Rock Island Line by David Rhodes (i am reading a book TXT) 📕

windows and very irritable because, as he said, it was like Murphy’s law—if something could go wrong, it would.

But their mood improved with the afternoon, a few chances fell to their favor, and the exhilaration they felt when the tank was finally cemented in place again and they could hear water pouring into it from the house was twice that of the night before. Sitting with their dinner on the porch as the cool sun set in the distance, they smelled the air, noticed the great naked trees that lived behind the barn, a faraway barking of dogs and a windless November hush.

“We’re lucky,” said July. “It could be a lot colder now.”

“I know,” said Mal peacefully, as though she knew far more than she cared to express.

“We should take more time to notice things,” he continued. “We should look and be open to more—because the better feelings aren’t the ones that come naturally. They have to be worked for. They come when everything else is shut out.” Nature looked as if it were dead. Leaves lay carpet thick on the ground. The plant stalks had turned gray and brown. The realness of the crisp air was overpowering. The silence was broken only by the wind, cardinals, woodpeckers, sparrows and jays—the rest of the birds having left silently in the night, great groups of them leaving at some incomprehensible whisper from their souls, passingthrough the dark air like spirits along the ghost trails. The other animals, raucous before, had turned inward. July felt this fall stir through him with feelings deeper than even his memory could claim. “I know,” said Mal.

The next week brought the first snowfall, but the wet ground absorbed it and nothing remained by mid-afternoon. July bought two bundles of wood shingles and a gallon of plastic tar, and patched the roof. The cracks in the foundation were filled with calking compound and mortar; they set the picket fence upright and painted it. The small oil burner in the living room worked better than they could have hoped, and they came upon storm windows while cleaning out a shed for the second car. With weather stripping here and there the wind was completely shut out. A new control switch and the water pump could turn on and off by itself. The glass for the windows was cut at a hardware store in Kalona, and for nearly a whole week they worked on the inside of the kitchen, laying linoleum, painting the walls and shelves, taking out the rotted wood along the counter and replacing it with boards from the barn.

Mal found a job as a salesgirl at “Things and Things” in Iowa City, four days a week through New Year’s. She took her driving test, got a license and had a set of snow tires put on the Chrysler.

July was filled with the Christmas spirit, and set up a tree three weeks before the twenty-fifth, with colored lights that would either blink or burn constantly. The pleasure he felt when for the first time Mal saw the big wrapped package he’d put under the tree for her was almost impossible to contain, and he nearly said, “Go ahead, open it,” when she pleaded to know what it was. But he didn’t, and said she’d have to wait. Finally, a snowstorm came and the snow remained on the ground.

Mal put two packages under the tree for him, one small and heavy and the other larger but weightless, both perfectly wrapped with ribbons and bows and delicately folded namecards with To July, from Mal and To July, from Santa written inside, done with her infallible sense of taste in small things. July’s package for her looked crude by comparison, and he resolved to do one as well as he could, and not give in to the urge to get it done and put under the tree. He felt small beside her. She knows, he thought, how important those things are—that peacefulness is a matter of small things done well—that the foundations of well-being, love and motherhood rest on them. Where could she have learned that? Does she realize that everything she does brings me closer to her? Or does she do them without thinking?

They bought scented candles and had a time each evening after dinner and dishes (Mal would never leave the kitchen in disarray for even five minutes) when they burned them.

By Christmas Eve there was one more present for July and three more for Mal. There was one for Butch too, though he didn’t show much interest in it. Dinner was by candlelight and they were both so excited and happy they could hardly eat. In their minds the little living room with the tree and lights and candles burning, the red rug, the secondhand overstuffed furniture, two paintings of Mal’s and the dark oak woodwork was as nice as the Sistine Chapel. They took baths separately in the chilly upstairs bathroom, dressed in their flannel pajamas and slippers; and with the knowledge that each other’s clean, warm skin was only a couple of frail snaps away—drawing this sensation out by touching each other only lightly—they went downstairs and sat next to the tree.

“Now Butch first,” said Mal, drawing the large cat up and putting his present in front of him. He touched it once with his paw and started away. July caught him and held him. Mal opened the red package for him; it turned out to be a toy mouse that would squeak when pinched. July took it from Mal and held it very close to Butch’s face and squeezed. In an instant he was out of the room and up the stairs.

“Cats are so hard to buy presents for,” said Mal.

“That’s true. So are you. Hurry up and open one of your presents. Here, this one.”

“No, you have to open first.”

“Oh no. You have three presents here. Naturally, you open first. Fair’s fair.”

“Well, I have one for you that couldn’t be wrapped. So