Read Online The End of Always: A Novel by Randi Davenport - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Randi Davenport
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opposite. He smiled again and brushed my hair back with his bare fingers as if he was already familiar with every part of me.
He leaned toward me. “I know you won’t believe me,” he said softly. “But I remember you.”
A man stepped around the corner of the house. He held a hammer over his head and he waved it in the air. “Augie,” he yelled. “Hey, Augie.”
I looked up at August. “Augie,” I said. I smiled. But my skin felt as if it had been stretched too tight. I already held August’s name like an ache I wanted to touch again and again.
He grimaced and shook his head. Then, very tenderly, he cupped my cheek with his palm, his hand heavy and steady, and I leaned in until I was nothing but that hand, that weight.
“I wanted to help you,” he said. He paused as if he could not find the right words. Then he brushed my hair back again and dropped his hand to his side. “It bothered me,” he said at last. “It bothered me a lot.”
I tried to picture August thinking of me, but I could not picture the look on my face when I saw him with my mother in his arms. I could only know the sound of my mother’s terrible cry. The rest ran away.
In the far distance, a crow called. A second crow answered. Two for joy , I thought, and my chest lifted in just the way it would if something inside had come alive. August stepped closer and I pushed at my hair and then I smiled at him and reached over and took his hand. He gripped my fingers hard and looked down at me with a look so raw that I thought I might fall to my knees. We stood like that for a moment, but then the man up at the house yelled August’s name again and I knew I had to get back to work. Still we did not move. After a time, a faint whirl of snow showered down around us. The snowflakes sparkled like glass.
When I lay in bed that night, I could hear Martha pacing the floor. Up. Back. Again. Again. It seemed impossible for a thin person to have such a heavy foot but she did, as if with each step she could stamp the thing that ailed her out of existence. I listened for a long time. I knew she was thinking of George. I knew she was the one of us who always obeyed. I knew she got no reward for that, either.
No one knows why we are drawn to the ones we love. Perhaps the things that happen to us when we are children explain everything that comes later. Perhaps after all the mistaken ideas our parents have about us we feel that we have met someone who recognizes us for who we are and who will hold our spirit like a flame. Some things just lack definition. Love is not always like a love song. It is the darkest emotion and has to masquerade as joy or else we would never dare swim in its river.
Just past midnight, Martha dropped heavily onto her bed. I watched the tree outside my room, its branches black against the black sky. Just through the window glass at the edge of the curtain, the star Vega burned through the night. I thought of August. I felt my heart rise.
6
N ot far from where my mother grew up, a ruined castle stood on the hillside above a deep black lake. My mother said that she had seen this castle herself many times while walking in the hills of Rügen. Not much remained, just the foundation, a weedy pit, and a half wall with the shape of one window open in the stone.
Very few people ventured near that castle and almost no one went into the lake. Everyone knew that eerie things happened there. Some said a devil lived in the water. Some said a goddess. My mother was sure it was the latter. On bright moonlit nights, she said, you could see a beautiful woman come through the woods and down to the lake. If you stood quietly, you could see her strip to her skin and then slide into the water, which itself became luminous as soon as she submerged. She was surrounded by a host of pretty girls—her servants—and the girls followed her into the lake. There they all disappeared. Eventually, you would hear them as they splashed. When they
He leaned toward me. “I know you won’t believe me,” he said softly. “But I remember you.”
A man stepped around the corner of the house. He held a hammer over his head and he waved it in the air. “Augie,” he yelled. “Hey, Augie.”
I looked up at August. “Augie,” I said. I smiled. But my skin felt as if it had been stretched too tight. I already held August’s name like an ache I wanted to touch again and again.
He grimaced and shook his head. Then, very tenderly, he cupped my cheek with his palm, his hand heavy and steady, and I leaned in until I was nothing but that hand, that weight.
“I wanted to help you,” he said. He paused as if he could not find the right words. Then he brushed my hair back again and dropped his hand to his side. “It bothered me,” he said at last. “It bothered me a lot.”
I tried to picture August thinking of me, but I could not picture the look on my face when I saw him with my mother in his arms. I could only know the sound of my mother’s terrible cry. The rest ran away.
In the far distance, a crow called. A second crow answered. Two for joy , I thought, and my chest lifted in just the way it would if something inside had come alive. August stepped closer and I pushed at my hair and then I smiled at him and reached over and took his hand. He gripped my fingers hard and looked down at me with a look so raw that I thought I might fall to my knees. We stood like that for a moment, but then the man up at the house yelled August’s name again and I knew I had to get back to work. Still we did not move. After a time, a faint whirl of snow showered down around us. The snowflakes sparkled like glass.
When I lay in bed that night, I could hear Martha pacing the floor. Up. Back. Again. Again. It seemed impossible for a thin person to have such a heavy foot but she did, as if with each step she could stamp the thing that ailed her out of existence. I listened for a long time. I knew she was thinking of George. I knew she was the one of us who always obeyed. I knew she got no reward for that, either.
No one knows why we are drawn to the ones we love. Perhaps the things that happen to us when we are children explain everything that comes later. Perhaps after all the mistaken ideas our parents have about us we feel that we have met someone who recognizes us for who we are and who will hold our spirit like a flame. Some things just lack definition. Love is not always like a love song. It is the darkest emotion and has to masquerade as joy or else we would never dare swim in its river.
Just past midnight, Martha dropped heavily onto her bed. I watched the tree outside my room, its branches black against the black sky. Just through the window glass at the edge of the curtain, the star Vega burned through the night. I thought of August. I felt my heart rise.
6
N ot far from where my mother grew up, a ruined castle stood on the hillside above a deep black lake. My mother said that she had seen this castle herself many times while walking in the hills of Rügen. Not much remained, just the foundation, a weedy pit, and a half wall with the shape of one window open in the stone.
Very few people ventured near that castle and almost no one went into the lake. Everyone knew that eerie things happened there. Some said a devil lived in the water. Some said a goddess. My mother was sure it was the latter. On bright moonlit nights, she said, you could see a beautiful woman come through the woods and down to the lake. If you stood quietly, you could see her strip to her skin and then slide into the water, which itself became luminous as soon as she submerged. She was surrounded by a host of pretty girls—her servants—and the girls followed her into the lake. There they all disappeared. Eventually, you would hear them as they splashed. When they
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