Beneath the Bonfire Read Online Free Page A

Beneath the Bonfire
Book: Beneath the Bonfire Read Online Free
Author: Nickolas Butler
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edge of the porch, where the stairs descended into overgrown grass and dandelions. He held the cup out. Rain fell off the eaves in big slow measured drops. The old man moved to the swing, watching, with arms crossed. Parenting, he remembered, was all about creating work, jobs, games.
    â€œNo, go on out there,” he said. “Go out in the rain now. Get me some fresh stuff. I don’t want that runoff from the roof. Go on now. Don’t worry ’bout getting wet.”
    The boy stepped into the rain, droplets turning the blue cotton of his shirt a color closer to black. The rain began to slick back his hair; he laughed. “It’s warm.”
    The old man smiled behind a hand. “Go on. Get me some of that fresh rain.”
    The boy moved farther away from the porch, a thick shoal of gray clouds slung low overhead. He held the cup out away from him, then over his head.
    â€œGrandpa? What does rain taste like?” the boy called out.
    â€œClouds, I suppose. Mostly like clouds.”
    The boy brought the cup down, glanced inside the little vessel. “Is this enough?”
    â€œSure, sure it is. Bring it up here. You won’t drink, I sure will.”
    The boy scrambled up the steps onto the porch, careful not to spill. He passed the cup cleanly to his grandfather, jumped onto the swing, and sat, hands in his lap, looking at his grandfather.
    The old man held the cup in his hands for some time, looking at the water there. I don’t know that I have ever tasted rain, he thought. He tried to recall some summer afternoon, some spring evening, when, perhaps out walking with his wife in town or on the tractor, or even back in his war time, when he might have opened his mouth for a raindrop to find or held his helmet out like a cup, when his young tongue might have slipped out of his mouth to lick rain-slicked lips. But nothing came to him.
    â€œGrandpa?”
    â€œYou take the first sip. Go on. You collected it, you ought to drink it.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œSure. It’s yours.”
    The boy raised the cup to his lips and took a small noisy sip. The old man watched him.
    â€œWell?”
    â€œGood. It tastes good, I guess. You want some, Grandpa?”
    â€œSure, sure I do. Here, hand that thing here.”
    They sat that way, the old man swinging them, his right hand on one of the chains that kept the swing moored to the ceiling of the porch. Now the air smelled of ozone and the rain came harder, more violently. The ground trembled with faraway lightning and there was the guttural sound of thunder. The boy inched closer to his grandfather, collapsing what little distance there remained. The old man placed his hand on the boy’s head, the air charged with electricity and their skin almost wet, the hairs on their arms at attention, like two scared cats.
    The old man raised the cup to his mouth and sipped. A lightning bolt, blue and hot white, split the sky not a mile away, and the thunder that filled their ears not even a second later seemed impossibly big, made them jump. The air sizzled. The old man imagined his daughter. Was she driving toward them, her windshield wipers frantically casting water toward the yellow center line? Or was she blissed out somewhere, a belt cinched around her pale, skinny arm, eyes half shut, slumped halfway out of a chair and resting on a dirty floor? Or in a motel room with two strangers, sipping her favorite, Southern Comfort, out of clear plastic cups and the tapping and scraping of credit cards making fine white lines on the bedside table? Or someplace much worse: a shallow ditch, a dank basement, the hot dark trunk of a sedan, a Greyhound bus, a hospital—where, where, where?
    He drank the remainder of the rainwater and began rocking them with more vigor. He hugged the child fiercely, felt his own lips meeting the top of the boy’s head.
    â€œCome on,” he said, “let’s go inside. Get you a hot shower and those
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