October Light Read Online Free Page B

sense the toughest of his life. He was extremely drunk and had to walk the bridge three times to find his X. By the time he found it, there were red and yellow lights flashing on and off at both ends of the bridge—they had found his car—and the suicide squad had its sirens going. He climbed over the rail where the X was and hung there waiting for the squad cars to pass. They didn’t. They too knew the perfect place. For a panicky second, he thought of dropping immediately, but good sense prevailed, as it always did with him, or he wouldn’t be here committing suicide. What could they do when they saw him there, hanging by his fingertips? Shoot him?
    â€œHa,” Sally laughed, tentatively amused. But she at once changed her mind. It wasn’t funny, it was irritating, and again she raised her eyes, listening past the clock, focusing on a door panel, lips pursed. She had half a mind to throw down the book and forget it, half a mind even to throw it out the window, where it couldn’t contaminate her bedroom. It was base, unwholesome. That nonsense, especially about suicide proving a man’s “good sense.” People might say such stupid, irresponsible writing did no harm, but you could bet your bottom dollar, no one who’d experienced the tragedy of the suicide of someone near and dear would ever in this world dream of saying such a thing. If anyone had dared even hint such a notion, back when Richard had died, a man still young, everything still ahead of him—a young man so gentle that it simply broke your heart—well, she hated to think what she’d have done to him.
    Her heart churned and for an instant she remembered how everywhere she’d looked, just after her nephew had taken his own life, the world had seemed inert, like a half-fallen, long-abandoned barn on a still, cold day. She remembered the feeling, though not the details, of how she’d flown up the mountain in her late husband’s Buick, after James had phoned, and how he’d stood in the doorway stunned to vagueness. When she’d reached to take his hand—trying to protect him as she’d done when they were children, she the big sister and he the poor helpless little boy with darting eyes—she’d been painfully aware of how cold the hand was, and rough from farmwork, unresponsive. Ariah, his wife, was behind him in the kitchen, watching from the sink, moving the dishcloth around and around a cup, in her cheeks no life.
    â€œHe hanged himself,” Ariah said; then her throat constricted and she could say no more.
    Sally had looked back at her brother and moaned, “Oh, James!” tightening her grip on his hand. There was no response.
    She gave her head a little shake now, freeing herself from the flicker of memory—enemy to her perfectly reasonable anger at her brother’s insane and savage ways. She at once raised the book. She’d been making a mountain of a molehill, no doubt. She’d never liked loose talk of suicide; but it wasn’t as if the book was in earnest. She was on edge, that was all, and who could blame her? She hunted for her place.
    â€¦ sense prevailed, as it always did with him, or he wouldn’t be here committing …
    â€¦ do when they saw him there, hanging by his fingertips? Shoot him?
    Sally Abbott nodded; that was where she’d stopped.
    With the intense vision of the very drunk, he watched the door of the white car fly open and saw two booted feet hit the pavement. “There he is!” someone shouted, and the sound seemed, amusingly, to reach him from behind, from the thick night and fog. It came to him that if he were hanging from the bottom girder of the bridge, as he’d meant to be, he couldn’t see the squad cars. Gripping tightly with his right hand, he let go with his left and groped for something lower. It was farther down than he would have expected, but large, with wonderful flanges. He gripped it