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

“Couldn’t be wrapped, you say. Too big?”

“No. And no more hints.”

“Here. This one. You open this one,” said July, and set one of the two smaller packages in Mal’s lap, unable to resist giving her knee a little caress as he drew back his hand. The smell of the candles and the tree filled the room. He was ashamed of how crude the wrapping seemed, with edges of tape and paper sticking out from the corners. She opened it and discovered a white knitted hat with a ball on top where the yarn converged; there was no elastic band, but when she put it on it fitted snugly at whatever angle she set it. Jumping up from the floor, she ran into the kitchen to admire herself in it. There seemed to be no such hat that she’d ever seen before. It made her look beautiful, she thought. But I must be careful not to wear it in the rain, for it would shrink, I bet.

“Oh, how did you know just the right size?” she sang out, coming back.

The desire July felt for her after seeing her run off into the kitchen, her round buttocks moving beneath the pajamas, was just getting settled down when it seemed he was forced to observe her coming toward him, her face beaming with happiness, her breasts rising and falling with her steps.

“Come here and I’ll show you,” he said and reached out for her as she came closer, his senses able to feel with anticipation.

Mal laughed and dashed to the side to avoid his grab. “Oh no, none of that now. Remember we decided to wait. Remember?”

“Rules are made to be broken.”

“No, no. Besides, you have to open a present now.” She handed him the small, heavy, oblong one and sat down.

“Why can’t I have the big one first?”

“Nope. Big one last.”

“Do you like that hat?”

“Oh yes! It’s simply beautiful, adorable, and I’ll wear it every chance I get. See, I’m wearing it now . . . so open yours.”

July did, trying to take the gift apart without ripping the paper, but having a hard time of it.

“You have to just tear them,” said Mal. “You can never really save very well. The paper’s never the same afterward. I know, I used to too. It seemed such a waste—such wanton destruction. But it’s just one of those things that aren’t made to last. That’s part of what makes them so nice.”

“I feel so shallow when you talk sometimes.”

“Why?”

“Because I would’ve never thought that much about it. I would’ve just simply felt bad that something beautiful was spoiled—and that would’ve been the end of it.”

“Oh, surely not. But hurry and open it.”

Within the box and under a layer of cotton was a pocket knife with three blades. The smallest blade was fat and curved quickly, a particularly good shape for shaving and paring. The second, a half-inch longer with a flat edge, opened to a slightly closer perpendicular position to the handle, an aid in drawing a long cut toward you. The third, bigger than the other two combined, running nearly a full three and a half inches to a very sharp point, seemed massive and at the same time elegant. The handle was dark bone locked in place with brass rivets. He appreciated it with the devotion that only a person who loves having things in his pockets can appreciate: a knife to be truly proud of, a functional size without being either pretentiously masculine or weightless.

“Thank you.”

“Promise you like it. I was so afraid you wouldn’t. I thought you’d probably want a bigger one, but I wasn’t sure.”

“It’s perfect. Did you sharpen it? It surely didn’t come from the store this sharp.”

“Oh good! I hoped you’d notice that. Now I know you like it. Yes, I sharpened it. Not bad, huh?”

“Not bad! It’s as sharp as a razor. Only professionals can sharpen knives like this.”

“Silly. Now you have to hurry. I have another one for you in the summer kitchen.”

“No. You’re next. Here, open this!” And he gave her the heavy, large present, this one better wrapped because it’d been done for him at the store, but it was still way shy, he felt, of having the sensitivity of Mal’s.

“It’s a book,” she said immediately.

“Well, it’s pretty hard to disguise a book.”

The package contained an art book filled from one end to the other with color prints, with almost no attempt made to explain how the paintings worked or what they stood for, only brief autobiographical sketches of the artists and an occasional note referring to some aspect of their technique, beautifully designed and with reproductions of such quality that Mal said they were as good as a dusty painting. She only looked at a couple, quickly, then closed it.

“It’s wonderful!” she exclaimed. “But I don’t want to look at it now. I want to save it for tomorrow morning when I can see it in the light and give myself to it completely. A book like this shouldn’t be just skimmed over.”

“Look at it now! We’ll look at it together.”

“No, we’ll look at it tomorrow. Not now. Oh, July, I’m afraid you’ve spent too much. We can’t afford it.”

“No I didn’t!” shouted July, obviously very proud of himself. “Look at it closely—the corner and the bindings. It’s used!”

“It isn’t.” But looking at it more closely, she could see the tiny traces of age, the slight discoloration of the edges of the paper where fingers had been turning, and the ease with which it opened—signs of previous ownership by someone who’d had great regard for it and knew how to take care of a valuable book. This seemed to enhance its value for Mal, first because she didn’tneed to feel guilty in having something reserved for only the well-to-do, and secondly because it was already experienced, which made the plates more like real paintings.

“Now come,” she insisted, and led him through the kitchen and into the summer kitchen (or