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

work so hard, and there was no more snow to be heavy on the roof, and the rats had left for the fields, and the smudgy storm windows were gone; fresh air in the living room, singing birds perching along the eaves, goldfinches waiting for the dandelions to come up, robins grabbing grubs, and the pleasant sound of the back screen door as it banged.

Before, it had seemed to Mal that the house tried to eject them, having been alone so long that it had become distrustful of people; but now it opened up to them, outstretched enfolding arms and was eager to be preened and fussed over and made “homey.”

Planting a garden was like something from outer space. The seeds were so small, so perfectly inert-looking (with the exception of beans) and the idea that one could follow the little instruction booklet that she’d found in a newspaper—planting this one so far down, so many inches apart, this other one another way, cover them all up and of their own accord they’d start growing into huge plants bearing fruits you could eat—seemed almost too much to believe, like the most exciting, well-thought -out sales pitch that could possibly be imagined. On top of that, the seeds—if they did one one-hundredth of what was claimed—were cheap. And for what reason? Because of warmth, water and length of days. Ridiculous.

“Of course it’ll work,” said July. “How do you think farmers grow—”

“I know that!” she exclaimed, a little hurt that he’d not been able to see what she meant. “Just it’s so hard to believe it will work. Of course it will work. But the idea seems so impossible—I mean, why should it?”

“Evolution.”

“Oh, you’re hopeless. Now keep making the trench with your hoe.”

“We’ve got enough beans.”

“You can never have enough beans, or pumpkins.”

“That guy should’ve done a better job plowing this. There’s weeds here.”

“Well then, you’ll just have to hoe them out.”

“Get away from there, Holmes.”

Butch, like the house, had taken a while to adjust. Right away he’d decided he didn’t like Holmes, and kept being amazed that day after day she stayed around, annoying as she was. When the inevitable realization came that, for all her unpleasant and rough mannerisms, Holmes was here forever, Butch decided the best thing to do was completely ignore it.

Each month seemed to double the size of the brute; but as she grew, her mannerisms became more predictable and mellow, and though she was clearly of a threatening size with teeth a whole inch long, Butch had less and less cause to be afraid of her. In fact, he began to enjoy her company—especially when they’d lie together on the porch, he on the little railing and Holmes at the top of the step. And every noisy car that went by, every unsettling sound brought her up on her big feet, bristling with her instinctual protectiveness, which made Butch feel very safe, and he spent many afternoons sitting in the warm sun smiling and feeling like an old king. Then sometimes they’d walk about the barnyard together, looking things over and messing about in the hay.

Mal needed little urging to quit her job. The first time July mentioned that they might take a month or two off and enjoy the spring and early summer, she agreed wholeheartedly. The restaurant was more upset to learn of Mal leaving than was the cab company, which let July go the very second he voiced his desire. Mal finished out the week at The Ranch and said she would probably be back looking for work at the beginning of fall—maybe even before. (She wasn’t as optimistic as July about how cheaply they could live in the summer.)

The days drew out longer. Little speckles of lettuce popped up through the ground. Their secondhand lawnmower choppedthrough the weeds in the yard, and grass did seem to take hold, even though the rough stalks of the burdock, chicory and buttonweeds never seemed to give up. On the first good sunny day (the ground wet and soft from rain the night before) they dressed in their bathing suits and began digging and pulling them out. A thankless job it seemed, but a little color came into their skin and they had to admit when they were through that they felt better about the yard. July hung a swing from the maple tree and they painted the fence and mowed around the barn. Day lilies grew in the ditch in front. They built a large window box just off the porch and planted cosmos. Mal finished a painting that seemed to be a turning point.

“I don’t understand,” said July.

“What I mean is that now I can sense better what composition means. It’s interest. Composition means interest. Of course converging lines should be avoided, along with things cut in half, but that’s because they’re uninteresting. I guess what I’m trying to say is that there is no way, right or wrong. All painting is an attempt—no, that’s wrong—is made up of individual attempts to create interest.”

“But some kinds of interest are better than others.”

“Naturally.” On Mal’s easel was a red dog sitting in a green yard with yellow dandelions bigger than life size and an unpainted fence and a broken window with blue inside. It reminded July of her crab painting, but he didn’t say so. He liked it quite a lot and urged her to put it up in the living room. “It’s not finished,” she said happily and began adding more colors to the grass.

July went for a walk down behind the barn into the oaks. Squirrels chattered at him from their leaf nests. He saw a bird in a mulberry tree stretching its wings and fanning out its tail, displaying its brilliant orange and white feathers, like a great butterfly. Not knowing, however, what kind of bird it was, he resolved to get a bird book and learn them all. There’s no excuse for ignorance, he thought—ignorance of natural things. And because