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deep dish green apple pie. Or milk and tollhouse cookies. Or a brown betty pudding.
No, no, thank you, Mrs. Kinzer; Jeffty and I grabbed a couple of cheeseburgers on the way home.
And again, silence.
Then, when the stillness and the awkwardness became too much even for them (and who knew how long
that total silence reigned when they were alone, with that thing they never talked about any more, hanging
between them), Leona Kinzer would say, I think he s asleep.
John Kinzer would say, I don t hear the radio playing.
Just so, it would go on like that, until I could politely find excuse to bolt away on some flimsy pretext.
Yes, that was the way it would go on, every time, just the same . . . except once.
I don t know what to do any more, Leona said. She began crying. There s no change, not one day of
peace.
Her husband managed to drag himself out of the old easy chair and go to her. He bent and tried to
soothe her, but it was clear from the graceless way in which he touched her graying hair that the ability to
be compassionate had been stunned in him. Shhh, Leona, it s all right. Shhh. But she continued crying.
Her hands scraped gently at the antimacassars on the arms of the chair.
Then she said, Sometimes I wish he had been stillborn.
John looked up into the corners of the room. For the nameless shadows that were always watching him?
Was it God he was seeking in those spaces? You don t mean that, he said to her, softly, pathetically,
urging her with body tension and trembling in his voice to recant before God took notice of the terrible
thought. But she meant it; she meant it very much.
I managed to get away quickly that evening. They didn t want witnesses to their shame. I was glad to go.
And for a week I stayed away. From them, from Jeffty, from their street, even from that end of town.
I had my own life. The store, accounts, suppliers conferences, poker with friends, pretty women I took
to well-lit restaurants, my own parents, putting anti-freeze in the car, complaining to the laundry about too
much starch in the collars and cuffs, working out at the gym, taxes, catching Jan or David (whichever one
it was) stealing from the cash register. I had my own life.
But not eventhat evening could keep me from Jeffty. He called me at the store and asked me to take him
to the rodeo. We chummed it up as best a twenty-two-year-old with other interestscould . . . with a
five-year-old. I never dwelled on what bound us together; I always thought it was simply the years. That,
and affection for a kid who could have been the little brother I never had. (Except Iremembered when
we had played together, when we had both been the same age; Iremembered that period, and Jeffty was
still the same.)
And then, one Saturday afternoon, I came to take him to a double feature, and things I should have
noticed so many times before, I first began to notice only that afternoon.
I came walking up to the Kinzer house, expecting Jeffty to be sitting on the front porch steps, or in the
porch glider, waiting for me. But he was nowhere in sight.
Going inside, into that darkness and silence, in the midst of May sunshine, was unthinkable. I stood on
the front walk for a few moments, then cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled, Jeffty? Hey,
Jeffty, come on out, let s go. We ll be late.
His voice came faintly, as if from under the ground.
Here I am, Donny.
I could hear him, but I couldn t see him. It was Jeffty, no question about it: as Donald H. Horton,
President and Sole Owner of The Horton TV Sound Center, no one but Jeffty called me Donny. He had
never called me anything else.
(Actually, it isn t a lie. Iam , as far as the public is concerned, Sole Owner of the Center. The partnership
with my Aunt Patricia is only to repay the loan she made me, to supplement the money I came into when
I was twenty-one, left to me when I was ten by my grandfather. It wasn t a very big loan, only eighteen
thousand, but I asked her to be a silent partner, because of when she had taken care of me as a child.) [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
