Read Online Things Hoped For by Andrew Clements - Free Book Online Page B

Grampa didn’t take his hairbrush and comb. Or his toothbrush and electric razor. Which seems odd, that he’d leave in that much of a hurry.
    And right away I want to try to figure out what it might mean. Of course, it might just mean that he decided to take one of those plastic disposable razors instead of the electric one, and that he took one of the new toothbrushes that his dentist always gives him. And who knows how many combs and brushes he owns? Or it could be that since he was in a hurry, Grampa just forgot. Everybody forgets stuff.
    Even though I can find all these perfectly logical explanations, my worries follow me around like a dark swarm of bees. And I run to the creek, and I dive down deep, and I hold my breath as long as I can. But when I come up, gasping for air, I can still hear the buzzing.
    And once again I try to take some shelter in Grampa’s last order to me: You just keep about your own business and leave all the worrying to me.
    Grampa and his orders. My dad said that time in the army does that to a man, makes him think like a soldier for the rest of his life, especially if he’s been to war.
    I finish my chores and then I curl up on the couch with my book of poems. But I get up after a few minutes and go into the study. I roll Grampa’s desk chair out of the way, and I reach up and pull Pride and Prejudice off the shelf. For the third time. Because tonight doesn’t feel like a Yeats night. This is a Jane Austen night.
    And I turn to go back to the parlor, but I stop. Because I can hear something. There’s music playing. And at first I think it’s a radio from upstairs.
    But it’s not. It’s Robert. I pull out the chair and sit down, and I can hear the slow movement of the Haydn trumpet concerto drifting up out of the metal vent on the floor. It’s not loud, but it’s clear.
    The music is beautiful, but that’s not why my eyes fill up with tears. It’s because I never knew. Grampa could have had the carpenter block every bit of sound from below. But he didn’t. He saved some. For himself. Just a little, so he could sit here when he wanted to and listen to me play my violin. And I never knew.
    I smile when Robert ends the movement with a long fluttering trill, and then I wipe my eyes and carry Pride and Prejudice back into the parlor. I lie down again on the couch, and I open the book and begin to read.
    But on this particular Saturday night, I ask myself, Why do I like this book so much?
    Because someone could read this book and think that it’s just a sappy story about this girl and her sisters, and how they’re all trying so desperately to get married, to find the men who will save them from being old maids.
    Truth: I have given no serious time in my life to love and romance. Almost zero. Since seventh grade I have never dreamed of anything except becoming a great violinist in a great orchestra. And even now, that’s still my top priority.
    But here I am, reading Pride and Prejudice again.
    I flip ahead until I find the last chapter, and after reading a page or two, I realize that it’s the main character, Elizabeth. She’s the reason I love this book. Lizzy is smart, and she’s not just going along with what everyone expects her to do. And she’s got everyone figured out, except Mr. Darcy. And herself. But that comes full circle by the end.
    And I love Jane Austen’s use of language too—the way she takes her time to develop a phrase and gives it room to grow, so that these clever, complex statements form slowly and then bloom in my mind. Beethoven does the same thing with his cadence and phrasing and structure. It’s a fact: Jane Austen is musical. And so’s Yeats. And Wordsworth. All the great writers are musical.
    Thank you again, Miss Page, for more brilliant literary insights.
    When Robert comes back upstairs, I don’t tell him that I listened to him playing from the study. That’s a secret, mine and Grampa’s.
    Robert and I serve ourselves some ice cream, chocolate