Read Online This Is How I'd Love You by Hazel Woods - Free Book Online
Authors: Hazel Woods
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Hensley’s spine.
As the large brown horse named Thunder shifts beneath her, Hensley wonders if she will ever have a post from Lowell. Has he already forgotten her? Or has the dialogue of some new play taken residence in his head and supplanted her entirely?
Two hawks circle high above, and then, with sudden, startling velocity, they dive. She and Berto both pull on their reins, searching the ground for the birds’ prey. Each hawk gently touches a mound of rocks, one on either side of them, and pulls away with a lizard dangling from its talons.
“That’s amazing,” Hensley says, impressed by the efficiency of their hunt.
“Redtails are good hunters. In Mexico, I saw one grab a puppy.”
Hensley gasps. “How awful. I never want to see that.”
“I’ve seen worse,” he says, nudging the heels of his boots into the horse’s side. “You think you could manage the ride home by yourself? I’ve got an errand.”
How? she wonders. And where is home and how to get there? How to undo this terrible journey, to follow the faint line of their migration all the way back to New York. Is it possible? Or has her past vanished? Is there nothing behind her but a black hole?
Of course she knows that Berto means the “home” that her father claimed as theirs in the superintendent’s house they moved into when they arrived. Home; a new beginning; a revolutionary new life, he said. There are snakes and hawks and, for all she knows, Pancho Villa lurking somewhere nearby, but sitting astride Thunder in her white cotton shirt, she feels nearly revolutionary herself. Is this what it takes? she asks herself. Is it the kind of hopelessness she feels that incubates insurrection?
Berto brings his horse back toward her. “It’s okay? Here, you should take my pistol.”
Hensley shakes her head. “I’ve never even held a gun. I’ll be fine. It’s not far. Thank you.”
Berto shrugs and then repositions the gun in his holster. “Suit yourself,” he says, touching his hat before he gallops away. The dust in his wake seems to hang in the dry air, settling slowly back onto the road that looks more like a dried-up riverbed than a way home. Pressing her heels into Thunder’s ribs, she lets the horse navigate the terrain as she traverses the memory of her last week in New York.
• • •
A s opening night approached, Hensley attended all the rehearsals, grabbing girls when they were offstage for a quick fitting or adjustment. When the other girls left, exhausted from standing under the hot lights for hours, with homework awaiting, Hensley lingered, taking time to pin each costume with her notes, folding the garments carefully to fit into her satchel.
Then, as had become their routine, Mr. Teagan fixed her a cup of sweet, milky coffee he’d brewed in the kettle in the teachers’ lounge. They would sit in the red velvet house seats discussing his frustrations with the blocking, or the idea for her English thesis paper, or his family’s summer house in Maine and how he’d love to show her the shoreline there, eat crabs from the stalls near the dock, and ride bikes to a perfect picnic spot beneath a summer moon. The way he spoke, it was as though their lives were already entwined. He would sometimes reach for her hand and bring it to his lips, holding it gently as his breath warmed her. Letting her fingers feel the power of his words, he’d recite a line from Tennyson. “‘All the inner, all the outer world of pain, / Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine . . .’”
He placed one hand upon her ankle, letting its heat settle into her. Then, as though tracing an unknown path, he pulled his fingers ever northward, lingering on the back of her knee, its pale, hidden crease. He laid his hand with a gentle force upon her groin, sliding the linen of her undergarment against her. Hensley felt struck, paralyzed, as she looked up at the rafters, the ropes connected to the curtain, and the backdrops hanging
As the large brown horse named Thunder shifts beneath her, Hensley wonders if she will ever have a post from Lowell. Has he already forgotten her? Or has the dialogue of some new play taken residence in his head and supplanted her entirely?
Two hawks circle high above, and then, with sudden, startling velocity, they dive. She and Berto both pull on their reins, searching the ground for the birds’ prey. Each hawk gently touches a mound of rocks, one on either side of them, and pulls away with a lizard dangling from its talons.
“That’s amazing,” Hensley says, impressed by the efficiency of their hunt.
“Redtails are good hunters. In Mexico, I saw one grab a puppy.”
Hensley gasps. “How awful. I never want to see that.”
“I’ve seen worse,” he says, nudging the heels of his boots into the horse’s side. “You think you could manage the ride home by yourself? I’ve got an errand.”
How? she wonders. And where is home and how to get there? How to undo this terrible journey, to follow the faint line of their migration all the way back to New York. Is it possible? Or has her past vanished? Is there nothing behind her but a black hole?
Of course she knows that Berto means the “home” that her father claimed as theirs in the superintendent’s house they moved into when they arrived. Home; a new beginning; a revolutionary new life, he said. There are snakes and hawks and, for all she knows, Pancho Villa lurking somewhere nearby, but sitting astride Thunder in her white cotton shirt, she feels nearly revolutionary herself. Is this what it takes? she asks herself. Is it the kind of hopelessness she feels that incubates insurrection?
Berto brings his horse back toward her. “It’s okay? Here, you should take my pistol.”
Hensley shakes her head. “I’ve never even held a gun. I’ll be fine. It’s not far. Thank you.”
Berto shrugs and then repositions the gun in his holster. “Suit yourself,” he says, touching his hat before he gallops away. The dust in his wake seems to hang in the dry air, settling slowly back onto the road that looks more like a dried-up riverbed than a way home. Pressing her heels into Thunder’s ribs, she lets the horse navigate the terrain as she traverses the memory of her last week in New York.
• • •
A s opening night approached, Hensley attended all the rehearsals, grabbing girls when they were offstage for a quick fitting or adjustment. When the other girls left, exhausted from standing under the hot lights for hours, with homework awaiting, Hensley lingered, taking time to pin each costume with her notes, folding the garments carefully to fit into her satchel.
Then, as had become their routine, Mr. Teagan fixed her a cup of sweet, milky coffee he’d brewed in the kettle in the teachers’ lounge. They would sit in the red velvet house seats discussing his frustrations with the blocking, or the idea for her English thesis paper, or his family’s summer house in Maine and how he’d love to show her the shoreline there, eat crabs from the stalls near the dock, and ride bikes to a perfect picnic spot beneath a summer moon. The way he spoke, it was as though their lives were already entwined. He would sometimes reach for her hand and bring it to his lips, holding it gently as his breath warmed her. Letting her fingers feel the power of his words, he’d recite a line from Tennyson. “‘All the inner, all the outer world of pain, / Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine . . .’”
He placed one hand upon her ankle, letting its heat settle into her. Then, as though tracing an unknown path, he pulled his fingers ever northward, lingering on the back of her knee, its pale, hidden crease. He laid his hand with a gentle force upon her groin, sliding the linen of her undergarment against her. Hensley felt struck, paralyzed, as she looked up at the rafters, the ropes connected to the curtain, and the backdrops hanging
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