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

rush forward and push them away—telling them not to touch her. It seemed that he might and might not at the same time. He didn’t, and acknowledged in not doing so the fact that since he’d first seen her lifeless form on the couch there had never been even a suspicion that its ugliness and vulgarity could represent his wife; and though at one time it had had a great deal to do with her and been very much involved with even his own feelings for her, it was still such a minor part that when the other, larger part had gone, there was no resemblance. He was glad to have it out of the house.

As they carried her past him, he noticed that he was answering questions put to him by a sympathetic yet persistent young lieutenant.

“Now, when was it you said you came home?”

“I don’t remember. I got off work and came home. About six or six thirty, I guess.”

“Only a few more questions if you don’t mind. I’m sorry about having to do this all now, but it saves us from having to keep bothering you later. Say, do you have some family you want me to call and get over here?”

“No.”

“Then why don’t you come with me? We can talk on the way to town. I think we better get you to a doctor, or somewhere you can be looked after.”

“No.”

“Of course it’s up to you, but if I were you I don’t think I’d want to stay alone. Christ, man, you don’t even have a phone out here.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“OK, now just a few more questions. When you left this morning—”

July’s memory stopped recording here, and three hours later, according to the clock, he found himself alone with all the lights in the house on, sitting on a kitchen chair in the middle of the dining room. He reviewed his circumstance and then forgot everything until the beginning of the next afternoon, when he was in the barn lying in the hay. Through a crack in the side he could see his Aunt Becky’s car, and so ascertained that he must be hiding from her and kept doing it until her car was gone.

He promised himself that in the morning he would eat something, and found that promise written out to himself and taped to the refrigerator, signed. He ate a fried egg and threw up; but he did feed the dog and cat.

Within a week he was suffering no more blackouts, and could think as clearly and bitterly as his grief would allow.

With all the powers of his rational mind, he resolved, I’ll not accept this. I won’t stand for it. I refuse to accept it.

He was consumed with thoughts of violence and imagined the things about him exploding. When he could sleep he dreamed of people and buildings blowing up, of his arm swelling up without warning and popping.

It’s this death business, he thought. All along it’s been this death business. I’d’ve been all right if it wasn’t for this death business. But then as the days drew out into weeks, it wasn’t that so much as the violence of it—the bitter resentment he felt about there having been persons who caused it. It wasn’t necessary, or natural, or even a quirk of fate. It was caused.

The lieutenant visited him every several days, and at one time said, “We’ve got some people who we suspect. At least we’d like to find them to talk to them about it.”

“What’ll you do to them?”

“That’d be up to the judge.”

July wasn’t satisfied with that at all. He had no regard for his own life, and his only thought was that he might take a long, sweet, bitter revenge. The experience of losing her had boiled him, so to say, and for immediate fears—he had none, and would as soon fight a whole army as go outside and mow the lawn. Each second was drawn out unendurably by imagining into its tiny space the whole infinity of loneliness to come. Each first snow-flake of entering winter.

“What are their names?” asked July, cutting off the words at the ends of his teeth. But the policeman wouldn’t tell him.

That night he prayed to God that He make Himself known. He implored that heaven help him. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, my parents, and at the very cost of my own soul, GIVE ME THOSE NAMES. But the sky was as dark and unyielding as ever, and July, in an act of total abandonment and renunciation, took his Bible and fired all the bullets from his mother’s pistol through it, poured gasoline over it, burned it in the road and covered the ashes with gravel.

THIRTEEN

One morning July told himself he had to go to work. The baling crew would be just finishing up at Bonderman’s farm and he must go over there and try to get back into some kind of living routine. It seemed like such a futile effort, he nearly talked himself out of it. But at the last minute he went.

He arrived a little late, and parked in the uneven line of cars along the road. The others were already walking out through the barnyard toward the machines and stopped as though a single body to turn and look at him as he came up carrying a second shirt and gloves, grief like old wounds covering his face. The foreman, Lyle Hogue, and Bonesy came forward to meet him, hanging their heads in shame at not being more at ease. The others stood and watched.

“Hello, July,” said Lyle. “It’s good to have you back again. All of us, we’re . . . ” His voice trailed away.

“We feel awful,” said Bonesy, and added, “We feel awful.”

“So do I,” said July and motioned with his eyes, by looking away, that the interview was over. The three of them walked together into the larger crowd, who