Read Online The Rabbit Factory: A Novel by Larry Brown - Free Book Online
Authors: Larry Brown
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a pretty fall afternoon, and get out on the cobblestones, and give the keys to a valet, and let him park it while she went on in to the bar. What was the point of even having a Jag if you couldn’t drive it where you wanted to?
Arthur snuffled and woke up. His nap had taken about twenty minutes. He looked around for a few moments as if he didn’t know where he was. He was so eager to please her. Hoping she’d let him try again. But what for? Why didn’t he just stop spinning his wheels and go to the doctor and get a prescription for the shit and start taking it? Twenty minutes? Twenty minutes was a long time. A lot could get done in twenty minutes. Entire cities could die in flames in twenty minutes or you could have a baby. You could fuck your brains out for twenty minutes if you had somebody capable of fucking your brains out. Like that young man right over there. She looked at Eric. Then she looked back at Arthur. He knew damn well she was horny. But after all this time of trying, after taking her clothes and underwear off again and again and trying everything she knew to get him going, she was tired of messing with him. He refused to try the pills, even after the doctor told him they might help him. He’d said it wasn’t natural. She’d said: Well, is a kidney transplant? And they had no children. And never would. Not now. Nope. Couldn’t even adopt, apparently. It was too late for that. He was too old. She suspected that he had always been too old.
It was true that if it hadn’t been for him, she might still be slinging drinks in Missoula. Or even Bozeman. But she missed Montana, too. Especially in the summertime. When you grew up in a place that beautiful, it was hard to forget it. She missed the vast brown hills that rolled away in the distance, and the mountains and clear streams and the eagles and the lakes blue as glaciers. Even after all this time, she still missed driving out Rock Creek Road on moonlit nights and drinking beer and fucking boys on the swinging bridge. What she didn’t miss was seeing her daddy’s little trailer in East Missoula with his one skinny tree in the yard. But if she went back, she’d have to go see him. And he was only two years older than Arthur.
She thought about fingers on the inside velvet of your thighs. A sweet mouth kissing this and that. She stopped herself. She didn’t know how much longer she could take it. He refused to seek any help. He didn’t seem to realize that she had needs. And he was almost seventy years old.
She stooped to the floor with her glass and petted the pit bull on the muzzle. He was lying beneath the kitchen table eating a few pieces of bologna that Arthur had gotten him from the icebox. She’d wiped the blood from his muzzle and scratched his back with her hairbrush. He licked her hand energetically as she petted him. Just an old chewed-up sweetie.
Arthur’s decline had come gradually. For a long time, they’d both made excuses for him. Finally the night had come when they had to admit to each other that Arthur had a problem. But it didn’t mean she had to just live in frustration, did it?
Wasn’t it easier to just read a book? Have a few drinks? Let him go on to sleep and then slip out? Wasn’t that better on everybody involved? If he didn’t know it, how could it hurt him?
“Arthur, why don’t you pour Eric another shot?”
“I don’t want to get him drunk. He’s got to drive back.”
“Mind if I smoke?” Eric said. “And no offense, Mister Arthur, but I can handle my booze. You can ask anybody at home.”
“Go right ahead,” Helen said, before Arthur could interrupt.
“Arthur, get him an ashtray, too, please.”
Arthur scratched his head. “I don’t think we’ve got any.”
“Well, maybe we should buy some,” she said.
“I can use just anything,” Eric said, already pulling out his pack. “A jar lid’ll do. Shoot, I can use an empty Coke can.”
“We don’t keep much Coke around here.” Arthur was
Arthur snuffled and woke up. His nap had taken about twenty minutes. He looked around for a few moments as if he didn’t know where he was. He was so eager to please her. Hoping she’d let him try again. But what for? Why didn’t he just stop spinning his wheels and go to the doctor and get a prescription for the shit and start taking it? Twenty minutes? Twenty minutes was a long time. A lot could get done in twenty minutes. Entire cities could die in flames in twenty minutes or you could have a baby. You could fuck your brains out for twenty minutes if you had somebody capable of fucking your brains out. Like that young man right over there. She looked at Eric. Then she looked back at Arthur. He knew damn well she was horny. But after all this time of trying, after taking her clothes and underwear off again and again and trying everything she knew to get him going, she was tired of messing with him. He refused to try the pills, even after the doctor told him they might help him. He’d said it wasn’t natural. She’d said: Well, is a kidney transplant? And they had no children. And never would. Not now. Nope. Couldn’t even adopt, apparently. It was too late for that. He was too old. She suspected that he had always been too old.
It was true that if it hadn’t been for him, she might still be slinging drinks in Missoula. Or even Bozeman. But she missed Montana, too. Especially in the summertime. When you grew up in a place that beautiful, it was hard to forget it. She missed the vast brown hills that rolled away in the distance, and the mountains and clear streams and the eagles and the lakes blue as glaciers. Even after all this time, she still missed driving out Rock Creek Road on moonlit nights and drinking beer and fucking boys on the swinging bridge. What she didn’t miss was seeing her daddy’s little trailer in East Missoula with his one skinny tree in the yard. But if she went back, she’d have to go see him. And he was only two years older than Arthur.
She thought about fingers on the inside velvet of your thighs. A sweet mouth kissing this and that. She stopped herself. She didn’t know how much longer she could take it. He refused to seek any help. He didn’t seem to realize that she had needs. And he was almost seventy years old.
She stooped to the floor with her glass and petted the pit bull on the muzzle. He was lying beneath the kitchen table eating a few pieces of bologna that Arthur had gotten him from the icebox. She’d wiped the blood from his muzzle and scratched his back with her hairbrush. He licked her hand energetically as she petted him. Just an old chewed-up sweetie.
Arthur’s decline had come gradually. For a long time, they’d both made excuses for him. Finally the night had come when they had to admit to each other that Arthur had a problem. But it didn’t mean she had to just live in frustration, did it?
Wasn’t it easier to just read a book? Have a few drinks? Let him go on to sleep and then slip out? Wasn’t that better on everybody involved? If he didn’t know it, how could it hurt him?
“Arthur, why don’t you pour Eric another shot?”
“I don’t want to get him drunk. He’s got to drive back.”
“Mind if I smoke?” Eric said. “And no offense, Mister Arthur, but I can handle my booze. You can ask anybody at home.”
“Go right ahead,” Helen said, before Arthur could interrupt.
“Arthur, get him an ashtray, too, please.”
Arthur scratched his head. “I don’t think we’ve got any.”
“Well, maybe we should buy some,” she said.
“I can use just anything,” Eric said, already pulling out his pack. “A jar lid’ll do. Shoot, I can use an empty Coke can.”
“We don’t keep much Coke around here.” Arthur was
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