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

“Well, in a moral sense”—the way she so seriously emphasized these two words made July want to laugh again—“of course nobody should care what anyone thinks. But there’s hardly right or wrong at stake here.”

“Sure there is—what’s right or wrong for me.”

“There’s nothing moral about that. Things moral always include other people, and, really, being a paper boy isn’t much.” July felt a little angry at this, and was just ready to say so, but she spoke first. “Don’t go flying off the handle. Look at it this way: it’s not the job, is it? I mean, selling papers isn’t exactly the issue, it’s this room. You’d think you’d be an insect if you left it, as if it were an old friend.”

“Yes . . . and I would be too.”

“Perhaps. Anyway, why not keep it and your new one as well, and take the new job?—which you know you’d like better. . . . I mean, I doubt if you could rent it out.”

“I couldn’t justify even being gone for one night.”

“I have it! Why not leave some of your special things here?” She became so exuberant, with gestures flashing every which way, that July had difficulty understanding. “Keep your diamond, and your cat too (so much the shame), but leave everything else.Wrap your lamp in an oiled bag so it will light when you come back for visits, leave your Bible, leave your pictures and cards and blankets—everything. That way you can have both. And think of the fun of exploring that tremendous building at night.”

A faint scratching sounded on the cardboard door, from the outside. “Gracious,” said the old specter. “I hardly thought they’d find me so soon. I must be going. It’s been fun talking to you.” What happened then so thoroughly astonished July that for the rest of his life his memory tried to eject the event. The woman rose and at the same time stayed sitting, went to the door and passed through it and at the same time moved not at all. So there was a continuous band of image all the way from the chair to the cardboard door, perfectly vivid and clear at each place he’d care to look at it. Then it began to blur, and the repeated image of her face became only a pale band of color, rising at the chair and going to the door. Below it was a bright white line from what had been her collar, black from the fringe around her shoulders. And like a light echo the whole phenomenon began to vanish, as though being rinsed away by ripples of clear water, leaving only two deep blue lines from her eyes, then taking them as well. July went quickly to the door and opened it. Nothing.

Without bothering to straighten up, or taking any precautions against water condensing inside his nearly empty lamp, he took Butch, extinguished the light and went out, closing the door carefully and fondly behind him. They waited a long time for the platforms above them and across from them to clear, and climbed up, ascended past the Crosstown and the L and climbed onto the street. Carroll’s Furniture was a long way away and it took them nearly forty-five minutes to walk it.

They established their new living quarters to their immense satisfaction. True to his promise, Franklin Carroll had a bathtub put in one afternoon while July was sanding scratches, mars and old polish off a rocking chair. That first night he ran it full to the top, sitting on the rolled edge looking down into the clear water.

“It’s so clear,” he said to Butch, “if it wasn’t for the waves and the sparkling, you couldn’t see it. It’s heavy air.” He had to let a little of the precious liquid down the drain before he took off his clothes and climbed in. The pleasure filled him. He felt light and brilliant. He wished for the little boats and ducks that he’d had in Sharon Center and remembered his shameless childhood in which he’d played with them without appreciation or regard.

But even with the water he couldn’t overcome his late-night terrors and, despite the long distance, he was forced, for the first months, to return to his cement room four and five times a week to sleep. He would begin to swell with foreboding, the sounds throughout the warehouse would magnify, his stomach would wrinkle up like a raisin, he would hear his heart beating in his ears and he’d know it was time to return. The damp, chilly room and the pictures would revive him.

Then the visits were cut back to three a week, then regular weekends, then only once, more out of duty than need.

There were times when Franklin came to the store during the night and met with men in the basement. These meetings never lasted longer than a couple of minutes, their voices were always low and July never saw who it was that mysteriously appeared there for him to talk to. Afterward Carroll would sometimes come up to his room and knock politely.

“Hello, I saw your light on and I thought I might stop in. Not bothering anything, I hope.”

“Oh no. Come on in.”

“You sure have fixed this up nice. Hello there, Butch. Anything else you need?”

“No, we’re just fine.”

At first, this was about all their talks would consist of, and Franklin Carroll’d leave. He respected a person’s privacy, as he wanted his own to be respected.

As the year continued, July’s presence in the building came to be taken for granted. One might encounter him sweeping here, then up on the third floor looking for unusual pieces offurniture, then in the shop laying down layers of shellac, then outside polishing the windows, then down in the basement cleaning out the furnace, like a spirit from the building’s walls, his cat dark against the stone foundation. Carroll began to feel more comfortable with him. Coming upon him unexpectedly, he’d give a little start and