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

hatred, his small hands knotted together in fists. Della, interrupting her story, asked a question:

“And do you know what happened then?”

July answered as though there were no one else there, only he and his grandmother, as though the question were only for him. “They hung a sign up,” he said darkly.

“And what did it say?”

“It said, ‘Here’s the king of Jews.’ ”

“Then what happened?”

“He died—because no water and they pushed a spear in Him.” July could hardly talk now, and began to stutter when he tried to go on.

Della continued. “That’s right, the soldiers killed Jesus with a spear and they took Him down from the cross and put Him in a tomb like a cave, and in front of the cave they rolled a great big rock that took all the soldiers to push, and they left Jesus there. Then three days passed.”

Tears were forming in July’s eyes, but his frown had eased. His fists uncurled. She continued:

“Three days passed while His friends felt so sad that He was gone, but Jesus had made them a promise. Do you remember the promise?”

“Yes!” shouted July, jumping from his chair. “He rolled the rock away!”

The eyes of the adults turned toward him from the church.

“No, July, that wasn’t the promise. What was the promise?” she asked gently.

“He rolled the rock away!” hollered July again, his face now filled with uncontainable joy and good feeling. Della tried once more to settle him down and get him to remember the promise, but the image was so rooted in his mind that he was unable to let go of it and once more shouted that the stone had been rolled away, the angels of the Lord had pushed it aside and Jesus wasn’t dead after all. The fact that He had promised anything didn’t interest July, and he was so emotionally wrought up that he wouldn’t stay in his chair and went running around pushing the other children and generally starting a fracas. Sarah came over and admonished him, but because it was so near time for Sunday School to be over, Della dismissed them and they exploded in all directions. The circle of women fanned out to keep them in view.

December 1946

Wilson’s only dog, Cindy, was as broken and old as himself. They walked outside together in carefully measured steps, never going much farther than the barn and outer sheds, leaving paths in the snow. Wilson would think to himself, I can remember when she was young. She could run like the wind. What a dog she was! There’re no dogs any more like she was. He thought of her as an old warrior who had fought many of his battles for him. It was Della’s secret, terrible wish, hidden by seven seals of silence, that Cindy would not pass from the living world until after her husband had quit it. She did not want to watch that kind of pain kill him. She didn’t want to see his worn-out heart hurt him again.

One day Wilson began to notice that he was feeling stronger. His arthritis began to slip away. He felt good enough to do some snow-clearing from the steps and sidewalk. He got the shovel and went outside. Della came out immediately and took it away from him and locked it up in the kitchen closet, despite his protests. OK, he thought after lunch, I will go for a walk this afternoon. He dressed warmly and walked farther than the sheds, outamong the trees, close down to the bottom of the hill. Cindy, he noticed, seemed to be getting younger. She was running in the snow. I could walk on further, he thought. But I’ll go back, because Della would worry.

He went back and said nothing. That night he had to tell Cindy several times to stop chewing up the furniture, but quietly so his wife wouldn’t find out and blow up. Later Della took the flashlight away from him just as he was about to go out and hunt coon in the valley.

The next day he had the same walk. Cindy was running like a two-year-old and barking. He felt as if he could run himself. There was no pain in his chest. He felt strong. The crisp air was invigorating. Then Cindy let out a growl and the hairs covering her nervous spine stood on end. Wilson looked out into the timber and saw a wolf coming toward them. Cindy stepped forward to attack, but the wolf stopped running and began wagging its tail. No, thought Wilson. “Josh? Is that you, Josh?” The tail went furiously, whining and barking, but he stayed back. “Cindy,” Wilson said, putting his hand on the old dog’s back, “take it easy. It’s Josh. It’s only Josh. Come on, Josh.” The wolfish dog came and Cindy smelled him and was soon friendly. He jumped up on Wilson, then ran off with Cindy, both playing like puppies. Wilson was so happy he could hardly contain himself, but, not wanting Della to worry, he went back up the hill.

Between the barn and the house he began to think: Now there’s going to be a problem with Della. She won’t easily accept another dog after I promised no more than one. But she humors me. Always has. I can remember when I brought home those mules. Boy, was that something! Two black mules with . . . His mind wandered, and he forgot about Josh, and went inside with both of them, kicked his boots off on the porch and let them into the house. They ran into the living room, growling and snapping at each other, knocking into furniture. Oh no, he thought, I should’ve left him outside. But it was too late and he waited in the kitchen for Della to begin yelling. After he had listenedwhat seemed to him a long time to the ruckus and the curtains being pulled down from the windows, Della came out. “Take off