Read Online Time Done Been Won't Be No More by William Gay - Free Book Online
Authors: William Gay
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something?
Dennis listened. All he could hear was the river, crows spilling raucous cries from above them, doves mourning from some deep hollow he couldnât see.
Something. Sounded like yelling.
Then he could hear voices, faint at first, sourceless, as if they were coming from thin air, or out of the depths of the yellow water. Then he heard, faint and faint: Dennis. Dennis.
Theyâve found it. Wesley said. He took up his oars and turned the boat into the swift current. Letâs move it, he said. The voices had grown louder. If this is the right cave weâll map it, Wesley said. Make us up some charts so we can find it again.
The river widened where it shoaled, then began narrowing into a bottleneck as the bend up. Dennis could feel the river quickening under him, the canoe gaining urgency as it rocked in the current.
Dennis. Dennis.
I wish sheâd shut the hell up, Dennis said.
All right, all right, Wesley yelled. Weâre coming.
That must be one hellacious cave.
But the cliffs had been tending away for some time now on this side of the river, and when they rounded the bend they saw that the bluffs had subsided to a steep, stony embankment where Christy and Sandy were huddled. Dennis couldnât see their canoe. They were on their knees and still wearing life jackets, their hair plastered tightly to their skulls. Sandy was crying, and Christy was talking to her and had an arm about her shoulders.
Now what the fuck is this news, Wesley said, and Dennis felt a cold shudder of unease. He remembered something Dorothy Parker had purportedly said once when her doorbell rang: What fresh hell is this?
They tipped us over, Christy said. Now she began to cry as well. Goddamn them. They were waiting for us here and grabbed the boat. All four of them, two boatloads. They tried to get us into the boats with them and when we wouldnât go they got rough, tried to drag us. I hit one with an oar, and that baldheaded fucker tipped us over. They took the boat.
Wesley seemed actually to pale. Dennis could see a cold pallor beneath the deep tan. It seemed to pulse in his face. Sandy, are you all right? Wesley asked.
She canât hear, Christy said. When we went under it did something to her hearing aid, ruined it. Shorted it out or something. She canât hear a thing. I mean not a goddamned thing.
Oh , Wesley cried. He seemed on the threshold of a seizure, some sort of rage induced attack. Eight hundred fucking dollars, he said. Eight hundred dollars up a wild hogâs ass and gone. Iâm going to kill them. Iâm going to absolutely fucking kill them.
Wesley made twelve dollars an hour, and Dennis knew that he was mentally dividing twelve into eight hundred and arriving at the number of hours he had worked to pay for the hearing aid.
Whereâs the other oars?
I donât know. They floated off.
Iâm gone. Iâm going to kill them graveyard dead.
He turned the boat about to face the current.
Hey, Christy called. Wait.
Stay right here, Wesley said. And I mean right here. Do not move from that rock till we get back with the boat.
Let them keep the goddamned boat, Christy screamed, but Wesley didnât reply. He heeled into the current and began to row. He did not speak for a long time. He rowed like a madman, like some sort of rowing machine kicked up on high. Iâll row when you get tired, Dennis said. Fuck that, Wesley told him. After a while he looked back and grinned. How dead am I going to kill them? He asked.
Graveyard dead, Dennis said.
Wesley hadnât missed a stroke rowing. After a time he said, There will be some slow riding and sad singing.
Trees went by on the twin shorelines like a landscape unspooling endlessly from one reel to another. A flock of birds went down the metallic sky like a handful of hurled slate. Dennis guessed the Lester gang was long gone, into the tall timber, their canoes hidden in the brush, laughing and drinking beer, on their way
Dennis listened. All he could hear was the river, crows spilling raucous cries from above them, doves mourning from some deep hollow he couldnât see.
Something. Sounded like yelling.
Then he could hear voices, faint at first, sourceless, as if they were coming from thin air, or out of the depths of the yellow water. Then he heard, faint and faint: Dennis. Dennis.
Theyâve found it. Wesley said. He took up his oars and turned the boat into the swift current. Letâs move it, he said. The voices had grown louder. If this is the right cave weâll map it, Wesley said. Make us up some charts so we can find it again.
The river widened where it shoaled, then began narrowing into a bottleneck as the bend up. Dennis could feel the river quickening under him, the canoe gaining urgency as it rocked in the current.
Dennis. Dennis.
I wish sheâd shut the hell up, Dennis said.
All right, all right, Wesley yelled. Weâre coming.
That must be one hellacious cave.
But the cliffs had been tending away for some time now on this side of the river, and when they rounded the bend they saw that the bluffs had subsided to a steep, stony embankment where Christy and Sandy were huddled. Dennis couldnât see their canoe. They were on their knees and still wearing life jackets, their hair plastered tightly to their skulls. Sandy was crying, and Christy was talking to her and had an arm about her shoulders.
Now what the fuck is this news, Wesley said, and Dennis felt a cold shudder of unease. He remembered something Dorothy Parker had purportedly said once when her doorbell rang: What fresh hell is this?
They tipped us over, Christy said. Now she began to cry as well. Goddamn them. They were waiting for us here and grabbed the boat. All four of them, two boatloads. They tried to get us into the boats with them and when we wouldnât go they got rough, tried to drag us. I hit one with an oar, and that baldheaded fucker tipped us over. They took the boat.
Wesley seemed actually to pale. Dennis could see a cold pallor beneath the deep tan. It seemed to pulse in his face. Sandy, are you all right? Wesley asked.
She canât hear, Christy said. When we went under it did something to her hearing aid, ruined it. Shorted it out or something. She canât hear a thing. I mean not a goddamned thing.
Oh , Wesley cried. He seemed on the threshold of a seizure, some sort of rage induced attack. Eight hundred fucking dollars, he said. Eight hundred dollars up a wild hogâs ass and gone. Iâm going to kill them. Iâm going to absolutely fucking kill them.
Wesley made twelve dollars an hour, and Dennis knew that he was mentally dividing twelve into eight hundred and arriving at the number of hours he had worked to pay for the hearing aid.
Whereâs the other oars?
I donât know. They floated off.
Iâm gone. Iâm going to kill them graveyard dead.
He turned the boat about to face the current.
Hey, Christy called. Wait.
Stay right here, Wesley said. And I mean right here. Do not move from that rock till we get back with the boat.
Let them keep the goddamned boat, Christy screamed, but Wesley didnât reply. He heeled into the current and began to row. He did not speak for a long time. He rowed like a madman, like some sort of rowing machine kicked up on high. Iâll row when you get tired, Dennis said. Fuck that, Wesley told him. After a while he looked back and grinned. How dead am I going to kill them? He asked.
Graveyard dead, Dennis said.
Wesley hadnât missed a stroke rowing. After a time he said, There will be some slow riding and sad singing.
Trees went by on the twin shorelines like a landscape unspooling endlessly from one reel to another. A flock of birds went down the metallic sky like a handful of hurled slate. Dennis guessed the Lester gang was long gone, into the tall timber, their canoes hidden in the brush, laughing and drinking beer, on their way
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