Read Online Veda: A Novel by Ellen Gardner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ellen Gardner
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wood so I could cook, but he paced, slappin his arms, and blowin on his hands, and wouldn’t budge. I was disgusted. He’d been gone for almost two months while we lived hand to mouth, and now he was back actin like a spoiled baby.
“Why in God’s name can’t you at least go and ask?” I yelled at him.
“I won’t deal with a blasphemer,” he said.
I was shakin, I was so mad. His children were cold and hungry and all he cared about was his principles.
“Don’t you care about anybody but yourself?” I screamed steppin toward him. He raised his arm to keep me back, and his hand hit my nose. It started to bleed.
“If you won’t go, I will.” I grabbed his work coat and gloves off the hook and pushed the door against the wind. The Burris’s house was about two hundred yards from our place and the snow was blowin so hard I could barely see. I tried to walk, but I kept fallin. Finally I stayed down and crawled.
“What the hell happened,” Mr. Burris asked when he opened the door, “did you fall?”
“I need to borrow some wood.”
“You’re bleeding,” he said. “He didn’t hit you, did he? Did that little weasel hit you?”
“I’m all right,” I said. “He’s just upset. It’s my fault, I was yellin at him.”
“Like hell it is!” he shouted. “I’ll show that sonofabitch a thing or two.”
“No, please don’t,” I said. “He didn’t do it on purpose.”
Mr. Burris wasn’t listenin. He threw a bunch of wood on a sled and told me to git on. Then he pulled me back up to the house. Raymond was on his knees prayin, and when he saw who was with me, he started scootin backwards. That’s when Mr. Burris grabbed him by the collar, held him up, and punched him. Raymond fell backwards and Mr. Burris turned to me.
“Are you going to be all right?”
I nodded. He turned again to Raymond. “If you touch her again, I’ll see you locked up.”
I built a fire and fixed the kids some supper while Raymond sat, crumpled up like a wad of paper. His lip started to swell, but I was too angry to care. I knew he hadn’t meant to hit me, but he could of said he was sorry. Not just for bloodyin my nose, but for bein such a pitiful excuse for a father.
The storm went on for more than a week, and all the while Raymond paced like a caged animal. When it finally let up, he hitched a ride into town with a delivery truck driver. “I’ll let you know when I find a job,” he said. “And I fully intend to report Mr. Burris’s assault to the police.”
April 12, 1942 (Sun.) [Max 71°, Min 25°.] Clear and warm, a perfect day, the third fine, warm Sunday in succession. This has certainly been a beautiful April so far. I have a new job in Canby, so I have located an apartment and paid a week’s rent on it.
Raymond wrote to say he had a job and had rented a furnished apartment, so Mr. Burris drove me and the kids to Canby. I didn’t like the looks of the town. Canneries, packin plants and railroad tracks. The apartment was in a rundown two-story clapboard with a cattywampus front porch. Rickety stairs leaned against one side of the house, and thick green moss covered the roof like a blanket. Mr. Burris stayed in the truck with the kids while I went to the door.
“You Mrs. Ames?” The man who answered my knock asked. When I nodded, he pointed at the stairs. “It’s up there. Your husband said to let you in.”
I followed him, holdin on to the handrail. He pushed the door open and the smell of urine and mildew almost knocked me over. There was one big room with cracked linoleum, water stains on the ceilin and walls, and two filthy windows. An iron cookstove and a washbasin stood in one corner. I wondered if Raymond had even looked at it.
“That there’s the kitchen,” he said, “and that bucket’s for fetchin water.” He turned to leave. “Them your younguns in the truck? I hope they’s quiet.”
I went down the stairs and got the kids, and Mr. Burris started bringin up my things.
“Why in God’s name can’t you at least go and ask?” I yelled at him.
“I won’t deal with a blasphemer,” he said.
I was shakin, I was so mad. His children were cold and hungry and all he cared about was his principles.
“Don’t you care about anybody but yourself?” I screamed steppin toward him. He raised his arm to keep me back, and his hand hit my nose. It started to bleed.
“If you won’t go, I will.” I grabbed his work coat and gloves off the hook and pushed the door against the wind. The Burris’s house was about two hundred yards from our place and the snow was blowin so hard I could barely see. I tried to walk, but I kept fallin. Finally I stayed down and crawled.
“What the hell happened,” Mr. Burris asked when he opened the door, “did you fall?”
“I need to borrow some wood.”
“You’re bleeding,” he said. “He didn’t hit you, did he? Did that little weasel hit you?”
“I’m all right,” I said. “He’s just upset. It’s my fault, I was yellin at him.”
“Like hell it is!” he shouted. “I’ll show that sonofabitch a thing or two.”
“No, please don’t,” I said. “He didn’t do it on purpose.”
Mr. Burris wasn’t listenin. He threw a bunch of wood on a sled and told me to git on. Then he pulled me back up to the house. Raymond was on his knees prayin, and when he saw who was with me, he started scootin backwards. That’s when Mr. Burris grabbed him by the collar, held him up, and punched him. Raymond fell backwards and Mr. Burris turned to me.
“Are you going to be all right?”
I nodded. He turned again to Raymond. “If you touch her again, I’ll see you locked up.”
I built a fire and fixed the kids some supper while Raymond sat, crumpled up like a wad of paper. His lip started to swell, but I was too angry to care. I knew he hadn’t meant to hit me, but he could of said he was sorry. Not just for bloodyin my nose, but for bein such a pitiful excuse for a father.
The storm went on for more than a week, and all the while Raymond paced like a caged animal. When it finally let up, he hitched a ride into town with a delivery truck driver. “I’ll let you know when I find a job,” he said. “And I fully intend to report Mr. Burris’s assault to the police.”
April 12, 1942 (Sun.) [Max 71°, Min 25°.] Clear and warm, a perfect day, the third fine, warm Sunday in succession. This has certainly been a beautiful April so far. I have a new job in Canby, so I have located an apartment and paid a week’s rent on it.
Raymond wrote to say he had a job and had rented a furnished apartment, so Mr. Burris drove me and the kids to Canby. I didn’t like the looks of the town. Canneries, packin plants and railroad tracks. The apartment was in a rundown two-story clapboard with a cattywampus front porch. Rickety stairs leaned against one side of the house, and thick green moss covered the roof like a blanket. Mr. Burris stayed in the truck with the kids while I went to the door.
“You Mrs. Ames?” The man who answered my knock asked. When I nodded, he pointed at the stairs. “It’s up there. Your husband said to let you in.”
I followed him, holdin on to the handrail. He pushed the door open and the smell of urine and mildew almost knocked me over. There was one big room with cracked linoleum, water stains on the ceilin and walls, and two filthy windows. An iron cookstove and a washbasin stood in one corner. I wondered if Raymond had even looked at it.
“That there’s the kitchen,” he said, “and that bucket’s for fetchin water.” He turned to leave. “Them your younguns in the truck? I hope they’s quiet.”
I went down the stairs and got the kids, and Mr. Burris started bringin up my things.
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