Read Online Z for Zachariah by Robert C. O’Brien - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert C. O’Brien
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and bought their petrol from Mr Klein.
"I suppose there is," I said. "But the pumps won't work without electricity."
"And you've been doing all this with a shovel. Don't you realize it would be simple to take the motors off the pumps and work them by hand? There may be four or five thousand gallons there." He smiled but it made me feel stupid.
"I don't know much about electric motors and pumps," I said.
"But I do," he said. "At least enough to do that."
"When you're well again," I said.
Without having discussed it, we both had begun going on the assumption that he would recover. The other possibility kept occurring to me at first, but now it seemed to have become remote. At least it had faded from my mind, through no effort on my part.
I was really glad to hear what he said about die petrol and the tractor, and I hoped it would work. There was enough winter pasture for the three cows, but just barely. With the tractor running I could mow the grass after it went to seed, and bring in some hay. Also, I hoped eventually to increase the herd.
We walked back to the house just as the sun was setting. Because the walls of the valley are so high, the sun always sets early and rises late; there is a long twilight and we never have real sunsets the way they are where the land is level. Still this was one of the better ones. My father used to say, "In a valley the real sunset is in the east," and that is how it was. As the sun disappeared over the west ridge, the last of the orange light moved up the hill on the east, with the darker shadow climbing up after it. At the end only die tops of the last high trees were lit, and they looked as if they were burning. Then they faded and went out, and it was dusk.
We stopped a minute to watch it and he rested his hand on my shoulder as he had on the gate post. I felt proud to be of help to him, but when we turned to walk the rest of the way he went without help. He was obviously much stronger and standing straighter. I realized that he was quite tall.
It turned colder that night, so after we had eaten dinner I built a fire in the living room fireplace and closed the windows. Since the living room adjoins his—Joseph and David's—room, I opened the door so the fire would warm it, too. He did not go back into the bedroom immediately, however, but sat down in a chair near the fireplace.
The living room has two big upholstered chairs and a sofa, all placed so you can see the fire, which my father and mother liked to do in winter. (This last winter I slept on the sofa to be near the fire.) The chair Mr Loomis sat in was the one my father used to use. The electric lamps are still beside the chairs—I left them there for looks, even though they will not light. Against the wall on one side of the room stands the record-player, and against the other our piano.
"Would you like me to get you a book?" I said, thinking he would be bored again. "I can put the lamp on the table by the chair."
He said: "No, thank you. I only want to look at the fire a few minutes. Then I'll get sleepy. The fire always does that."
Still, for the first time it bothered me. There was absolutely nothing for him to do. When I am by myself—when I was by myself—I was always quite tired at the end of the day, and unless I had washing or sewing or something like to do, I usually went to sleep very soon after eating. Now I wished there was a radio station to tune in, or that the record-player would work. It was quite a good one, and we had a lot of records. But it would not play without electricity so I did something I would be embarrassed to do under ordinary circumstances. I said: "Would you like me to play the piano?" I added quickly: "I can't play very well."
To my surprise he seemed extremely pleased, almost excited. " Could you?" he said. "I haven't heard music for more than a year."
I felt sorry for him, because I not only can't play too well, but I don't have much music. I have the John Thompson "Second Year
"I suppose there is," I said. "But the pumps won't work without electricity."
"And you've been doing all this with a shovel. Don't you realize it would be simple to take the motors off the pumps and work them by hand? There may be four or five thousand gallons there." He smiled but it made me feel stupid.
"I don't know much about electric motors and pumps," I said.
"But I do," he said. "At least enough to do that."
"When you're well again," I said.
Without having discussed it, we both had begun going on the assumption that he would recover. The other possibility kept occurring to me at first, but now it seemed to have become remote. At least it had faded from my mind, through no effort on my part.
I was really glad to hear what he said about die petrol and the tractor, and I hoped it would work. There was enough winter pasture for the three cows, but just barely. With the tractor running I could mow the grass after it went to seed, and bring in some hay. Also, I hoped eventually to increase the herd.
We walked back to the house just as the sun was setting. Because the walls of the valley are so high, the sun always sets early and rises late; there is a long twilight and we never have real sunsets the way they are where the land is level. Still this was one of the better ones. My father used to say, "In a valley the real sunset is in the east," and that is how it was. As the sun disappeared over the west ridge, the last of the orange light moved up the hill on the east, with the darker shadow climbing up after it. At the end only die tops of the last high trees were lit, and they looked as if they were burning. Then they faded and went out, and it was dusk.
We stopped a minute to watch it and he rested his hand on my shoulder as he had on the gate post. I felt proud to be of help to him, but when we turned to walk the rest of the way he went without help. He was obviously much stronger and standing straighter. I realized that he was quite tall.
It turned colder that night, so after we had eaten dinner I built a fire in the living room fireplace and closed the windows. Since the living room adjoins his—Joseph and David's—room, I opened the door so the fire would warm it, too. He did not go back into the bedroom immediately, however, but sat down in a chair near the fireplace.
The living room has two big upholstered chairs and a sofa, all placed so you can see the fire, which my father and mother liked to do in winter. (This last winter I slept on the sofa to be near the fire.) The chair Mr Loomis sat in was the one my father used to use. The electric lamps are still beside the chairs—I left them there for looks, even though they will not light. Against the wall on one side of the room stands the record-player, and against the other our piano.
"Would you like me to get you a book?" I said, thinking he would be bored again. "I can put the lamp on the table by the chair."
He said: "No, thank you. I only want to look at the fire a few minutes. Then I'll get sleepy. The fire always does that."
Still, for the first time it bothered me. There was absolutely nothing for him to do. When I am by myself—when I was by myself—I was always quite tired at the end of the day, and unless I had washing or sewing or something like to do, I usually went to sleep very soon after eating. Now I wished there was a radio station to tune in, or that the record-player would work. It was quite a good one, and we had a lot of records. But it would not play without electricity so I did something I would be embarrassed to do under ordinary circumstances. I said: "Would you like me to play the piano?" I added quickly: "I can't play very well."
To my surprise he seemed extremely pleased, almost excited. " Could you?" he said. "I haven't heard music for more than a year."
I felt sorry for him, because I not only can't play too well, but I don't have much music. I have the John Thompson "Second Year
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