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

is. Its study is not for evil purposes. It reveals luck. It’s a kind of preparation that makes you lucky. Do you know anything about it?”

“What kind of study?”

“I don’t know for sure. Yes, incantations and such.”

“I guess I don’t know anything about it.”

“Forgive me,” Eleanor said, and stepped several feet closer toward the schoolhouse, her shoes hidden in the clover. “I’m not being precise enough.” Then she began again. “When I was young—much younger than you . . . How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

There was a pause. Eleanor began again. “Actually age means nothing to me. Understand that no one ever ceases being . . . expectant of life. Now tell me quite simply, how were you able to find those clovers so easily?”

Then Della understood the reason for Eleanor’s concern with her. Her eyes lit up, she smiled and made a motion as if she were going to clap her hands. “Oh, that,” she said. “That’s just me and finding things. I’ve always been able to do that. Wilson always says that he can never—”

“Do you mean you knew, when you came out here with them, that you would be able to find them so easily?”

“Well, yes and no. First of all, I guess I never think about it. Then there have to be some to find. Once Wilson lost one of his nails he uses for putting tobacco in his pipe and was so sure it was in the store that he made me look for it there. It’s a very special nail. But I knew it wasn’t there. And it wasn’t.”

“How did you know? And aren’t you saying that even before you came out with the children, you had a fairly good idea that there would be some of those four- and five-leafed clovers out here?”

“No, no,” exclaimed Della. “I know what you’re thinking now, and it’s not true. I know it looks that way, but it isn’t. I assure you, it isn’t. It’s only my way. I find things. It’s the way I’ve always been. When I was a little girl, I found things. If you were me, everything would be common and very ordinary.”

“This seems so odd, Mrs. Montgomery, to be talking like this, if you know what I mean, about such things. But, truly, you must sometimes feel that there are great forces. Yet what must it be to feel that and still know the way you do about, well, magic. It must be a mystery partially revealed.”

“No, no, you didn’t understand me.”

“Yes. You were trying to tell me that life for you is dull, and that’s not true, but I know why you’re trying to say it. You think I’m foolish.”

“No. I think there is only the feeling—the feeling of mystery about what you know nothing about. Those things you understand are no good to you for that feeling. I imagine, Eleanor, when I watch you drive up, what it must be to control such an animal, and how proud you must feel knowing you can do it without any help. And what it must be to be so tall and straight.”

“It doesn’t seem the same thing. Those things are . . . ordinary.”

“Do you mean to say—” Smiling.

“No, life is not ordinary, Mrs. Montgomery, and I feel that I am making a spectacle of my own narrow nature. But before westop—and I don’t wish you to do anything but answer—tell me of other things that you know about, like finding things.”

“That’s all.”

“I don’t believe it. I’ve always felt that you were very special.”

“No, no, please—”

“Stop. We will talk no more of it. There’s no excuse for leaving the children alone so long. It makes demands on them that they aren’t ready for. They can only be quiet so long—and they want to be good—but they are forced by their natures to become unruly, and the conflict isn’t good for them.”

She turned and began walking toward the schoolhouse, through the clover, which hid her thin ankles.

Wilson arrived at the schoolyard five minutes before four, and waited until the door was thrown open and students scattered across into the road like bats from the small mouth of a cave. Their noise followed them around the corner and they were hidden by the green-and-gold corn. Della fitted the key to its lock, turned it, tossed her shawl one final time onto her shoulder and came to the wagon. Wilson lifted her up and they set off toward home. The humidity, together with the afternoon heat, wrung beads of sweat out of their bodies and into their clothes. Wilson remarked that he felt “clammy” and that, breathe as he might, he could not seem to get enough air, because he was suffocating all over. White, soapy lather formed between their horse and her harness straps and breast plate. The sounds of her steel shoes on the dirt were perfect thuds—thud, thud, thud—accompanied by the creaks and shudders of the weather-swelled buckboard. Tiny chips of mud clung to the wheels and fell away.

“What we need, you know,” said Wilson, “is one good gully-washer, and enough of this drizzling. It’s almost like not rain at all—just the air becoming so sticky and wet that loud noises shake water out of it. Oh, by the way, did you know that the amount of water in the air and on the ground never changes? I read that the other day. Doesn’t that seem amazing, that it’s always the same? But of course when you think about it, then you see it’s obvious.”

“Obvious things are always the most amazing.”

“Come on now, there you go again.”

“Wilson, that’s different. There’s some truth in that. It’s not one of my usual generalizations.”

“Oh no,” laughed Wilson. “Just because it’s got some truth in it doesn’t mean it’s true. Besides, all generalizations contain some truth, or they’d be complete nonsense and you couldn’t understand them.”

“What makes you think, Wilson, you can be the judge of how much truth is enough? That seems pretty presumptuous. Why does