Fall on Your Knees Read Online Free Page B

Jew who raised kosher meat, and James kept his distance. God knows what rituals involving chickens and sheep….
    In back of the house there ran a creek that emptied into the ocean half a mile away. The Atlantic was always in sight and this was something James and Materia both came to depend on.
    If you followed this creek, you’d walk through long pale grasses keeled over in the damp, careful not to stumble on the rocks that sleep and peep out here and there. Past a stocky evergreen or two, their spiky scent, beaded sap stuck with rain. Startled by the scarlet mushroom, you might stop and stare. Or bend to feel the purity of the stream, refresh your eyes upon the pebbles stained with iron gleaming on the bottom there. Then you’d come, with your wet shoes and droplets in your hair, to a dirt road that stretches nine miles to Sydney on the left and all the way to Glace Bay on the right. Some called this Old Lingan Road, and others called it Victoria or Old Low Point Road, but in time it came to be simply the Shore Road.
    You might cross this road and walk a few steps to the edge of the cliff. Down below is the jagged water. All day it chatters back and forth across the gravel beach, unless the weather’s rough. Farther out it’s mauve like a pair of cold lips; closer in it’s copper-green, gun-grey, seducing seaweed to dance the seven veils despite the chill, chained to their rocks by the hair. And there on the cliff you might sit with your legs dangling even on a flinty winter day, and feel soothed by the salt wind. And if you were like Materia, you might look out, and out, and out, until what there was of sun had subsided. And you would sing. Though you might not sing in Arabic.
    In time, Materia wore a path from the two-storey white house, along the creek, across the Shore Road, to the cliff.
    They didn’t have much furniture at first. James bought an old upright piano at auction. In these early days Materia would play and they’d sing their way through the latest Let Us Have Music for Piano . Sometimes she’d slide down the bench and insist he play and he would, with gusto, the first few bars of some romantic piece, and then stop short, just as he did when he tuned pianos. Materia would laugh and beg him to play something right through and he would reply, “I’m no musician, dear, I’d rather listen to you.”
    He built her a hope chest out of cedar. He waited for her to start sewing and knitting things — his mother had milled her own wool, spun, woven and sewn, a different song for every task, till wee James had come to see the tweeds and tartans as musical notation. But the hope chest remained empty. Rather than make Materia feel badly about it, James put it in the otherwise empty attic.
    He wasn’t much of a cook but he could boil porridge and burn meat. She was young, she’d learn in time. On weekends he tuned pianos as far away as Mainadieu. Weekdays he cycled in to Sydney, where he swept floors at the offices of The Sydney Post Newspaper in the morning and worked as a sales clerk at McCurdy’s Department Store in the afternoon. Then he’d buy groceries, cycle home, make supper and tidy the house. Then prepare his collar and cuffs for the following day. Then climb the stairs and fold his dear one in his arms.
    One day in spring he asked her, “What do you do all day, my darling?”
    “I go for walks.”
    “What else?”
    “I play the piano.”
    “Why don’t you plant a little garden, would you like me to get you some hens?”
    “Let’s go to New York.”
    “We can’t just yet.”
    “Why not?”
    “We have a home, I don’t want to just run away.”
    “I do.”
    He didn’t want to elope for a second time. He wanted to stay put and prove something to his father-in-law. He intended to pay for this house. He started going to school every night by correspondence with Saint Francis Xavier University — liberal arts. He knew that could lead to law and then he could go anywhere. He had his