Read Online The Rest is Silence by Scott Fotheringham - Free Book Online Page B

something comes out of the woods toward me. I stand, heart pounding. A silhouette is holding a rifle by its barrel. It walks into the clearing and is lit by the glow of flames.
    â€œShit, don’t sneak up on me like that,” I say. Art rests his rifle against the big spruce to which my tent is tied. “You’re lucky I don’t have a gun of my own.”
    â€œYou should have one,” Art says, “living up here all by yourself.” He sits on a straw bale and stares into the light.
    I tell him about the coyote. He nods toward the gun.
    â€œWant me to go get it?”
    â€œNo. Any luck in the woods?”
    â€œWith this hip clicking I suspect they hear me coming from a mile away.”
    â€œTea?”
    â€œYou got anything stronger?”
    I don’t. When your father’s an alcoholic you have to make a tough choice. You can either embrace the bottle or turn away. When your father is an alcoholic who kills himself, then you learn that if you want to survive there is really only one choice to make. After a couple of years, when it seemed like I might be willing to follow his lead, I made it. I have not had a drink since I left New York.
    I walk beyond the light thrown by the fire into the shadows of the kitchen. My eyes adjust and I strike a match and turn on one of the gas burners. The propane hisses until I touch the match to it, when it pops blue into life. I move the full kettle on top of the flame and return to the fire.
    â€œI’ve been thinking of you up here,” Art says, “by yourself. What you want is a good woman to keep you warm at night.”
    â€œIf you hadn’t scared Lina off so fast.”
    When the kettle begins its high-pitched whistle I rise to get it. I pull two Earl Grey bags from the jar on the stove and drop them into the teapot. Its ceramic spout is chipped. I’m seeing my life through Art’s eyes now, imagining what he must think. There is food crusted on the stovetop, I make my meals standing under a spruce, and my dining-room furniture consists of two straw bales. I don’t see other people making life hard for themselves on purpose. I pour the boiling water over the tea bags. We let the tea steep, and then I pour some into his cup.
    â€œYou got any milk?”
    â€œI don’t drink it.”
    â€œI’ve been getting it fresh from Reagh’s Jerseys since they stopped selling bags at the SaveEasy. It ain’t convenient, but it tastes better, that’s for sure.”
    Harold Reagh lives along the Shore Road not far from Art. He’s the one I bought lumber from to build my outhouse. It’s his equipment — manure spreader, tractors, a hay wagon — that is responsible for churning up the dust in front of my property as it rattles over the potholes and gullies of Lily Lake Road. Sticks in the fire crackle and burn, sending up sparks into the night air.
    â€œHow’d Louise fare in the hurricane?”
    He shakes himself like a bear. “What? Oh. She did O.K. Their power was out for a few days like the rest of us.” Sparks explode up with the flames. “Sorry, I’m not much company tonight. I’ve got memories rattling around in my head like change in a can.”
    â€œTell me about it. Makes it hard to fall asleep, huh?”
    â€œA young guy like you can’t have much to forget.” He pokes at the fire for a bit before he seems to realize something and stares at me. “What’re you doing up here all alone, anyway?”
    â€œI’m not alone. I’ve got the coyotes.”
    â€œI see how much you like having them around.”
    Then it strikes me that tonight his rifle is a prop. “Why’d you come here tonight?”
    He stares into the flames, saying nothing. Then: “You told me you had a story for me.”
    7
    New York City
    Benny woke at six and prepared to head into the dark for her morning run. She laced her shoes and pulled her sweatshirt