Read Online The Marriage of Sticks by Jonathan Carroll - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonathan Carroll
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unfair assessment, but that’s how I went about things: Guilty until proven interesting.
Dagmar squeezed my shoulder and went off to talk to the caterer. A man I’d met there some months before came right up and introduced himself. He was a broker who specialized in railroad stocks. For the next few minutes, we chatted about train rides we had known and loved. That was fine because he did most of the talking, which allowed me to continue looking.
A waiter came around with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Their nice smell reminded me that the only thing I had eaten that day was a Ding Dong and a cup of coffee in the taxi with Clayton. Railroad Man and I took what looked like caviar-and-egg biscuits and popped them into our mouths.
The hors d’oeuvre was so lethally hot and spicy that it exploded on contact. I barely had enough presence of mind to slap a hand across my mouth before squealing like a stabbed rabbit. He did almost exactly the same thing. We stared at each other. It was so unexpected and shocking. Thank God he fumbled in his pocket, brought out a package of tissues, and handed me one. Without a second thought, we spat the bombs into the tissues and wiped our mouths. I think we might have gotten away with it, but some people had seen us and were watching. He looked at me and made the sound of a train whistle: “Woo-OO-Woo!”
I laughed and gave him a push. My eyes were tearing, my mouth was on fire, and I was embarrassed as hell but couldn’t stop laughing. “Everyone’s staring!”
“So what? My life just passed before my eyes.”
Everyone was staring, but that made us laugh harder. Stan came over and asked what was wrong. We explained and, sweet man that he is, he ran to stop the waiter from offering the hors d’oeuvres to other people.
Who would have guessed that moment on fire would change everything?
Half an hour later dinner was announced. As we moved into the dining room, a man I didn’t know came up and asked if I was all right. In his forties, he had a big thatch of unruly brown hair a la John Kennedy, and the kind of warm broad smile that made you like him right away, whoever he was.
“I’m fine. I just ate an hors d’oeuvre from hell and it paralyzed me.”
“You looked like you’d seen a goat.”
I stopped. “You mean a ghost?”
There was the smile. “No, like you’d just seen a goat walk into the room! Like this.” In an instant, he wore an imbecilic expression that made me giggle.
“ That bad?”
“No, impressive! I’m Hugh Oakley.”
“Miranda Romanac.”
“This is my wife, Charlotte.”
A knockout, she had the kind of unique beauty that only deepened and became more interesting with age. Her eyes were Prussian blue, the hair as white-blond and swept as a meringue. My first impression was that everything about Charlotte Oakley seemed Nordic and…white. Until her mouth, which was thick and sexual. How many men had fantasized about that mouth?
“Hello. We were worried about you.”
“I thought I’d eaten a flare.”
“Make sure to say a little prayer to Saint Bonaventure of Potenza before going to bed tonight,” Hugh Oakley said.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s the saint invoked against diseases of the bowels.”
“Hugh!” Charlotte pulled his earlobe. But she was smiling, and oh, what a smile! If I’d been a king, I would have traded my kingdom for it. “One of my husband’s hobbies is studying the saints.”
“My new favorites are Godeleva, who protects against sore throats. Or Homobonus, patron of tailors.”
“Come on, Saint Hugh, let’s eat.”
“Don’t forget—Saint Bonaventure of Potenza.”
“I’m praying already.”
He touched my sleeve and moved away with his wife. We continued to our places at the tables. By coincidence, Hugh and I were seated at the same one, although there were people between us.
Unfortunately, my neighbor took a shine to me and all through the first two courses asked personal questions I didn’t want to
Dagmar squeezed my shoulder and went off to talk to the caterer. A man I’d met there some months before came right up and introduced himself. He was a broker who specialized in railroad stocks. For the next few minutes, we chatted about train rides we had known and loved. That was fine because he did most of the talking, which allowed me to continue looking.
A waiter came around with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Their nice smell reminded me that the only thing I had eaten that day was a Ding Dong and a cup of coffee in the taxi with Clayton. Railroad Man and I took what looked like caviar-and-egg biscuits and popped them into our mouths.
The hors d’oeuvre was so lethally hot and spicy that it exploded on contact. I barely had enough presence of mind to slap a hand across my mouth before squealing like a stabbed rabbit. He did almost exactly the same thing. We stared at each other. It was so unexpected and shocking. Thank God he fumbled in his pocket, brought out a package of tissues, and handed me one. Without a second thought, we spat the bombs into the tissues and wiped our mouths. I think we might have gotten away with it, but some people had seen us and were watching. He looked at me and made the sound of a train whistle: “Woo-OO-Woo!”
I laughed and gave him a push. My eyes were tearing, my mouth was on fire, and I was embarrassed as hell but couldn’t stop laughing. “Everyone’s staring!”
“So what? My life just passed before my eyes.”
Everyone was staring, but that made us laugh harder. Stan came over and asked what was wrong. We explained and, sweet man that he is, he ran to stop the waiter from offering the hors d’oeuvres to other people.
Who would have guessed that moment on fire would change everything?
Half an hour later dinner was announced. As we moved into the dining room, a man I didn’t know came up and asked if I was all right. In his forties, he had a big thatch of unruly brown hair a la John Kennedy, and the kind of warm broad smile that made you like him right away, whoever he was.
“I’m fine. I just ate an hors d’oeuvre from hell and it paralyzed me.”
“You looked like you’d seen a goat.”
I stopped. “You mean a ghost?”
There was the smile. “No, like you’d just seen a goat walk into the room! Like this.” In an instant, he wore an imbecilic expression that made me giggle.
“ That bad?”
“No, impressive! I’m Hugh Oakley.”
“Miranda Romanac.”
“This is my wife, Charlotte.”
A knockout, she had the kind of unique beauty that only deepened and became more interesting with age. Her eyes were Prussian blue, the hair as white-blond and swept as a meringue. My first impression was that everything about Charlotte Oakley seemed Nordic and…white. Until her mouth, which was thick and sexual. How many men had fantasized about that mouth?
“Hello. We were worried about you.”
“I thought I’d eaten a flare.”
“Make sure to say a little prayer to Saint Bonaventure of Potenza before going to bed tonight,” Hugh Oakley said.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s the saint invoked against diseases of the bowels.”
“Hugh!” Charlotte pulled his earlobe. But she was smiling, and oh, what a smile! If I’d been a king, I would have traded my kingdom for it. “One of my husband’s hobbies is studying the saints.”
“My new favorites are Godeleva, who protects against sore throats. Or Homobonus, patron of tailors.”
“Come on, Saint Hugh, let’s eat.”
“Don’t forget—Saint Bonaventure of Potenza.”
“I’m praying already.”
He touched my sleeve and moved away with his wife. We continued to our places at the tables. By coincidence, Hugh and I were seated at the same one, although there were people between us.
Unfortunately, my neighbor took a shine to me and all through the first two courses asked personal questions I didn’t want to
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