Read Online The Half Brother by Holly Lecraw - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Holly Lecraw
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there; he had gone to a day school in Atlanta, the place I was also sent. Anita didn’t know a thing about this other school.
When she opened the magazine, she saw green rolling fields and white buildings, a chapel of gray stone—foreign but familiar, like scenes from a picture book or travel guide, peopled with teenagers as white toothed and smooth browed as the Satterthwaites. She was always encountering things like this magazine in the Satterthwaites’ houses. They were documents in a language in which she would never be fluent. She didn’t know how ordinary, in its own way, Abbott was.
It was around then that Bobo came in and sat with a companionable sigh in the wing chair across from my mother. “That Nicky had three pieces of pie,” she said. “Two apple and one pecan. It’s Willie Mae’s pecan pie and you know how it’s so rich. I told him he would get a stomachache, but then I just let him.”
Anita said she didn’t mind. She long ago accepted that here, Nicky would be spoiled. He reminded them too much of Hugh.
“That’s where Big Hugh went to boarding school,” Bobo said. “Way up north. Don’t ask him about it or he’ll start talking and he won’t stop. He wanted Little Hugh to go there but I said no, there was no need, because by then we had good schools right here in Atlanta. I just didn’t want him to go so far away. There was no need.”
Anita knew it was small of her, but she didn’t look up right away. The expression on Bobo’s face would be the bleak, brave, moist-eyed look she got when she mentioned Hugh. Whom Anita also mourned, but didn’t miss. She steeled herself, turned another magazine page to stall.
And there was Preston Bankhead.
He was in robes and a collar. That was not a surprise to her. Neither was this: he stood with a lovely blond wife and three blond sons,the only word for whom was strapping . They were all radiantly healthy and solid. With the green hills in the background, the well-cared-for northern trees, the pure air.
“I know it’s a wonderful school,” Bobo was saying. “It’s just so far away. But not far from Charlie, I suppose. How is Charlie? How is he doing, Anita? He’s a senior, isn’t he? Is he looking for a job yet? How is that wonderful boy doing?”
The blond boys in the picture have a great deal that I do not. But once again the way is clear for my mother, and she can make sure I get what I deserve.
Six
May graduating: I see it over and over. Boys in navy blazers, girls in white dresses, processing. In my memory the line is endless. The girls and their wreaths of white flowers.
I was standing right along the path where they walked after the ceremony, everyone grinning, the boys high-fiving me, and some of the girls too, but I was waiting for May. When she walked by me and her eyes landed on mine it was as though she’d spoken my name aloud.
In the milling about afterward we found each other—but is that true? I was looking for her, and then there she was. She had a lot on her mind; she was eighteen years old. I doubt she was looking for me.
The flowers were a cloud around her face. Snow in her hair. “You look beautiful.” I said it. There was a division, before and after, and now it was after. Now she had graduated. She knew it, that was the look, we were in perfect agreement.
Except now she wouldn’t meet my eye. “Have you smelled this stuff?” she demanded, pointing to the flowers. “It’s baby’s breath. But who knew that baby’s breath smells like old cheese? Smell it!” And she leaned forward so the wreath was touching my nose.
Possibly she was right. But I couldn’t smell a thing. Or see, or hear. I was frozen.
She sensed it; she froze too. The air around us twined and thickenedand I didn’t want to move and didn’t but then I did. “You’re right,” I said, stepping back. “Camembert. Roquefort.”
“Crazy, right?”
“Miss Bankhead?”
And finally she looked. “Yes?”
“Write me a letter
When she opened the magazine, she saw green rolling fields and white buildings, a chapel of gray stone—foreign but familiar, like scenes from a picture book or travel guide, peopled with teenagers as white toothed and smooth browed as the Satterthwaites. She was always encountering things like this magazine in the Satterthwaites’ houses. They were documents in a language in which she would never be fluent. She didn’t know how ordinary, in its own way, Abbott was.
It was around then that Bobo came in and sat with a companionable sigh in the wing chair across from my mother. “That Nicky had three pieces of pie,” she said. “Two apple and one pecan. It’s Willie Mae’s pecan pie and you know how it’s so rich. I told him he would get a stomachache, but then I just let him.”
Anita said she didn’t mind. She long ago accepted that here, Nicky would be spoiled. He reminded them too much of Hugh.
“That’s where Big Hugh went to boarding school,” Bobo said. “Way up north. Don’t ask him about it or he’ll start talking and he won’t stop. He wanted Little Hugh to go there but I said no, there was no need, because by then we had good schools right here in Atlanta. I just didn’t want him to go so far away. There was no need.”
Anita knew it was small of her, but she didn’t look up right away. The expression on Bobo’s face would be the bleak, brave, moist-eyed look she got when she mentioned Hugh. Whom Anita also mourned, but didn’t miss. She steeled herself, turned another magazine page to stall.
And there was Preston Bankhead.
He was in robes and a collar. That was not a surprise to her. Neither was this: he stood with a lovely blond wife and three blond sons,the only word for whom was strapping . They were all radiantly healthy and solid. With the green hills in the background, the well-cared-for northern trees, the pure air.
“I know it’s a wonderful school,” Bobo was saying. “It’s just so far away. But not far from Charlie, I suppose. How is Charlie? How is he doing, Anita? He’s a senior, isn’t he? Is he looking for a job yet? How is that wonderful boy doing?”
The blond boys in the picture have a great deal that I do not. But once again the way is clear for my mother, and she can make sure I get what I deserve.
Six
May graduating: I see it over and over. Boys in navy blazers, girls in white dresses, processing. In my memory the line is endless. The girls and their wreaths of white flowers.
I was standing right along the path where they walked after the ceremony, everyone grinning, the boys high-fiving me, and some of the girls too, but I was waiting for May. When she walked by me and her eyes landed on mine it was as though she’d spoken my name aloud.
In the milling about afterward we found each other—but is that true? I was looking for her, and then there she was. She had a lot on her mind; she was eighteen years old. I doubt she was looking for me.
The flowers were a cloud around her face. Snow in her hair. “You look beautiful.” I said it. There was a division, before and after, and now it was after. Now she had graduated. She knew it, that was the look, we were in perfect agreement.
Except now she wouldn’t meet my eye. “Have you smelled this stuff?” she demanded, pointing to the flowers. “It’s baby’s breath. But who knew that baby’s breath smells like old cheese? Smell it!” And she leaned forward so the wreath was touching my nose.
Possibly she was right. But I couldn’t smell a thing. Or see, or hear. I was frozen.
She sensed it; she froze too. The air around us twined and thickenedand I didn’t want to move and didn’t but then I did. “You’re right,” I said, stepping back. “Camembert. Roquefort.”
“Crazy, right?”
“Miss Bankhead?”
And finally she looked. “Yes?”
“Write me a letter