Deep in the Heart of Me Read Online Free Page A

stride. He's always one inch behind, and that's my preference cause it's my job to be oldest, appointed by God is what Dad says. In olden times, all the land would go to me. Now I have to share Dad says. It goes amongst the three of us, and we make sure the girls marry well and give each what we can. Hopefully, we see to it they marry land without the husband being the worst son of a bitch ever lived. That's how Granma puts it to Mom.
    Granma always tells the truth, even if nobody wants to hear it. She curses in Italian though. And we figured out first time we got an Italian hand, 'Figlio di puttana ,' does not mean, 'God bless us, everyone.'
    "He will rule over you," Granma says quoting Eve's curse every time she thinks the fairer sex get a raw deal. "And he does," she always adds with a sigh that lasts about ten seconds.
    It's one big line of getting bit on the ass. That's what Dad says when he smokes with the men at the town meetings. I'm beginning to believe it.
    My anger takes me most of the way home. Joseph is quiet. That's what I most like about him. Dad says even a fool is thought wise if he keeps his trap shut.
    We turn on Clannan Lane and Joseph speaks, "Mom won't like it."
    When we grow corn, you can't see the house from the main road like this. But the field is stubble now. Government wanted us to cut back on producing so Dad expanded the dairy and kept more in pasture. But this front field, he's sowing it in winter wheat this year. Soon it will be cultivated and planted. Very soon now that I'm done with school.
    So there she sits, the place we were born. All of us. Makes me proud to see it, always does. Makes me know I'd do anything to protect it. It's my home. My family. Our farm. We've held on when others couldn't. Dad says we should be humble, but I'm just proud. That's all.
    The house is tall, two-stories and white and been added onto more than a few times. Outhouse sits behind, and we move it pretty regular.
    And we got some kind of building for everything. My dad loves to build. But our barn, it sits to the right, big and important.
    Dad says God holds the world, but for me, he holds the barn.
    So we are walking along, and this kind of dread comes on me, but it don't last. Dad will let me out. I think. Joseph, though.
    Not sure.
    "She got embarrassed," Joseph says.
    "Who did?" I think he means Teacher.
    "The new one. Sobe."
    "What?" Did I embarrass her? How?
    "When she came in from recess she had the apple. We…they all knew. Said, "Um." He draws out the 'm.'
    I have to let it sink in. Comes to this new subject of Sobe I feel…average. The way others must feel at sums or even their letters. I always feel far ahead, always know the answers before the rest figure the question. But now I'm like them.
    Average. I don't know what Joseph means. They couldn't know about the apple.
    "She just got flustered," Joseph says.
    "So?" I say. It's dumb but…I just don't know. No one could see us in the woods.
    "She went in with an orange and came out with an apple. They were all watching."
    "So…?"
    "She gave you her orange. And…you took it."
    "I hate this place," I say picking up a rock and flinging it far. I don't hate it. I don't hate anything for a minute.
    I embarrassed her. She passed it off to the teacher.
    "It wasn't a bouquet," I say in my defense. "It was just an apple."
    "It's not the apple. It's the orange," he says.
    Yes. We haven't seen those since Christmas. She went into the woods to share the orange with me.
    And they all wanted it. And some of them, they wanted her.
    Did she pick me then?
    She picked me.
    And I left school. I left her.
    Oh.
    "How you got from getting called out to making that speech…on the co-op? That's anyone's guess," Joseph says.
    I stare at him, but I have no pride now. "How did I sound?"
    He's shaking his head.
    "Well, she said what was I thinking, and we had the sentences…," I say.
    Now he's nodding.
    "I just said…injustice. The way she picks on us every year. She don't