The Brass Bed
- Автор: Флора Флетчер
- Год: 1956
- Язык: английский
- Год: Lion Books
- Жанр: Романы для взрослых
Электронная книга - «The Brass Bed». Краткое содержание книги:
...and the root of it all lay hidden in the secret of THE BRASS BED.
“Well, I dare say that’s more than I have a right to expect. I’m very grateful to you for not hanging up.”
“Please don’t mention it.”
“Have you been enjoying the cool rain?”
“Yes. The rain has been pleasant.”
“I think so too. Do you know what I’ve been wishing all week? I’ve been wishing that we could go for a walk in it.”
“In the rain?”
“Yes. Walking in the rain is very romantic, and I love to do it. Don’t you?”
“No.”
“Honestly? Don’t you honestly like to walk in the rain?”
Lying through my teeth, I told her, “I honestly don’t. I detest it, in fact. When it rains, I prefer to sit inside and watch it through the window.”
“I enjoy it through the window too, so far as that goes, but not so much as walking in it.” She sounded unsure of herself.
“You are lucky to find so many things so enjoyable. It must make life exceedingly agreeable to you.”
“The truth is, in spite of the rain, I have not been finding life agreeable at all. Would you care to know why?”
“I don’t think so,” I lied again.
“It’s because of what you think of me and our not being together and all that. Have you been lonely for me by any chance?”
“Yes, I have.” No more lies.
“Would you like for me to come over and look through the window with you in case it rains again?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Truly? It would be no imposition, I assure you. I would love to come.”
“I don’t want you to come, Jolly, rain or no rain, now or ever.”
“Is it that you have decided that you don’t love me?”
“On the contrary, I do love you,” I said evenly.
“In that case, I’ll come immediately.”
“In that case, you won’t.”
“You are beyond my power of understanding, Felix. It seems to me that you are constantly befuddled.”
“I know. We’ve been over it before. I’m befuddled and you’re a clear thinker, and neither of us can understand the other, and possibly it’s because I’m a heathen and you’re religious.”
I hung up and went back to the window and watched the kids racing stick boats along the gutter in the street below, and after a while it began to rain again, and the kids all ran for home and disappeared, and it rained all the rest of that day and into the night. The next day was the fifth or sixth day of the second week of August, depending on whether you counted from Sunday or Monday, and it was the last day of the summer session. When it was over I came home and packed a bag, and around six o’clock Harvey came along with six quarts of beer.
“Hello, old boy,” he said.
“Hello, Harvey,” I said.
He sat down on the bed and looked at the bag I’d packed. “Going away?” he said.
“Yes. Aren’t you?”
“I guess so. Tomorrow, I guess.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home. Back to the farm,” he told me — a little dismally, I thought.
“Do your folks live on a farm? I didn’t know that.”
“Oh, yes. In my family, we are all simple rustics, and I’m still a country boy at heart. Would you ever have guessed it?”
“I admit that I wouldn’t have. You certainly fooled me.”
“It’s the truth. I go back every summer, and some day I’m going back and stay and to hell with this God-damn picayune teaching racket.”
“You’re just feeling sour. It’s always like that at the end of a summer session.”
“Sure. And at the end of a fall and winter session, and at the end of a spring session, and at the end of any kind of God-damn session you care to mention. It’s a pick-penny profession, and you’ll have to admit it. Back on the farm, I’ll work a little around the place and swim in the cool creek when the work’s done, and in the evenings I’ll sit under a tree and eat cold watermelon that has been lying all day in the well.”
“You make it sound delightful, Harvey. Quiet and restful and really enchanting. I especially like that part about eating cold watermelon that has lain in the well. I read a story once about some people who sat around eating watermelon like that. As I recall, there didn’t seem to be anything to the story but that, just some people sitting around eating watermelon.”
“I read the story myself. It’s by Erskine Caldwell. However, I must say that my folks are not exactly Caldwell characters. I wouldn’t want to lead you to expect too much, old boy.”
“Even so, it sounds wonderful. I envy you, Harvey.”
“It’s a nice life. Bucolic heaven. There’s only one thing wrong with it.”
“Yes? What’s wrong with it?”
“The simple truth is, it bores the hell out of you after a while.”
“Well, anyhow, it ought to be wonderful for about a month.”
“That’s true. For about a month it’s bucolic heaven. Would you care to come along with me this time? You’d be most welcome, old boy.”
“I’m truly sorry, Harvey, but I can’t. I’ve already made other arrangements.”
“Oh, that’s quite all right. I’m sure that you’d be bored before the month was up, anyhow. Do you object to telling me where you are going?”
“Not at all. I’ve rented a cabin down in the southern part of the state on the Blue River.”
“Really? Isn’t that rather expensive for a pick-penny teacher?”
“Not very. It’s just a simple place with a few cabins and things. Mostly it’s for people who want to fish in the river.”
“Are there trout in the river?”
“I don’t think so. Bass and channel cats, I think, but no trout.”
“Oh, well, bass and channel cats are as fine fish as anyone could want. In my opinion, they are definitely the equal of trout any day of the week.”
“I agree. However, I don’t think I’ll do much fishing myself. What I have in mind is to try to get going with the goliard.”
“Is that so? I admire you tremendously, old boy, for sacrificing your vacation to creative toil. Have you decided definitely to follow my advice regarding a lowly tavern wench and a lean tavern keeper as opposed to a fat one?”
“Yes, I have. I believe the advice is sound, and I intend to follow it.”
“That’s good. I don’t believe that you will regret it.”
He didn’t say anything more for a while, and neither did I, and he sat there on the bed looking down at the six cans of beer, and I could tell by the moisture on the outside that they had been chilled.
“I see you have brought a quantity of beer,” I said.
“Yes.” He looked up at me and down at the beer again. “As a matter of fact, old boy, I debated bringing it because of our recent unfortunate association with the noble brew. I hope I haven’t made a serious mistake.”
“Not at all. It will give me great pleasure to help you get rid of it.”
“You have not been turned against it, then? No psychological twist or anything like that?”
“None whatever.”
“I’m delighted to hear it, old boy. Delighted and relieved. And now that you have set my mind at rest on that score, I’m happy to turn these over to you for opening, and I suggest that we begin disposing of them immediately.”
It began to rain outside, and a breeze came up and through the window, and we sat there in the cool breeze drinking the cold beer. We drank most of it without speaking, and we were pretty well along with the last couple quarts when the rain stopped and the kids came out with their stick boats.
“I have been thinking,” Harvey said, “that a celebration would be in order.”
“Celebration? For what?”
“The closing of school. The sweet reprieve, old boy. What could be more worthy of celebration?”
“Now that you’ve called it to my attention, nothing. What kind of celebration do you have in mind?”