Read Online The Dangerous Kind & Other Stories by Robert Chazz Chute - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Chazz Chute
Tags: Fiction
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herself. Either she would swim until she drowned or until she felt really clean. Soon the water would be all there was and she would leave everything behind her. Somewhere up ahead and hours away, the sun was reaching around the earth, coming for her and waking up the world to a new day.
Asia Minor escaped to the Atlantic. If she felt new and cleansed, if her mask fell away to the sea bottom, maybe she would have enough left in her for the swim back. The fiery reflections of the house on the hill chased her wake and she pushed harder. The stars were all the illumination she needed.
Soon the cold would lift the burden of conscious thought. Poeticule Bay would be far behind her, along with the weight of memory’s burden. She started to gasp and slowed her pace. She worked her arms and legs in a steady rhythm, pacing herself, going for distance. She felt lighter and lighter. She had the strength to keep going, straight toward the rushing, burning sun.
The unforgiving light was out there somewhere, crawling toward her, across the waves from the east. Soon everyone would wake up and read their newspapers and their web news and they would read her words. They’d see what she was, helpless underneath her mask. Marcus would know why she lied for so long, even to him. Everyone she had ever known—everyone who thought they knew Betty Jane Minor—would read her love letters to Uncle Joe.
Parting Shots
B efore he even opened his eyes, he groaned. Burt could feel himself pulled up from unconsciousness toward daylight and damnation. Genie was still dead and Audrey was still alive and now he’d have to deal with that all over again.
The clock radio blared and Marcus, the morning DJ, swam in behind his eyes and started prying his eyelids up. Burt rolled over, hoping Marcus would get to a song soon. However, instead of introducing a song Burt could retreat into, the radio guy was nattering. The radio’s tuning dial was slightly off. Through the static, Burt could tell it was the regular DJ, though Marcus didn’t sound like himself this morning.
A stab of sunlight poked into his brain through the torn curtain and he cursed as he rose from the bed unsteadily and made his way to the bathroom. For a moment, Burt thought he was going to fall but he caught hold of the podium sink, nearly ripping it from the wall. Wouldn’t that have been a terrible tragedy? Old man trapped under own sink! Nine of ten accidents happen in the home, so why not me ? It would be lonely, slowly dying under the weight of the sink, unable to get up. But dying would be an immense relief, too, wouldn’t it?
After an unsatisfactory squirt, Burt faced himself in the mirror. His eyelids were rimmed with bright pink and his nose looked like a tomato. He belched loudly and tasted gin. Gin made his stomach bleed. Good.
His bleeding stomach reminded him of Audrey in the hospital. She’d thrown up so much blood, he couldn’t figure how it was possible God had delivered him the tragic miracle. Now Audrey took pictures of elk somewhere in Banff National Park so Japanese tourists could have a never-ending supply of fresh postcards. Audrey. His good daughter. Healthy and whole and a great weight on his heart.
Genie had always been Audrey’s opposite. Audrey slept like an angel through the whole night from six weeks old. Genie had colic and seemed to keep it with her like a curse. Genie stayed cranky right up until her death.
Burt wondered if he should bother with the pretense of making coffee or pick up take-out java and pour in a little morning hooch? Or just take a bottle of 90 proof in each crepuscular hand and get on with it?
His father, Silas, drank himself to death. “Slow suicide is perfectly okay by the laws of man and nature,” his old man had said. “God gave us the grape and the barley and plenty of reasons to use ’em.” Silas always concluded that and similar pronouncements with, “Burt! You’re young
Asia Minor escaped to the Atlantic. If she felt new and cleansed, if her mask fell away to the sea bottom, maybe she would have enough left in her for the swim back. The fiery reflections of the house on the hill chased her wake and she pushed harder. The stars were all the illumination she needed.
Soon the cold would lift the burden of conscious thought. Poeticule Bay would be far behind her, along with the weight of memory’s burden. She started to gasp and slowed her pace. She worked her arms and legs in a steady rhythm, pacing herself, going for distance. She felt lighter and lighter. She had the strength to keep going, straight toward the rushing, burning sun.
The unforgiving light was out there somewhere, crawling toward her, across the waves from the east. Soon everyone would wake up and read their newspapers and their web news and they would read her words. They’d see what she was, helpless underneath her mask. Marcus would know why she lied for so long, even to him. Everyone she had ever known—everyone who thought they knew Betty Jane Minor—would read her love letters to Uncle Joe.
Parting Shots
B efore he even opened his eyes, he groaned. Burt could feel himself pulled up from unconsciousness toward daylight and damnation. Genie was still dead and Audrey was still alive and now he’d have to deal with that all over again.
The clock radio blared and Marcus, the morning DJ, swam in behind his eyes and started prying his eyelids up. Burt rolled over, hoping Marcus would get to a song soon. However, instead of introducing a song Burt could retreat into, the radio guy was nattering. The radio’s tuning dial was slightly off. Through the static, Burt could tell it was the regular DJ, though Marcus didn’t sound like himself this morning.
A stab of sunlight poked into his brain through the torn curtain and he cursed as he rose from the bed unsteadily and made his way to the bathroom. For a moment, Burt thought he was going to fall but he caught hold of the podium sink, nearly ripping it from the wall. Wouldn’t that have been a terrible tragedy? Old man trapped under own sink! Nine of ten accidents happen in the home, so why not me ? It would be lonely, slowly dying under the weight of the sink, unable to get up. But dying would be an immense relief, too, wouldn’t it?
After an unsatisfactory squirt, Burt faced himself in the mirror. His eyelids were rimmed with bright pink and his nose looked like a tomato. He belched loudly and tasted gin. Gin made his stomach bleed. Good.
His bleeding stomach reminded him of Audrey in the hospital. She’d thrown up so much blood, he couldn’t figure how it was possible God had delivered him the tragic miracle. Now Audrey took pictures of elk somewhere in Banff National Park so Japanese tourists could have a never-ending supply of fresh postcards. Audrey. His good daughter. Healthy and whole and a great weight on his heart.
Genie had always been Audrey’s opposite. Audrey slept like an angel through the whole night from six weeks old. Genie had colic and seemed to keep it with her like a curse. Genie stayed cranky right up until her death.
Burt wondered if he should bother with the pretense of making coffee or pick up take-out java and pour in a little morning hooch? Or just take a bottle of 90 proof in each crepuscular hand and get on with it?
His father, Silas, drank himself to death. “Slow suicide is perfectly okay by the laws of man and nature,” his old man had said. “God gave us the grape and the barley and plenty of reasons to use ’em.” Silas always concluded that and similar pronouncements with, “Burt! You’re young
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