GLASS SOUP by Jonathan Carroll (funny books to read .txt) 📕

bury them deep in a forest in the middle of the night.” Flora Vaughn said this too loudly about an overdressed woman who had just passed their table. Then Flora looked meaningfully at Leni Salomon. Both of them wore the same color of fingernail polish—matte brown.

Isabelle Neukor looked from one woman to the other and smiled. They were her best friends; they were all thirty-two and had grown up together. But her friends could not save her now. No one could.

Leni’s cane leaned against her thigh like a silent devoted dog. She walked with a pronounced limp—her left leg was shorter than the right. She was also the best-looking of the three women but like most genuinely good-looking people, paid it little mind.

Leni Salomon and Flora Vaughn had husbands, Isabelle did not. Leni and Flora were not in love with their men, Isabelle was. Strange things had been happening to her lately; so strange that she could not believe some of them. Even after all that had happened in the last months, she could not believe these recent events had actually taken place. She had told no one about any of them, not even Vincent.

“Guess who died, like, a year ago but I just heard about it?” Flora sat back and dropped her large pink napkin dramatically onto her plate of half-eaten asparagus. She was given to stagy gestures—it was her way. She had a big man’s laugh. She used a lot of body language when she spoke, as if trying to explain things to a deaf and dumb world. People had different opinions about her looks—some thought she was a knockout, others that she was creepy with her very long auburn hair and almost-Oriental eyes. Vincent liked her a lot. He called her “Big Red” after they met the first time and since hearing that, she often signed her notes to anyone “Red.”

Leni made false teeth—gold teeth, bridges, false teeth. She was a dental technician, one of the best around. She loved the job, its intricacies and complications. She called it useful architecture. When anyone asked her a question, she held it up and turning it slowly, looked at it from every angle as if it were a tooth she was making. “Someone we know or someone famous?”

Flora looked at Leni and winked. Then her eyes moved over to Isabelle and she said in an oily way, “Someone you and I once knew, Leni, but who really wanted to know Isabelle.”

From a blank “Huh?” Isabelle’s expression slid into a frown. A few beats passed until her eyes slowly began to widen in recognition. Aghast, she put a hand in front of her mouth. “Simon?”

Flora nodded. “Dead over a year ago.”

Leni gasped. “Simon Haden died?”

Flora steepled her fingers and looked prayerfully toward heaven, like a saint on a kitsch Italian religious postcard.

As one, the three women burst out laughing at the fact of Simon Haden’s death.

Standing in a giant meadow next to an ugly black longhaired dog named Hietzl, Vincent Ettrich watched an airplane sail eight feet above their heads and crash nearby. Ettrich sighed. Hietzl would have sighed too if it had understood how much time and trouble its friend had put into building that plane. But the dog was so happy just to be out there alone with Vincent that its sigh wouldn’t have lasted long.

Shaking his head, Ettrich walked to the wrecked model and squatted down next to it, hands on his knees. As was his style, he was dressed like a teenager—ancient washed-out jeans, gray and white skateboarder’s sneakers, and a black T-shirt with a picture of John Lennon on it. Ettrich was young-looking anyway. Seeing him for the first time, you would have guessed he was in his thirties rather than the early forties he was.

Hietzl heard something and quickly turned its head to the left. Ettrich continued to stare at what was left of his model airplane and wonder what he had done wrong in assembling it. The dog began barking so furiously that Ettrich snapped out of his funk-trance and looked toward where his companion was pointing. Behind them was a giant stand of trees, their leaves blowing in the frisky warm wind. But Hietzl was pointing in the opposite direction—out toward the open field.

Puzzled, Ettrich looked down at Hietzl and asked, “What? What’s there?”

The dog ignored him and kept yapping.

That annoying rat-a-tat barking and the wind soughing through the trees around them was all there was. It was midsummer; a sky the color of shirt cardboard, the air heavy with humidity. No one else was around.

Ettrich came out here often with the dog to walk or lie on his back and look at the clouds. Since moving to Vienna, he had done little besides recover his strength and think about the child Isabelle was going to give birth to soon.

Ettrich had died but then been brought back to life by Isabelle. He had crossed and recrossed the great border. While on the other side he’d learned both the language and some of the requisite lessons of the dead. Alive again, he thought his mind had been wiped clean of what he had been exposed to in the short time he had been dead. He was wrong. Ettrich retained everything he had experienced. But to access that room in his mind now, he needed a key to the door. Right now he did not have one.

As soon as it was possible for him to travel he and Isabelle had left America and flown to Vienna. Ettrich left his wife, two children, and a life he had once thoroughly enjoyed and felt content with. But he abandoned it all because he wanted to be with Isabelle Neukor. He was willing to throw everything aside so that he could spend the rest of his life with her and their child. Their doubts were over. They had crossed the great bridge between now and then.

Hietzl’s barking took on a new tone: it was even more