Read Online The Invention of Flight by Susan Neville - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Neville
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them, and thatâs what she knows about stars. She reaches for her coffee, knocks over her water glass, the water darkening the cloth on the table. She takes thechipped ice in her hands, puts it in the glass, says just the same, tell me it isnât true, what you said, about galaxies colliding, the universe erased and redrawn. It isnât true, he says, laughing. Thank you, she says, I knew it couldnât be, and she looks out at the water, the palm trees, a blue heron walking like a cat. She wonders how he can so calmly think about such terrifying things when theyâre so happy here, and safe.
The waitress brings a basket of small pastries shaped like sand dollars, places it on their table, fills their cups with coffee. They both lean back in their chairs. Her husband looks calm, thoughtful. The cookies taste like anise. She breaks one in half to look for the doves that real sand dollars have in the center, but the baker hasnât put them in. She thinks that she would like to open a bakery herself and make sand dollar cookies with sugar doves in the center. People would bite into them, unsuspecting, and discover the candies, and in that way she could, possibly, begin to communicate the joy that she feels now. Her arms feel good to her, the soft cotton of her dress, the sandals on her feet, her hair, the way the edge of the tablecloth brushes her knees, the bitter taste of the coffee, the gritty texture of the cookie in her hand, the hardness of her husbandâs legs, his arms, the soft hollows at the base of his neck, beneath his cheekbones; all of these things are good. Weâll swim or fish all afternoon, she thinks, watch the pelicans dive for fish while we eat dinner on the beach, and swim again at midnight.
The check comes and her husband pays it. I drank too much coffee, she says as they leave the restaurant, I feel like Iâve been drinking ether. Outside it is hot already,this early in the day. Everything shimmers. This is heaven, she says. I want to stop in the bait shop next door, he says, so we can fish this afternoon.
The bait shop is a shack, gray weathered wood, filled with plastic lures and the smell of shrimp and glass cases of fileting knives. Thousands of hooks tangle and gleam on the walls. She looks at her reflection in the glass cases, notices that she is smiling and that she doesnât stop. Two men come into the shop. They look alikeâshort unruly beards, sunbleached hair, leathery skin, sandals, cutoff shorts, T-shirts. They smell like gasoline, the smell of her fatherâs outboard motor that day on the lake, her awakening, all her life, she thinks, comes to this slow awakening. She stares at the hooks on the wall while her husband buys shrimp. She holds onto his arm for balance. Water from his shrimp bucket sloshes onto her hand and she brings her hand to her nose, breathes deeply, to calm herself, the happiness becoming too great somehow, too large. Her husband takes her hand, but heâs talking to one of the fishermen about the fishing that day, the good spots, the best type of bait. The other man shows her husband a sharkâs tooth on a chain around his neck, talks about shark fishing, how a shark had taken the leg of his brother when he was snorkeling in the Keys and how he and his brother try to kill as many of them as they can now, how they take the teeth and give them away as gifts. She looks at the tooth lying on his neck, bleached and white as milk glass. She tries to be frightened of it, to imagine it coming after her, after her husband, but she canât, doesnât believe in it. The man tells her husband that if heâd like to go shark fishing with them sometime to leave a message at the baitshop in the morning and her husband says yes, heâd like that, and asks what time they usually go out, and the man says at night of course, at midnight, thatâs when all the man-eating fishâthe sharks, the smiling barracudas, but the sharks
The waitress brings a basket of small pastries shaped like sand dollars, places it on their table, fills their cups with coffee. They both lean back in their chairs. Her husband looks calm, thoughtful. The cookies taste like anise. She breaks one in half to look for the doves that real sand dollars have in the center, but the baker hasnât put them in. She thinks that she would like to open a bakery herself and make sand dollar cookies with sugar doves in the center. People would bite into them, unsuspecting, and discover the candies, and in that way she could, possibly, begin to communicate the joy that she feels now. Her arms feel good to her, the soft cotton of her dress, the sandals on her feet, her hair, the way the edge of the tablecloth brushes her knees, the bitter taste of the coffee, the gritty texture of the cookie in her hand, the hardness of her husbandâs legs, his arms, the soft hollows at the base of his neck, beneath his cheekbones; all of these things are good. Weâll swim or fish all afternoon, she thinks, watch the pelicans dive for fish while we eat dinner on the beach, and swim again at midnight.
The check comes and her husband pays it. I drank too much coffee, she says as they leave the restaurant, I feel like Iâve been drinking ether. Outside it is hot already,this early in the day. Everything shimmers. This is heaven, she says. I want to stop in the bait shop next door, he says, so we can fish this afternoon.
The bait shop is a shack, gray weathered wood, filled with plastic lures and the smell of shrimp and glass cases of fileting knives. Thousands of hooks tangle and gleam on the walls. She looks at her reflection in the glass cases, notices that she is smiling and that she doesnât stop. Two men come into the shop. They look alikeâshort unruly beards, sunbleached hair, leathery skin, sandals, cutoff shorts, T-shirts. They smell like gasoline, the smell of her fatherâs outboard motor that day on the lake, her awakening, all her life, she thinks, comes to this slow awakening. She stares at the hooks on the wall while her husband buys shrimp. She holds onto his arm for balance. Water from his shrimp bucket sloshes onto her hand and she brings her hand to her nose, breathes deeply, to calm herself, the happiness becoming too great somehow, too large. Her husband takes her hand, but heâs talking to one of the fishermen about the fishing that day, the good spots, the best type of bait. The other man shows her husband a sharkâs tooth on a chain around his neck, talks about shark fishing, how a shark had taken the leg of his brother when he was snorkeling in the Keys and how he and his brother try to kill as many of them as they can now, how they take the teeth and give them away as gifts. She looks at the tooth lying on his neck, bleached and white as milk glass. She tries to be frightened of it, to imagine it coming after her, after her husband, but she canât, doesnât believe in it. The man tells her husband that if heâd like to go shark fishing with them sometime to leave a message at the baitshop in the morning and her husband says yes, heâd like that, and asks what time they usually go out, and the man says at night of course, at midnight, thatâs when all the man-eating fishâthe sharks, the smiling barracudas, but the sharks
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