Page Turner Pa Read Online Free Page B

Page Turner Pa
Book: Page Turner Pa Read Online Free
Author: David Leavitt
Tags: Gay
Pages:
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fucking bastard."
    "Don't say that!"
    She beat her fists on the steering wheel.
    "Mom—"
    All at once she switched on the ignition, pulled fast out of the parking lot.
    "Where are we going? Careful!" She had raced a yellow light.
    Veering onto El Camino, she drove up to a motel, its red VACANCY sign brazen in the dark.
    "Mother, we can't stay in a motel. I have to pack."
    "He named the business after it," she said. "Because it was where they met on their lunch hours all those years. That's why he named the business Summit Printing. The bastard."
    She started crying.
    Through the windshield Paul read the words SUMMIT MOTOR LODGE in green and white neon.
    He said nothing. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for this moment. Still, some instinct told him to reach out a hand and steady his mother's shoulder. She flinched it away. Probably she understood that if he wanted to comfort her, it was not for her sake at all; it was because he could not bear for her to show weakness in his proximity.
    Finally she opened her purse and took out a tissue.
    "Well," she said.
    "What are we going to do?" Paul asked.
    "What are we going to do? Go. You think I want to stick around here and watch? He's the past."
    Paul shut his eyes.
    She reversed out of the Summit Motor Lodge parking lot and headed into traffic. "Yes, in the end I'll probably be relieved," she said. "In the end I'll probably decide it was for the best."
    Paul stayed quiet. A few minutes later, they were pulling into the familiar driveway. "Is he here?" he asked.
    She shook her head. "He won't come back until after we're gone."
    They went in through the garage. Under Paul's feet, the floorboards were reticent. The doors creaked. The kitchen kept to itself, like a beaten child who fears reprisal.
    Suddenly he no longer enjoyed looking forward. He simply wanted to be in the future, remembering misery, instead of in the present, remembering having looked forward to joy.
    Taking a dish of sugar-free Jell-O out of the refrigerator, Pamela sat down at the kitchen table and started a crossword puzzle.
    "Aren't you going to pack?" Paul said.
    "In a minute," Pamela said. "Honey, you know everything about music. Composer Maurice—"
    "Ravel," Paul said.
    "Ravel," Pamela repeated. "Yes, that's fine. Yes, that'll fit in perfectly."

3
    F ORTY SOME ODD HOURS LATER , in his hotel room in Rome, Paul opened the letter his father had slipped inside his suitcase. "It's okay for you to hate me," Kelso concluded, "as long as it motivates you to take care of your mother. Remember, I won't always be her husband, but you'll always be her son, so make sure she doesn't do anything you'll regret."
    After he'd folded the letter in eighths and stuffed it inside his jeans pocket, Paul opened the window. A soppy world confronted him, the air colorless and woolly in the damp. Nearby, in her own room, his mother slept off jet lag and grief. He himself wasn't tired at all, even though he hadn't been to bed in what felt like days. So he took his old umbrella and went out walking.
    It was another long-rehearsed moment that would only come once: his first walk, alone, through the streets of Rome. And yet like most longed-for things, the Pantheon was simply there, sinking wonderfully into the mist. Inside, the rain seemed to fall in slow motion through the oculus. A camp of vagrants, complete with dogs and guitars and blankets, sheltered under the portico. He listened to the ground bass and trill of rain.
    Turning left, Paul wandered down a succession of ever-narrowing streets. Churches faced him at every corner. He stepped into one of them. A congested light filtered through the old windows, clogging the vast interior with shadows. Behind a half-open door a nun ironed altar cloths.
    He sat down. White candles burned in corners. All around him gloomy frescoes rose: Santa Agatha with her breasts on a plate, Santa Lucia with her eyes on a plate. Then an old woman entered the church, crossed herself,
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