Read Online The Mysteries of Soldiers Grove by Paul Zimmer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul Zimmer
Ads: Link
few more licks to obscure the number a bit more.
Balaclava climbs back in, turns the truck around toward the exit, revs it a bit, pops the clutch and takes a hard run up the ramp. The truck has good muscle. The out ramp isn’t as steep as the entrance and the snow not quite so deep. In a moment he has plugged out onto the road and settled into the plowed highway lane as he heads east again with the driving storm.
C HAPTER 4
Louise
I have requested no roommate and pay extra for this privacy. I had the mover/helpers bring a few boxes of my carefully selected books from the farm, my tape player, a large plastic container of music cassettes, and my teapot.
My room is like an overgrown child’s room; it smells of long inhabitance, of diapers and age-old sweat. There is a small desk—maybe suitable for doing high school homework—a hard wooden chair, an alcove with a toaster, electric water heater, microwave oven, and some odd pieces of crockery on a shelf. Thank heaven there is a small section of bookshelves built into a wall, and in the divider between the kitchen and living area. The shelves are shallow, intended for knickknacks, but I lay my books in sideways and jam most of them in. The rest I line up between bookends on the dresser and a small table.
When they checked me into my room, a small television was already tuned to General Hospital for me. I switched it off. The little bathroom seems clean and there are many handles and grab bars around the shower and tub to hold onto. There is the bed, a long couch, a severe looking easy chair, and a rack by the door where I can keep my cane, umbrella, and walker, and hang my few hats.
My window looks out on a large parking lot, with a few small patches of trees clustered here and there on islands in the asphalt. I was introduced to some of my fellow residents as I was wheeled in. They seemed dear people in various stages of separation. The lobby and sitting room are already decorated for Christmas with a brightly bedecked tree, an illuminated Santa Claus who winks and blinks a red nose, a crèche with kneeling idolaters and a bouncing baby Jesus.
Left alone in my room at last, after signing more papers and receiving more instructions, I sit down in the plain chair and consider suicide, which is what I imagine most people do at this point of their arrival. But like most people, I haven’t the courage or the means to do the deed properly. I have only this sinking feeling.
I am quiet for a long, long time in the chair, my eyes open but seeing nothing—then finally I stir to regard the bed. I am drifting dismally. It is time for a nap, the staple of my life, and so I make my way over and lie down on the tufted spread, pulling up a light blanket, allowing unconsciousness to sustain me for a while.
But when I awaken after harsh dreams I am disoriented and irritable. What have I done to myself? The red light dot of the fire alarm blinks occasionally high over the entry door. I try to time its signal, but soon lose interest. The electric heater turns on low and clicks as evening light fades from the window.
I rise and shuffle to the chair again and put on a tape of a Vivaldi concerto, but it does not occupy me at this time. I go to the desk, take some of the care home stationery and begin a letter to my cousin in France. What can I say to him? Dear André, I have institutionalized myself—please come and save me? Then I remember that André died two years ago. I had been devastated because I was unable to travel to his funeral in France. He was the last of my relatives. I weep quietly as I remember this.
Someone is calling out feebly in the hallway—someone fallen—and I hear hurried steps and professionally comforting voices. The sound of some visitor’s motorcycle roaring into the parking lot is like the charge of some great animal.
There is a knock on the door. “Louise,” a voice calls, and the knob shakes—but I have turned the key in the lock. “It’s time
Balaclava climbs back in, turns the truck around toward the exit, revs it a bit, pops the clutch and takes a hard run up the ramp. The truck has good muscle. The out ramp isn’t as steep as the entrance and the snow not quite so deep. In a moment he has plugged out onto the road and settled into the plowed highway lane as he heads east again with the driving storm.
C HAPTER 4
Louise
I have requested no roommate and pay extra for this privacy. I had the mover/helpers bring a few boxes of my carefully selected books from the farm, my tape player, a large plastic container of music cassettes, and my teapot.
My room is like an overgrown child’s room; it smells of long inhabitance, of diapers and age-old sweat. There is a small desk—maybe suitable for doing high school homework—a hard wooden chair, an alcove with a toaster, electric water heater, microwave oven, and some odd pieces of crockery on a shelf. Thank heaven there is a small section of bookshelves built into a wall, and in the divider between the kitchen and living area. The shelves are shallow, intended for knickknacks, but I lay my books in sideways and jam most of them in. The rest I line up between bookends on the dresser and a small table.
When they checked me into my room, a small television was already tuned to General Hospital for me. I switched it off. The little bathroom seems clean and there are many handles and grab bars around the shower and tub to hold onto. There is the bed, a long couch, a severe looking easy chair, and a rack by the door where I can keep my cane, umbrella, and walker, and hang my few hats.
My window looks out on a large parking lot, with a few small patches of trees clustered here and there on islands in the asphalt. I was introduced to some of my fellow residents as I was wheeled in. They seemed dear people in various stages of separation. The lobby and sitting room are already decorated for Christmas with a brightly bedecked tree, an illuminated Santa Claus who winks and blinks a red nose, a crèche with kneeling idolaters and a bouncing baby Jesus.
Left alone in my room at last, after signing more papers and receiving more instructions, I sit down in the plain chair and consider suicide, which is what I imagine most people do at this point of their arrival. But like most people, I haven’t the courage or the means to do the deed properly. I have only this sinking feeling.
I am quiet for a long, long time in the chair, my eyes open but seeing nothing—then finally I stir to regard the bed. I am drifting dismally. It is time for a nap, the staple of my life, and so I make my way over and lie down on the tufted spread, pulling up a light blanket, allowing unconsciousness to sustain me for a while.
But when I awaken after harsh dreams I am disoriented and irritable. What have I done to myself? The red light dot of the fire alarm blinks occasionally high over the entry door. I try to time its signal, but soon lose interest. The electric heater turns on low and clicks as evening light fades from the window.
I rise and shuffle to the chair again and put on a tape of a Vivaldi concerto, but it does not occupy me at this time. I go to the desk, take some of the care home stationery and begin a letter to my cousin in France. What can I say to him? Dear André, I have institutionalized myself—please come and save me? Then I remember that André died two years ago. I had been devastated because I was unable to travel to his funeral in France. He was the last of my relatives. I weep quietly as I remember this.
Someone is calling out feebly in the hallway—someone fallen—and I hear hurried steps and professionally comforting voices. The sound of some visitor’s motorcycle roaring into the parking lot is like the charge of some great animal.
There is a knock on the door. “Louise,” a voice calls, and the knob shakes—but I have turned the key in the lock. “It’s time
Similar Books
