Read Online The Moonlight Man by Paula Fox - Free Book Online Page B

was what had made her father so uneasy. The Reverend had been indifferent to him, had treated him as if he were just anybody. But who was anybody? Why should anybody be treated with indifference? She hadn’t liked the Reverend; he seemed a tight, rough man. Yet she felt faintly shamed by Mr. Ames’s efforts to charm him. Why on earth did he want to charm him?
    â€œEven parsons have secret thoughts,” he remarked to her later that evening, as they sat in the swing on the edge of the cliff. “Even they divide the world into opposing groups. I must say I prefer good and bad to Ross’s division between gulpers and sippers. What a vision of human character!”
    â€œYou divide the world in half. My mother on one side, you on the other.”
    He looked perplexed.
    â€œYou called her a daylight person,” she reminded him. “Are you a moonlight person?”
    â€œYou store away everything, don’t you? If I said that, it was foolish. After all, there are only men and women. As for being a moonlight person, the truth is I’ve lived most of my life in a dense fog.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you ever have me to visit you and Emma?” she asked abruptly.
    Mr. Ames put his foot on the ground to stop the slight motion of the swing. They hung there, motionless, for what seemed a very long time, as darkness deepened around them. At last he spoke quietly, sadly.
    â€œI didn’t think it would be good for you. I didn’t think I was good for you. It was Emma who persuaded me—to try. She said—if you never got a close look at me, you’d be wondering about me all your life. I suppose you will be, anyway.”
    Catherine didn’t care for the idea that Emma was responsible for this visit. Her father had a rather silly look on his face—thinking of Emma’s wonderfulness, no doubt.
    â€œWhat about what I thought?” she asked.
    â€œThat’s what Emma was concerned about.”
    â€œI mean—what did you think about my thoughts?”
    â€œDo I hear self-righteousness? Are you feeling badly treated? Don’t—for God’s sake—be a victim. It rots out the brain. You’ll never have a moment of pleasure because of thinking of all the wrongs you’ve suffered.”
    She quailed at the anger she thought she heard in his voice. As though to confirm it, he got out of the swing and strode off to the house. How could he be so unfair? She followed him and at once tripped on some root or hummock. She knew it wasn’t because it had grown dark. Her body had gone out of control because she’d lost inner balance.
    She found him in the kitchen pouring himself a drink of whiskey.
    â€œWhat about that?” she cried, a tremor in her voice. “Does that stuff keep your brain from rotting?” She remembered how his features had slackened that night of drinking, how his body had slumped. Her dismay was so great, she held out both her hands toward the bottle as though to snatch it from him. He looked at her as though she were a stranger. Her hands dropped to her sides. She felt exhausted. She felt she could go to sleep standing there next to the kitchen table.
    â€œDon’t be a prig,” he said harshly. “You’re old enough to know damn near everything—though not, I must add, to have any judgment. And don’t tell me your sainted mother hasn’t nailed me to the cross about my drinking habits.”
    â€œMom didn’t have to tell me,” she said flatly. “Do you think I can’t see on my own? How I hated it when you were passed out cold in the back of that horrible car!”
    â€œNot at all,” he protested. “I wasn’t passed out. I was thinking.”
    â€œDo you snore and snort when you think?”
    He started to laugh. He took two steps and grabbed her arms and shook her. “Cath, I won’t do it again. I swear it! As for the car—if you like, we can go out and