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

of a herd of cattle and a group of picnickers lying sprawled in the grass talking and eating. She had taken off her coat and draped it over a bench. Her brightly colored dress seemed to fit her well, and when she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, it seemed that the whole room crackled with adjustment and everything echoed for several moments afterward. July felt as if he were dying of thirst.

Without knowing what he was going to do, he left the protection of his wall and moved imperceptibly, slowly and silently into the room. Then as soon as he was in he thought he’d better leave; then became afraid she would see him running out like a slinking rabbit, thought he’d better go forward, took another step and wondered if he was too far already and if she would turn around and be startled by having obviously been snuck up on, and he thought if he were to introduce himself from there it would frighten her. He took a step backward. He didn’t know what to say. She turned around and saw him, and it did startle her a little; he’d been right about that. But what he hadn’t expected was what happened in the next millionth of a second. The expression of her face changed from being startled to recognizing him. This in itself gave him an unmistakable thrill and his voice started shaking though he wasn’t talking. But what followed was almost enough to knock him over and he took a step back toward the wall. Her expression went—immediately—from recognition to a smile. “Oh, hello,” she said. “You gave me a start.”

“I’m sorry,” said July. “I didn’t mean to . . . I just thought that . . . I thought that I didn’t want you to think I was insulting you.” He smiled self-consciously.

“For sneaking up on me?”

“Oh no,” he laughed. “No. I didn’t mean that. I meant, you know, the other day. . . . Maybe you don’t remember, I mean that’s OK, but it doesn’t matter, I mean nothing really does. I have nofeelings.” But as though she weren’t hearing what he was saying at all, she was being attracted by the openness of his face, which betrayed everything he might have wished to hide, and she took several steps closer to him and her size seemed to triple.

“What?” she asked.

“I mean the other day when I said ‘I guess if you like it that’s all right.’ Do you remember that?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m sorry.” He turned a quarter of the way around as though he might leave, then he turned back, blushed and said, “I love paintings.”

“So do I,” sang out Mal. July judged her to be about nineteen or twenty. “I’m a painter,” she added proudly.

“I know. I mean I thought you might be . . . or a model. I thought you probably were. You seemed to know so much about it. But, see, you probably thought I was too, or maybe a scientist or something, but I’m just nobody. Really, I only come here once a month. See, all I really meant was that if you like something then I think that’s a good thing. I didn’t mean anything else.”

“What,” she said, “did you mean about not having feelings?”

“Oh yes,” he said, stammering and looking at the floor. “That’s right.”

“What’s right?”

“I don’t have any feelings.”

Mal’s initial forwardness was gone, and now she spoke more softly. “That’s preposterous.”

“I mean that’s the way I think about myself. Most of my life’s like that. I really should be getting back home.”

“Say, you’re really nervous, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you relax?”

“I am.” Pause. “I have to be going now . . . but thank you.”

“What for?”

“Oh, nothing, I guess . . . Goodbye. I have to be going now. Do you think maybe you’ll be here next week?”

“I think so.”

“Well . . . good, maybe I’ll see you then.” And he left.

Mal Rourke returned to her apartment that night just as her roommate, Carol, was waking up from watching television, her face heavy with sleep. “Hi, Mal,” she said and went into the bathroom. Mal took off her coat and hung it up. She went into the little kitchen and took a Coke from the refrigerator. Carol came back into the living room and changed the channel of the television, looking for movies.

“Gladys called tonight,” Carol said.

Mal walked into the living room. “What did she want?”

“To tell you her brother Earl was coming home next week, on leave from the Army.”

“Hurray,” said Mal sarcastically.

“Do you want me to tell her to buzz off next time she calls?”

“No. I’ll call her back tomorrow.”

“I don’t like her,” said Carol.

“Oh, she’s all right.”

“A little intense, I’d say.”

Mal wandered across the living room to the open doorway of their bedroom and looked at one of her paintings hanging on the wall—some bright red crabs fighting with their pincers on a sand beach among broken sticks. It didn’t look very good to her, and she turned back to the living room.

“You know,” she said. “I met a guy tonight—”

Immediately Carol’s interest quickened. “Where?” she asked.

“At the museum. At first I thought he was the janitor,” and she gave a little laugh.

“Is he black?”

“No.”

“Why did you think he was a janitor?”

“Sort of his clothes, I guess. But I talked to him tonight and he’s nice.” She laughed again. “He said that he didn’t have any feelings.”

“He what? Why did he say that?”

“Well, I don’t really know.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“He said he loved paintings.”

“Well, he’s not very consistent. Doesn’t sound like someone I’d care for too much.”

“Probably not.”

“Why don’t you go to the museum some other time? There’s no telling what kind of weirdos are liable to turn up down there on Tuesday night. . . . Or take somebody with you.”

“He scared me at first. He walks so quietly, he was nearly up to me when I first saw him today.”

“He was probably going to jump on