Read Online The End of Always: A Novel by Randi Davenport - Free Book Online
Authors: Randi Davenport
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sun passed behind the great slope of clouds and the grass flattened and the first large drops of rain came.
Now I walked up and down in the street in the cold shadow of the courthouse. It had courtrooms above and offices below. Down a set of gray granite steps that must have been quarried just west of town where the earth gave up stone in slabs, the words Police Station were painted in an arc on a set of frosted glass doors, Police on one side, Station on the other. I watched a thickset man in a black coat come up the steps and square his hat and then unwrap the reins for his horse from the hitching rail and lead the horse down the street.
I turned my face to the sky. “Help me,” I said. Someone passing by might have thought I was talking to myself or to no one in particular or maybe even to God, since my words sounded so much like a prayer. But of course none of that would be true and certainly not the idea that I would talk to God. I was talking to my mother, whom I imagined stayed somewhere where she could see me still. I did not really believe this but I told myself it was true so that I would not feel so alone.
My father killed my mother. I tried the words out under my breath, as if I already stood in front of a policeman behind a counter, as if he had a pencil in his hand and was ready to take down the things I said. I had to imagine myself speaking at all, for I was not sure I would be able to say anything, even if I was sure I knew what the words should be. All at once I imagined my father in his jail cell, weeping. I thought of the terrible pain I would feel, to see him there and in his suffering know that I was the cause. Even in the bright light of day, that picture caused a searing sensation in my chest. I wrapped my arms around my waist and felt tears start behind my eyes. I angrily brushed them away. Girls were taught to appeal to men in all things, but I could not be two things at once, not the angel of justice of whom I dreamt, and not my father’s daughter to boot. No one could do that.
Men were out having lunch and some of them looked curiously at me as they passed by. I slipped on a slick of ice and steadied myself.
Up on a hill, men climbed among the raw yellow beams of a new house, knocking boards together. The coppery smell of snow came on the wind and the choked rumble of the interurban unfurled across town and blue clouds incandescent in a wash of sunlight brightened overhead. I was surprised to see construction going on when the day was cold and the earth was frozen, but I realized the foundation had already been set and the men worked in the rafters. Walking one of the planks, a boy with dark hair and light eyes, who balanced perfectly and then jumped from the joist to the ground.
He wore the same canvas pants he was wearing the day he carried my mother into the house. I tried to recollect where he had touched her, whether under shoulder bone or hip bone, her body a parcel that did not belong to him. But all I remembered was the way he turned to look at me as he backed out through the door, the last of the men to disappear in the shimmering heat.
Now some trick of sunlight made his face seem luminous. The wind ruffled his hair. He looked up from his board and patted his pockets as if he was searching for something. Then he caught sight of me and a look of surprise came over his face. He held up his hand. “Fräulein,” he called. “Wait.”
No one called me fräulein. Not even my mother, who otherwise thought it might be useful for me to learn the ways of an island I had never seen and that had already passed into history. I lived in America. I was born here. This was a place where all men were said to be created equal and therefore entitled to be free. I took these ideas seriously. The word fräulein belonged to some other girl, and I looked over my shoulder as if I expected her to come up behind me.
The boy trotted down the hillside and stood in front of me. He pushed his black
Now I walked up and down in the street in the cold shadow of the courthouse. It had courtrooms above and offices below. Down a set of gray granite steps that must have been quarried just west of town where the earth gave up stone in slabs, the words Police Station were painted in an arc on a set of frosted glass doors, Police on one side, Station on the other. I watched a thickset man in a black coat come up the steps and square his hat and then unwrap the reins for his horse from the hitching rail and lead the horse down the street.
I turned my face to the sky. “Help me,” I said. Someone passing by might have thought I was talking to myself or to no one in particular or maybe even to God, since my words sounded so much like a prayer. But of course none of that would be true and certainly not the idea that I would talk to God. I was talking to my mother, whom I imagined stayed somewhere where she could see me still. I did not really believe this but I told myself it was true so that I would not feel so alone.
My father killed my mother. I tried the words out under my breath, as if I already stood in front of a policeman behind a counter, as if he had a pencil in his hand and was ready to take down the things I said. I had to imagine myself speaking at all, for I was not sure I would be able to say anything, even if I was sure I knew what the words should be. All at once I imagined my father in his jail cell, weeping. I thought of the terrible pain I would feel, to see him there and in his suffering know that I was the cause. Even in the bright light of day, that picture caused a searing sensation in my chest. I wrapped my arms around my waist and felt tears start behind my eyes. I angrily brushed them away. Girls were taught to appeal to men in all things, but I could not be two things at once, not the angel of justice of whom I dreamt, and not my father’s daughter to boot. No one could do that.
Men were out having lunch and some of them looked curiously at me as they passed by. I slipped on a slick of ice and steadied myself.
Up on a hill, men climbed among the raw yellow beams of a new house, knocking boards together. The coppery smell of snow came on the wind and the choked rumble of the interurban unfurled across town and blue clouds incandescent in a wash of sunlight brightened overhead. I was surprised to see construction going on when the day was cold and the earth was frozen, but I realized the foundation had already been set and the men worked in the rafters. Walking one of the planks, a boy with dark hair and light eyes, who balanced perfectly and then jumped from the joist to the ground.
He wore the same canvas pants he was wearing the day he carried my mother into the house. I tried to recollect where he had touched her, whether under shoulder bone or hip bone, her body a parcel that did not belong to him. But all I remembered was the way he turned to look at me as he backed out through the door, the last of the men to disappear in the shimmering heat.
Now some trick of sunlight made his face seem luminous. The wind ruffled his hair. He looked up from his board and patted his pockets as if he was searching for something. Then he caught sight of me and a look of surprise came over his face. He held up his hand. “Fräulein,” he called. “Wait.”
No one called me fräulein. Not even my mother, who otherwise thought it might be useful for me to learn the ways of an island I had never seen and that had already passed into history. I lived in America. I was born here. This was a place where all men were said to be created equal and therefore entitled to be free. I took these ideas seriously. The word fräulein belonged to some other girl, and I looked over my shoulder as if I expected her to come up behind me.
The boy trotted down the hillside and stood in front of me. He pushed his black
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