Read Online Where Old Ghosts Meet by Kate Evans - Free Book Online Page A

readin’ books wasn’t a man’s work. But Matt hated the water, made him sick to his stomach. At the end of the day his hands were in tatters from haulin’ the lines. With the men, not going back was a sign of weakness, and maybe they were right. I’m afraid Matt only did what he wanted to do, or what he was good at. Thing was, he was good at quite a few things, but he’d never push hisself forward or pick up for hisself.”
    She drained her mug and passed it to Nora to set on the tray. “I’ll tell you now the kind he was. My father used go huntin’ in the fall of the year so as we’d have plenty of bottled turrs and partridge stacked on the shelf through the winter. Come the fall we needed to stock up again. I knew how to shoot a gun because my father had taught me. One day late September that year, I took out my father’s shotgun, cleaned it out like he showed me and decided to try my luck on the barrens. Matt asked to come with me, didn’t trust me, I believe. I didn’t do too good and wanted to go on home out of it, when he said, ‘Here, let me have that.’ I stayed well clear of him, but, my dear, I knew just looking at the set up of him, he knew what he was about. He was a fine shot, no doubt about it! That year he took birds enough for ourselves and enough that I could share with others in need. That got him the bit of respect with the men. Not that he seemed to notice. He’d just go about his business, read his books and do the garden. Sometimes when I was to the flakes workin’ on the fish, he’d bide with Father and see to him and that was fine by me. It was only others thought it strange.”
    â€œSo, was he happy here?”
    â€œIn those days we didn’t think too much about being happy. Survivin’ is all was on most people’s minds. If there was food on the table and a roof over your head, that was reason enough to be happy. But yes, I suppose he was happy. He was good company for me anyways. He stayed on through the fall and winter and well into the spring of the following year. He had hauled kelp from the beach and had a stack piled five feet high to the back of the house ready for the garden. For sure I thought he was here to stay. To begin with I didn’t notice how things had changed about the house, until one evening around supper time, Matt was off on his own walkin’ the cliffs and I was fixin’ a bit of supper over by the kitchen table. I was hot and tired and I’d had enough for one day.”
    â€œBuddy,” the old man had suddenly begun to shout across the kitchen. “Buddy, now what’s the story with him?” His words were a bit slurred but the meaning was clear. “Is he plannin’ to stick around here for good or is he goin’ on back to New York or Boston or wherever it is he’s come from?”
    â€œBuddy? And who might I ask is Buddy?”
    â€œYou knows damn well who I mean. Now what’s the story?”
    Sometimes, it made her heart turn right over when she’d look across and see the thin, frail, old man sitting passively in the chair by the range. His hair wanted combing, and he could do with a shave and, God in heaven, his nose was runnin’ down in his mouth again! Why couldn’t he at least do that for himself? In two steps she was by his chair, and with the corner of her apron pinched hard on the end of his nose. “Are you talkin’ about Matt, Father? Because if you are, he’s got work enough here. In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve had vegetables, best kind all winter and if that’s not enough, I’ll have you know that if he didn’t bide here with you all afternoon then I couldn’t be down to the flakes, now, could I?”
    His left hand lay lifeless on the arm of the chair. It should have been big and square with strong hard fingers. But the flesh was soft and flaccid, the skin pale and mottled.