Read Online Where Love Begins by Judith Hermann - Free Book Online Page B

trying vainly to read a book, drinking tea with milk, eating a plain croissant, and feeling like a stranger in her own life.
    Mister Pfister has caught on. That’s Jason’s expression – Mister Pfister has caught on, and so he just comes by a little earlier or a little later; even though he knows that Stella won’t come to the door, it’s important that she’s there when he rings the bell. He knows when she is there; he knows almost always, and Stella can’t think where he’s actually observing her from. When Ava is there, he doesn’t ring, but she feels it’s only a matter of time, a matter of days before he’ll ring when Ava is at home too. What comes to Stella’s mind? A flood. The level rising. A deadline approaching, a time limit expiring.
    Mister Pfister rings at the garden gate. He waits a precisely measured moment, drops something into the mailbox, goes on his way. He never turns around; he always passes the house and walks on. Stella no longer stands in the hall by the door. She stays wherever she is when he rings. Sometimes she’s sitting in her room at her desk and sees him coming; he comes along the street from the left, and she leans back, closes her eyes, counting his steps. She whispers: Four, three, two, one more – now, and then the bell rings; if the window is pushed up, she can hear the clatter of the mailbox. She keeps her eyes closed, counts his steps to the street corner, keeps counting, and when she opens her eyes, he’s already gone the length of Forest Lane and is out of sight.
    Every day.
    There’s a letter in the mailbox. A card, an envelope, a scrap of paper, or a letter, and Stella takes a shoebox with her to the mailbox and drops the letter, the card, the envelope, the piece of paper into the shoebox, unread; she pushes the cover down on the shoebox as if there were something inside it that might offer resistance, and puts the shoebox on the floor in the shed under the workbench.
    Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday.
    Friday is a warm day. The early morning sky, a transparent blue. Stella argues with Ava about whether or not shoes are necessary for the trip to kindergarten. At least she gets her to wear a jacket. In the child seat Ava triumphantly sticks her bare feet up in the air.
    You have no idea what hot is. In kindergarten today we’ll be allowed to go swimming. Are you going to buy strawberries? Can you buy ice cream? Can we turn on the lawn sprinkler soon? I love it when it’s hot. I love when it’s summer. Stevie loves it too when it’s summer.
    Stella listens to Ava’s voice, Ava’s self-absorbed questions, she can hear satisfaction in Ava’s voice. Satisfaction in her clear observations, unambiguous feelings. I love summer. I love hot weather. Stevie loves summer too.
    Do you love summer? Ava leans far to the left so as to be able to see Stella from the side; the bicycle wobbles. Ava puts her arms around Stella’s stomach from behind.
    Yes, I love summer too. Sit up straight, or we’ll fall over. But I like winter better. I like it better when it’s cold and it snows and is stormy.
    Why?
    Oh well, why.
    The lawn at the kindergarten is shady and cool. The round table has been set for a second breakfast under the trees. Stella greets the kindergarten teachers from afar; she’s afraid there might be questions about Ava, remarks that might alarm her. The shadows of the tree leaves dance over Ava’s face, she looks so wide awake, she gives Stella a firm, untroubled child’s kiss.
    Tomorrow we’re going to Papa.
    Yes, tomorrow we’re going to Papa.
    *
    Stella cycles home. She pushes the bicycle to the back of the house, unlocks the sunroom door with the key that’s kept under the watering can, thinking that she should take the key inside the house, but then she puts it back under the watering can. She leaves the door open. Washes the dishes in the kitchen, makes