1635: Music and Murder Read Online Free Page B
Author: David Carrico
program. Since I have no mechanical aptitude, I get sick at the sight of blood and I can't hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun, that was about the only thing that I could do to pay my own way in our brave new world." Her voice dripped sarcasm.
"It is a new world, at least for me."
Marla flushed, looked up at him quickly and then down again. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "That was rude."
A few more quiet steps, and she said, "Anyway, what I was trying to say is that I feel different since you came. I can talk music with you, and daydream about somehow starting a music school. I feel . . . happy."
She stopped and twirled once on the sidewalk, holding out her arms. "You are good for me, Franz Sylwester."
"You just say that because you love me," he joked.
She stopped and looked at him in all seriousness. "I do love you, Franz."
He stared back in amazement. "Are you . . . I mean . . . you mean . . . "
His head was spinning. Yes, they had kissed, and cuddled, but she had not allowed any more than that. They had joked about having a future together, he had dreamed it, but now in cold honesty he saw that he had never truly thought he had a chance at a lifetime with her, crippled and destitute as he was. Jokes and fantasies had all of a sudden become a reality, and he was totally speechless.
With a smile, she reached out and took both of his hands—whole and crippled—in hers, and said, "I love you, Franz Sylwester, I believe you love me, too, and I'm tired of waiting for you to say something about it."
He continued to stare at her, and she laughed. "Close your mouth, silly."
He did. "Well, say something."
He just looked at her, saying nothing. After a few moments, her smile faded away. "Franz?" in a small voice.
He pulled his hands from hers, and turned away, pushing his hands in his coat pockets and ducking his head. "I can't," he choked.
"Why not?"
He started to walk away.
"Franz Sylwester, you stop right there!" A sternness in her voice that he had never heard before stopped him without thought. Her steps sounded as she walked around in front of him, and he looked away.
"Franz, look at me." He did, seeing the tears trickling down her face again, and looked away again quickly. "No, look at me." He did, swallowing.
"You look me in the eyes, and tell me that you don't love me, and I'll walk away. But until you do that, we're going to stand right here."
Despite her command, he looked down at his feet. "I . . . love you," he whispered.
"Then why—?" she started exasperatedly.
He snatched his left hand from his pocket and thrust it in her face. She stepped back, startled, as he snarled, "Because of this! Because I am crippled! I cannot hope for you or anyone to marry me. Your family would not allow it. I cannot support you. I cannot provide for a family, when all I can do is translate for one person here today, another person there on Thursday, or write two letters for someone next Monday. I cannot give you what you deserve, a husband sound in mind and body . I cannot protect you from the ridicule that people will heap on you for marrying a cripple! I love you more than my life, Marla, and because of that I cannot do this!"
She smiled, and said, "Oh, is that all?"
Franz was taken aback. "Is that all ? Is that not enough?"
"No," she laughed. "I was afraid there was something seriously wrong."
She took his crippled hand in both of hers, and said, "Franz, you're still wrestling with the trauma—"
He looked at her quizzically.
"Okay, you don't know that word. You're still wrestling with the damaging mental effects from when your hand was shattered. You're dealing with anger, and grief, and bitterness, and finding out that bargaining with God doesn't work, and you're not able to see some things realistically because of that. Believe me, we in Grantville know all about this, me in particular. Trust me, no one whose opinion matters considers you less than a man, less than a whole person, because of
"It is a new world, at least for me."
Marla flushed, looked up at him quickly and then down again. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "That was rude."
A few more quiet steps, and she said, "Anyway, what I was trying to say is that I feel different since you came. I can talk music with you, and daydream about somehow starting a music school. I feel . . . happy."
She stopped and twirled once on the sidewalk, holding out her arms. "You are good for me, Franz Sylwester."
"You just say that because you love me," he joked.
She stopped and looked at him in all seriousness. "I do love you, Franz."
He stared back in amazement. "Are you . . . I mean . . . you mean . . . "
His head was spinning. Yes, they had kissed, and cuddled, but she had not allowed any more than that. They had joked about having a future together, he had dreamed it, but now in cold honesty he saw that he had never truly thought he had a chance at a lifetime with her, crippled and destitute as he was. Jokes and fantasies had all of a sudden become a reality, and he was totally speechless.
With a smile, she reached out and took both of his hands—whole and crippled—in hers, and said, "I love you, Franz Sylwester, I believe you love me, too, and I'm tired of waiting for you to say something about it."
He continued to stare at her, and she laughed. "Close your mouth, silly."
He did. "Well, say something."
He just looked at her, saying nothing. After a few moments, her smile faded away. "Franz?" in a small voice.
He pulled his hands from hers, and turned away, pushing his hands in his coat pockets and ducking his head. "I can't," he choked.
"Why not?"
He started to walk away.
"Franz Sylwester, you stop right there!" A sternness in her voice that he had never heard before stopped him without thought. Her steps sounded as she walked around in front of him, and he looked away.
"Franz, look at me." He did, seeing the tears trickling down her face again, and looked away again quickly. "No, look at me." He did, swallowing.
"You look me in the eyes, and tell me that you don't love me, and I'll walk away. But until you do that, we're going to stand right here."
Despite her command, he looked down at his feet. "I . . . love you," he whispered.
"Then why—?" she started exasperatedly.
He snatched his left hand from his pocket and thrust it in her face. She stepped back, startled, as he snarled, "Because of this! Because I am crippled! I cannot hope for you or anyone to marry me. Your family would not allow it. I cannot support you. I cannot provide for a family, when all I can do is translate for one person here today, another person there on Thursday, or write two letters for someone next Monday. I cannot give you what you deserve, a husband sound in mind and body . I cannot protect you from the ridicule that people will heap on you for marrying a cripple! I love you more than my life, Marla, and because of that I cannot do this!"
She smiled, and said, "Oh, is that all?"
Franz was taken aback. "Is that all ? Is that not enough?"
"No," she laughed. "I was afraid there was something seriously wrong."
She took his crippled hand in both of hers, and said, "Franz, you're still wrestling with the trauma—"
He looked at her quizzically.
"Okay, you don't know that word. You're still wrestling with the damaging mental effects from when your hand was shattered. You're dealing with anger, and grief, and bitterness, and finding out that bargaining with God doesn't work, and you're not able to see some things realistically because of that. Believe me, we in Grantville know all about this, me in particular. Trust me, no one whose opinion matters considers you less than a man, less than a whole person, because of
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