Blood Music Read Online Free
Author: Jessie Prichard Hunter
nobody had ever fallen in love with it. Cheryl went to school, she came home. She volunteered with child burn victims once a week. She went to the movies alone. She saw Raiders of the Lost Ark eighteen times when it came out. John thought that thatâs what she thought she was, or hoped she could be: the professor who took off her glasses and changed her hat and all kinds of wonderful, exciting things would happen to her.
In the last year sheâd gotten a low-level job at a travel agency and made some friends, loud people, the harmless kind of wild. She was thinking about joining the Peace Corps. Of taking all her love and dedication and quiet efficiency and capacity for wildness somewhere nobody knew her and just inventing herself there. John was proud of her, but he told her that he didnât want to think of how much he was going to miss her when she was gone.
He had helped his father change her diapers after his mother died. His father didnât know how to do it. John knew how; he had watched his mother. Cheryl laughed when he tickled her belly button when the diaper was off. She was never going to take off her glasses now, and no one was ever going to run his fingers through her long, thick, honey-blond hair.
John stood in a narrow place, above a great abyss. His father had fallen. John could fall or he could fight. His mind was very clear as he sat at the kitchen table looking out at the crab-apple trees in the backyard. His father had fallen. He would not fall. But to keep his balance he had to have a goal. He had to have something to grasp. If he didnât, he would hear Cherylâs voice until the day he died.
He would find the man who raped and murdered his sister. He would look into his face. He would silence forever the sounds that lingered behind that manâs eyes, because only he had heard them, and only his death would silence them forever.
4
T hey were going to have company tonight. They had company so seldom, what with Patâs hours now, and the baby. Gail and Philip, friends of Zellyâs from high school, and Greg and Lizzie; Pat and Greg had once been partners in a moving business, Two Men W/Van.
It was Zellyâs idea to have them over, no reason except the May weather. She felt awfully isolated sometimes, with only the baby and the newspapers for company. And her mother. Zelly had nine brothers and sisters but they were scattered across the country and sheâd been out of touch with most of them since the baby. That was her litany. Nothing was the same since the baby. Even her husband. He didnât touch her as oftenâbut she tried not to think about that. He was so nice otherwise. And of course he was working so hard. That was another part of the litany: he was working so hard for her and the baby. Even in the honeymoon of their love they had not stayed awake till dawn; it didnât occur to her now to make love in the middle of the night when he came home. She even felt a small conventional guilt about making love at all with the baby in the house, and although sheâd never said anything she sensed Pat knew.
But now his neglect of her was like a small, unidentified lump in her breast: she didnât know if it was going to get better or if it was malignant. Or if there could be a simple surgical procedure and then the lump would be gone.
She and Pat were cutting vegetables in the kitchen. Pat was good that way, heâd help out if you asked him to. Not if you didnât ask, but she didnât expect that. Nobody expected that. Zelly was trying a recipe from Gourmet magazine. Her mother had gotten a sample copy in the mail, and Zelly thought the Monterey Jack-jalepeño-cilantro raviolis looked awfully good. And they didnât seem too hard; most of the time when friends came over she made a pasta dish or chicken but she felt like trying something different.
Mary was playing with some pots on the floor at their feet. âIn the park today the
In the last year sheâd gotten a low-level job at a travel agency and made some friends, loud people, the harmless kind of wild. She was thinking about joining the Peace Corps. Of taking all her love and dedication and quiet efficiency and capacity for wildness somewhere nobody knew her and just inventing herself there. John was proud of her, but he told her that he didnât want to think of how much he was going to miss her when she was gone.
He had helped his father change her diapers after his mother died. His father didnât know how to do it. John knew how; he had watched his mother. Cheryl laughed when he tickled her belly button when the diaper was off. She was never going to take off her glasses now, and no one was ever going to run his fingers through her long, thick, honey-blond hair.
John stood in a narrow place, above a great abyss. His father had fallen. John could fall or he could fight. His mind was very clear as he sat at the kitchen table looking out at the crab-apple trees in the backyard. His father had fallen. He would not fall. But to keep his balance he had to have a goal. He had to have something to grasp. If he didnât, he would hear Cherylâs voice until the day he died.
He would find the man who raped and murdered his sister. He would look into his face. He would silence forever the sounds that lingered behind that manâs eyes, because only he had heard them, and only his death would silence them forever.
4
T hey were going to have company tonight. They had company so seldom, what with Patâs hours now, and the baby. Gail and Philip, friends of Zellyâs from high school, and Greg and Lizzie; Pat and Greg had once been partners in a moving business, Two Men W/Van.
It was Zellyâs idea to have them over, no reason except the May weather. She felt awfully isolated sometimes, with only the baby and the newspapers for company. And her mother. Zelly had nine brothers and sisters but they were scattered across the country and sheâd been out of touch with most of them since the baby. That was her litany. Nothing was the same since the baby. Even her husband. He didnât touch her as oftenâbut she tried not to think about that. He was so nice otherwise. And of course he was working so hard. That was another part of the litany: he was working so hard for her and the baby. Even in the honeymoon of their love they had not stayed awake till dawn; it didnât occur to her now to make love in the middle of the night when he came home. She even felt a small conventional guilt about making love at all with the baby in the house, and although sheâd never said anything she sensed Pat knew.
But now his neglect of her was like a small, unidentified lump in her breast: she didnât know if it was going to get better or if it was malignant. Or if there could be a simple surgical procedure and then the lump would be gone.
She and Pat were cutting vegetables in the kitchen. Pat was good that way, heâd help out if you asked him to. Not if you didnât ask, but she didnât expect that. Nobody expected that. Zelly was trying a recipe from Gourmet magazine. Her mother had gotten a sample copy in the mail, and Zelly thought the Monterey Jack-jalepeño-cilantro raviolis looked awfully good. And they didnât seem too hard; most of the time when friends came over she made a pasta dish or chicken but she felt like trying something different.
Mary was playing with some pots on the floor at their feet. âIn the park today the
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