Read Online The Sea of Light by Jenifer Levin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jenifer Levin
Tags: Fiction
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eyes shimmered on fingertips in the flame and shadow—first a dense red, then the blank, blinding color of light. And I picked my child up in my arms, and took her home.
You may plan security, Delgado, you may strive all your life to attain it for yourself and for those you love. But try as you will, sometimes the world intervenes and strips it away. A lesson your father learned too late in life. He was ruined by fear and by plans. Arrived in Miami a broken man.
A lesson Tia Corazón never had to learn.
“Barbara.”
She’s sleeping.
Listen, Barbara: There are things in the world that we don’t know about. Spirits, demons with primitive names, hovering to invade our fondest fortresses.
Sometimes they live inside us. We call on them when we feel despair. And without even knowing it, accept them. Then feel them work among us. To heal. Or to destroy.
What do you think of that, my love? What do you think?
And you, Delgado. You. What do you think?
Nothing, I whisper. And sleep.
Delgado
( BABE )
I smell chlorine and panic. Then turn the corner quickly, lope up a flight to stay there on the landing between floors telling myself quiet Delgado quiet, you are alone and safe. But somewhere doors swing open. Damp air blows right through, steps on concrete are coming up, getting closer. I sway against a wall.
“Lost?”
The face stares down, beaming, young. Team letter fitted neatly over the broad chest of the sweatjacket. He has really broad shoulders and a thick, telltale neck, a breaststroker, reminds me of Kenny so I don’t want to look at the face but do. Then it is just some other blond guy, one I’ve never seen before. My voice from the other end of the hole tumbles out like confession.
“I’m looking for Brenna Allen.”
“Third floor. Come on, I’m going up there myself.”
I follow, feeling helpless.
Feeble, Delgado, very gutless. Pussycat.
He points the way telling me around that corner and to the left, better go to the receptionist first, she’ll let them know you are here. When he turns I watch him, thinking Kenny, watch his strong back. But he pauses to face me again with a puzzled expression. I know it on others, dread it. And the question:
“I’ve seen you before, right?”
Shake my head weakly.
“I mean a couple of years ago, maybe—I know! Senior Nationals. Industry Hills.”
“Not me.”
“No? I thought—well, never mind. Forget it.” He grins again, mischievously. A spark of scrutiny there and something in me shudders hard, I am sweating everywhere inside these good clothes and will look a mess. But he just shrugs, says, “Anyway, good luck,” turns again and walks away, gym bag slung over one shoulder. For a minute I hate him and the kind friendliness of his voice, his strength, his Kenny-ness, hate the smell of the air, most of all hate the flabbiness of my own arms and thighs.
The reception desk is there around a corner at one end of the hallway they’ve carpeted, very upscale, but nothing like Southern with its big sparkling assumption of wealth. I start to talk and this friendly girly face smiles back saying Yes, may I help you?
I freeze inside the hole of me, pull the lid shut over.
“May I help you?”
Open it, Delgado. Pussycat.
I do and peek out.
“Ms. Delgado.”
Babe, I say, call me Babe.
Another face smiles back, not the Kenny boy or the May I Help You girl, but a woman. I remember her face from years ago. It was younger then, smoother. Brown hair, wide forehead. In her mid-thirties but she keeps herself in pretty good shape, must do weights a lot, the skin almost youthful, lined with something sad around the eyes.
I stand.
She is not short yet suddenly I am at least three, four inches taller and feel clumsy, gigantic, very sweaty and fat.
We shake hands. Bren Allen, she says, glad to see you again. Come on into my office, we’ll have some time to talk. So we do. The lights there are pleasant, somehow calming. She has trophy cases, bookshelves with
You may plan security, Delgado, you may strive all your life to attain it for yourself and for those you love. But try as you will, sometimes the world intervenes and strips it away. A lesson your father learned too late in life. He was ruined by fear and by plans. Arrived in Miami a broken man.
A lesson Tia Corazón never had to learn.
“Barbara.”
She’s sleeping.
Listen, Barbara: There are things in the world that we don’t know about. Spirits, demons with primitive names, hovering to invade our fondest fortresses.
Sometimes they live inside us. We call on them when we feel despair. And without even knowing it, accept them. Then feel them work among us. To heal. Or to destroy.
What do you think of that, my love? What do you think?
And you, Delgado. You. What do you think?
Nothing, I whisper. And sleep.
Delgado
( BABE )
I smell chlorine and panic. Then turn the corner quickly, lope up a flight to stay there on the landing between floors telling myself quiet Delgado quiet, you are alone and safe. But somewhere doors swing open. Damp air blows right through, steps on concrete are coming up, getting closer. I sway against a wall.
“Lost?”
The face stares down, beaming, young. Team letter fitted neatly over the broad chest of the sweatjacket. He has really broad shoulders and a thick, telltale neck, a breaststroker, reminds me of Kenny so I don’t want to look at the face but do. Then it is just some other blond guy, one I’ve never seen before. My voice from the other end of the hole tumbles out like confession.
“I’m looking for Brenna Allen.”
“Third floor. Come on, I’m going up there myself.”
I follow, feeling helpless.
Feeble, Delgado, very gutless. Pussycat.
He points the way telling me around that corner and to the left, better go to the receptionist first, she’ll let them know you are here. When he turns I watch him, thinking Kenny, watch his strong back. But he pauses to face me again with a puzzled expression. I know it on others, dread it. And the question:
“I’ve seen you before, right?”
Shake my head weakly.
“I mean a couple of years ago, maybe—I know! Senior Nationals. Industry Hills.”
“Not me.”
“No? I thought—well, never mind. Forget it.” He grins again, mischievously. A spark of scrutiny there and something in me shudders hard, I am sweating everywhere inside these good clothes and will look a mess. But he just shrugs, says, “Anyway, good luck,” turns again and walks away, gym bag slung over one shoulder. For a minute I hate him and the kind friendliness of his voice, his strength, his Kenny-ness, hate the smell of the air, most of all hate the flabbiness of my own arms and thighs.
The reception desk is there around a corner at one end of the hallway they’ve carpeted, very upscale, but nothing like Southern with its big sparkling assumption of wealth. I start to talk and this friendly girly face smiles back saying Yes, may I help you?
I freeze inside the hole of me, pull the lid shut over.
“May I help you?”
Open it, Delgado. Pussycat.
I do and peek out.
“Ms. Delgado.”
Babe, I say, call me Babe.
Another face smiles back, not the Kenny boy or the May I Help You girl, but a woman. I remember her face from years ago. It was younger then, smoother. Brown hair, wide forehead. In her mid-thirties but she keeps herself in pretty good shape, must do weights a lot, the skin almost youthful, lined with something sad around the eyes.
I stand.
She is not short yet suddenly I am at least three, four inches taller and feel clumsy, gigantic, very sweaty and fat.
We shake hands. Bren Allen, she says, glad to see you again. Come on into my office, we’ll have some time to talk. So we do. The lights there are pleasant, somehow calming. She has trophy cases, bookshelves with
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