clean and the sun shone a little brighter.
“I think that’s a job I could do,” Henry said.
“Don’t be silly,” she said.
“Still,” he said, “I should ask.”
“If you were to ask to do such a job, not only would they turn you away, they would be suspicious.”
“But I ought to have a job.”
“I don’t want you working,” Mercy said, and explained that when he was away from her, her back would go to fire and her nerves would fray.
“Besides,” she said, “of late, I have considered giving up the act of walking and if I decide to I would need you here to carry me from room to room.”
“I’ll work at night while you sleep,” Henry said.
“Then who will watch over me? I want my husband to stay with me.”
“What about money?” Henry said.
“We have plenty of money, enough for both of us for a long time.”
“What happens when that runs out?”
“I have enough relatives who hate my father and they will give us what we need.”
O N MONDAYS THEY ate red beans and rice and in the afternoons they ate beignets and drank café au lait. There was a black man with blue cataracts who drew their portraits in charcoal for a dime. By day, the Quarter was alternately suffused with calmness and torrid heat, and the day was like a wetted rag with the scent of sugars and syrups, coffee and animal. In the evenings pastel shadows moved across the old brick, and slices of shadow appeared behind the wrought-iron balconies, dapples of shadows on the cobbles in the street. Some nights there were soldiers in the street. They would get drunk and begin fighting and be hauled off to the riot pens. Mercy would light candles and they’d lie awake,
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