Read Online The Expeditions by Karl Iagnemma - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karl Iagnemma
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his conscience’s guidance. Decent folks are guided by reason and governed by conscience—they cannot help but strive for goodness. Some even argue that conscience is what civilizes us, separates us from Negroes and savage Indians. It’s not an unsound argument.”
“You should consider fashioning your ideas into a sermon. I’m told circuit riding can be lucrative.” Jonah Crawley slouched in his seat and closed his eyes.
Reverend Stone turned to the window, unexpectedly wounded by the man’s dismissal. Outside, twilight had seeped over a prairie stubbled with stumps. Where were they? Somewhere in New York, between Albany and Buffalo. Cutover country. The minister imagined a horde of men grunting at crosscut saws, their beards stippled with sawdust. Flattening the landscape, removing any place to hide. He fumbled in his pocket for the tin of medication then placed three tablets under his tongue and closed his eyes.
He was a coward, wasn’t he? Abandoning his home, running westward with a farewell wave. That previous Sunday, when he’d announced his departure to the congregation, the meetinghouse had filled with brittle silence, as though no one believed he would truly depart. That, or they did not believe he would return.
The minister wondered, as his thoughts uncoiled and slowed, if he would ever find his son in this vast, empty territory. An image formed in his mind of Elisha’s face pinched with fear as he sat in prayer, his bright blue eyes dulled by hopelessness. The boy’s faith was feeble. He possessed a coward’s heart. He’s my son, Reverend Stone marveled, so much my son, so much myself.
He leaned toward the window until his forehead brushed the cool glass. He felt a sudden, desperate affection for the town he had left. Already Newell seemed vague and distant, like a beautiful dream half-remembered upon waking.
It was past midnight when the train arrived in Buffalo. The depot was a cavernous brick building lit sparsely by gas lamps, and possessed of a bleak, funereal air. Haggard hotel drummers moved among the disem-barking passengers, holding placards printed with bucolic names:
Cascade House, River View Inn, Verdant Falls Hotel.
Baggage handlers heaved trunks and suitcases and valises onto the platform, the men’s shouts echoing in the lofty building. A few faded handbills fluttered on an announcement board.
Reverend Stone stood empty-handed, surveying the scene. He approached a drummer smoking a sour-smelling cigar, holding a placard that read
Elysium House—Choicest Views of the Falls!
Reverend Stone’s throat twitched and he drew a breath to subdue the cough. He said, “How much do you ask for a night’s stay?”
“Depends on the room. All’s I have vacant now are rooms with views of the falls. Those cost one dollar extra.”
“It’s nighttime. I cannot see the falls.”
“Come morning you’ll see them. Unless of course it’s raining.”
A tug at his elbow; the minister turned to find Jonah Crawley standing beside a young woman in a dingy yellow cape. Crawley said, “I know all the finer hotels in Buffalo. Let me offer you a piece of advice.”
“Mr. Crawley! How wonderful to see you again.”
The man grinned. “My daughter, Adele. She was riding in the ladies’ car.”
The girl curtsied. She was pale and narrow-shouldered, her green eyes holding a clouded, distant cast, as though she was preoccupied with a grave decision. She might have been twelve or she might have been sixteen. The minister offered her a benevolent smile.
“These chuckleheads would have you believe their shacks border the falls for a dollar a night. Trust me, they don’t. I know a place that’s near enough to hear water kissing rock, and it won’t empty your pockets.”
“I would be obliged,” Reverend Stone said gratefully.
He followed the man around the depot to the avenue. Jonah Crawley rapped on a buggy frame to wake the sleeping hackman, then helped his daughter
“You should consider fashioning your ideas into a sermon. I’m told circuit riding can be lucrative.” Jonah Crawley slouched in his seat and closed his eyes.
Reverend Stone turned to the window, unexpectedly wounded by the man’s dismissal. Outside, twilight had seeped over a prairie stubbled with stumps. Where were they? Somewhere in New York, between Albany and Buffalo. Cutover country. The minister imagined a horde of men grunting at crosscut saws, their beards stippled with sawdust. Flattening the landscape, removing any place to hide. He fumbled in his pocket for the tin of medication then placed three tablets under his tongue and closed his eyes.
He was a coward, wasn’t he? Abandoning his home, running westward with a farewell wave. That previous Sunday, when he’d announced his departure to the congregation, the meetinghouse had filled with brittle silence, as though no one believed he would truly depart. That, or they did not believe he would return.
The minister wondered, as his thoughts uncoiled and slowed, if he would ever find his son in this vast, empty territory. An image formed in his mind of Elisha’s face pinched with fear as he sat in prayer, his bright blue eyes dulled by hopelessness. The boy’s faith was feeble. He possessed a coward’s heart. He’s my son, Reverend Stone marveled, so much my son, so much myself.
He leaned toward the window until his forehead brushed the cool glass. He felt a sudden, desperate affection for the town he had left. Already Newell seemed vague and distant, like a beautiful dream half-remembered upon waking.
It was past midnight when the train arrived in Buffalo. The depot was a cavernous brick building lit sparsely by gas lamps, and possessed of a bleak, funereal air. Haggard hotel drummers moved among the disem-barking passengers, holding placards printed with bucolic names:
Cascade House, River View Inn, Verdant Falls Hotel.
Baggage handlers heaved trunks and suitcases and valises onto the platform, the men’s shouts echoing in the lofty building. A few faded handbills fluttered on an announcement board.
Reverend Stone stood empty-handed, surveying the scene. He approached a drummer smoking a sour-smelling cigar, holding a placard that read
Elysium House—Choicest Views of the Falls!
Reverend Stone’s throat twitched and he drew a breath to subdue the cough. He said, “How much do you ask for a night’s stay?”
“Depends on the room. All’s I have vacant now are rooms with views of the falls. Those cost one dollar extra.”
“It’s nighttime. I cannot see the falls.”
“Come morning you’ll see them. Unless of course it’s raining.”
A tug at his elbow; the minister turned to find Jonah Crawley standing beside a young woman in a dingy yellow cape. Crawley said, “I know all the finer hotels in Buffalo. Let me offer you a piece of advice.”
“Mr. Crawley! How wonderful to see you again.”
The man grinned. “My daughter, Adele. She was riding in the ladies’ car.”
The girl curtsied. She was pale and narrow-shouldered, her green eyes holding a clouded, distant cast, as though she was preoccupied with a grave decision. She might have been twelve or she might have been sixteen. The minister offered her a benevolent smile.
“These chuckleheads would have you believe their shacks border the falls for a dollar a night. Trust me, they don’t. I know a place that’s near enough to hear water kissing rock, and it won’t empty your pockets.”
“I would be obliged,” Reverend Stone said gratefully.
He followed the man around the depot to the avenue. Jonah Crawley rapped on a buggy frame to wake the sleeping hackman, then helped his daughter
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