Read Online The Stranger in the Lifeboat by Mitch Albom - Free Book Online Page B

asked.
    â€œEnough of it,” Lambert mumbled.
    Jean Philippe crawled out from the canopy, so we stopped talking. He wants to believe what he chooses about his wife’s passing. We should respect that.
    Meanwhile, I fear Nevin is slipping badly. He is quite pale and his leg wound, despite our best efforts, is only getting worse. An hour ago, when I began writing you, I heard him call my name. His lips were covered with blisters and his voice was feeble and halting.
    â€œBenji . . . ,” he croaked, waving two fingers. “Can you . . . come here . . . ?”
    I crawled over to his tall, thin body. His injured leg was elevated over the side.
    â€œWhat is it, Nevin?” I said.
    â€œBenji . . . I have three children . . .”
    â€œThat’s good.”
    â€œI . . . I see you writing in your . . . uh . . . notebook. Might you be able to . . . transcribe a message for them . . . from me, I mean?”
    I looked down at my pen and said, “All right.”
    â€œThe thing is . . . I’ve not spent . . . the time with them . . . that I should have . . .”
    â€œIt’s OK, Nevin, you will.”
    He grunted and forced a small smile. I could tell he didn’t believe me.
    â€œMy youngest . . . Alexander . . . he’s . . . a good boy . . . a bit bashful . . .”
    â€œYes—”
    â€œTall, like me . . . married a nice woman, a . . . a history teacher . . . I believe . . .”
    He voice grew thinner. He rolled his eyes away from me.
    â€œKeep going, Nevin. What do you want me to write?”
    â€œI missed their wedding,” he rasped. “Business meeting . . .”
    He looked back at me as if pleading.
    â€œMy youngest child . . . I . . . told him . . . it couldn’t be helped . . .” His right hand fell limply across his chest. “It could have been helped.”
    I asked again what he wanted me to write, even though I already knew. He blinked his eyes.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said.

Land
    LeFleur entered his house quietly. The sun had already set. He had the notebook tucked into a briefcase.
    â€œJarty? Where have you been?”
    Patrice appeared out of the kitchen. She wore jeans and a lime-green T-shirt that draped loosely on her thin frame. Her feet were bare.
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œYou left this morning, you didn’t call all day.”
    â€œYou’re right.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œNothing. Some junk floated up on the north shore. I had to drive up and check it out.”
    â€œYou still could have called.”
    â€œYou’re right.”
    She paused, looking at him. She scratched her elbow. “So? Anything interesting?”
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œI have dinner.”
    â€œI’m tired.”
    â€œI made all this food.”
    â€œOK, OK.”
    An hour later, having finished the meal, LeFleur said he wanted to watch the soccer game. Patrice rolled her eyes. He knew she would. He remembered a time when their communication was kinder, their exchanges tinged with the gentility of love. They had lost that in the wreckage of Lilly’s death.
    â€œI’m going upstairs then,” Patrice said.
    â€œI won’t be long.”
    â€œAre you all right, Jarty?”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    â€œYeah. If the game’s boring, I won’t watch the whole thing.”
    She turned without response and climbed the steps. LeFleur went into the back room, flicked on the television, then carefully removed the notebook from his briefcase. He knew everything he was doing was wrong. Taking this notebook from the raft. Failing to inform the higherauthorities. Lying to Patrice. It was as if he had tumbled