Read Online This Magnificent Desolation by Cara Shores, Thomas O'Malley - Free Book Online Page A

don’t talk about those choices here and we don’t talk about your parents because we don’t want to instill the false hope that someday they may return. Sometimes we have to accept what is and then move on in life, otherwise we remain stuck and we fail to thrive. Everything we do here is with that in mind. If I do show you the letters, it will be under the condition that after reading them, you will be able to move on, yes?
    Duncan feels the nausea in his stomach subsiding but places his hand there anyway. He wonders what the letters contain and whether or not he really wants to see them at all. Perhaps he should be content for his dreams, of her standing before the Festival of Lights Holiday Train in the snow, for the image of her resting peacefully in the ground.
    The cat with the green eyes stretches upon the seat, shakes itself, and then jumps to the floor. Its uncut nails tap the floor as it makes its way out of the room.
    It is time you were in bed, Duncan, Father Toibin says, and suddenly he seems very tired. His eyes are red-rimmed and his face pale. I’ve kept you here much too long.
    Duncan whispers: Father, will I die here?
    Father Toibin shakes his head and, suppressing a laugh, coughs into his hand. Again, such morbidity! You will not die here, Duncan. We’re not a shop of horrors, you know. Besides, doesn’t God have other plans for you? Aren’t you meant to do something special out there in the world of the living?

Chapter 12
    It’s the seventh game of the World Series and in the playing field beyond the children’s graveyard, Father Toibin and three novitiates are umpiring the game. The New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox are tied 4–4 in the top of the ninth and there are two outs. Billy steps to the plate—someone’s folded T-shirt—and with his bat takes two large swipes at the air. He stomps the dirt, toes the T-shirt, and settles into his batting stance, a partial crouch with the bat tight against his shoulder. This is the sixth batter to the plate this inning, and they’ve already seen Reggie Jackson. A lanky kid with red hair moans at third base, raises his glove to his mouth, and shouts to Duncan, who’s about to pitch: He can’t be Jackson again.
    Jackson’s already been up, Duncan calls from the pitching mound, fifteen feet away. Jordan says you can’t be Jackson again.
    With difficulty Billy straightens his back, points to imaginary bleachers with his bat. I’ve changed the batting order. I’ve moved Reggie from third to eighth.
    Duncan shakes his head. You’ve got to be someone else.
    Oh, please, does it really matter? Julie shouts. She’s standing in the long grass at the farthest edges of the field, wearing a large, tattered floppy straw sun hat that covers her eyes. Her hands are clasped behind her head in boredom. There are three other outfielders and one of them is sitting with his legs crossed Indian-style and flicking stones.
    All right, Billy says. I’m Dave Winfield.
    Duncan shakes his head again.
    Fine. I’m—
    Duncan hurls the ball at the center of the plate and Billy swivels his hips, grimacing, and with a loud crack drives the ball directly toward Julie. It strikes the ground and, whispering like a snake, quickly comes to a stop in the grass. Julie doesn’t move and already Billy is on his way to second. Julie! the second baseman shouts. Pick up the ball! Pick up the ball!
    Julie pouts, pushes the hat back on her head, and trudges to the ball. The other team is cheering.
    Hearing the second baseman’s shouts, Billy grins, and Duncan watches him, legs thumping up dust, tongue lolling from his mouth like a dog, and laughing. Carefully Billy rounds second, stumbling briefly so that Duncan starts toward him, and then gambols bow-legged around third, raising his hands in celebration, but the ball is sailing through the air in one sharp arc and the catcher has merely to reach out