The Road Through the Wall Read Online Free Page A

and turned the pages slowly, reading and trying to pretend that she was her mother reading. The notebook labeled “Moods” she put aside unopened; it was dedicated “To my unknown hero,” and perhaps if she did not read it now, her mother would not have read it earlier. There were more notebooks, one called “Me,” which was the start of an autobiography; one named “Daydreams.”
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    â€œPat,” Mrs. Byrne said softly, “you’re not drinking your milk.”
    â€œI’ve got to hurry, Mother,” Pat said. He put the books down on the table and picked up the milk to drink it standing.
    Mrs. Byrne reached out one of her hands, chapped and red from much housework, and took the glass away from him. “That’s not the way my boy does,” she said. “Sit down, son.”
    Mary Byrne looked up from her crackers and milk. “For heaven’s sake sit down or get out,” she said. She was small and anemic and she had sinus trouble and she sniffled when she talked. Mr. and Mrs. Byrne both loved her dearly, but Pat was tall for his age and dark and almost handsome; both Pat and Mary were top of their classes in school, but Mary wore glasses and her hair straggled on her neck. “Golly,” Mary said, “other people are in as much of a hurry as you are.”
    â€œI’m going to the library,” Pat said. “Artie and me.”
    â€œYou can drink your milk first,” Mrs. Byrne said. “Mary, finish before you go out.”
    â€œWhat’s for dinner?” Mary asked. She moved her chair to see what Mrs. Byrne was doing at the sink. Her brother poked her arm, and she turned.
    Pat gestured with his head at his mother, her back toward them, and took the folded papers out of one of his books. “Yours,” he mouthed at her.
    Mary’s letters were written on blue paper; she recognized them and picked them up, thinking from her brother’s clandestine attitude that she might risk a knowing grin, but his eyes were looking away and his mouth was turned in disgust. Mary Byrne added another brick to her hatred for her brother and said, “Thanks.” She put the letters in to the pocket of her dress and said, “’Bye, Mom,” as she left the kitchen. Pat watched her go out the door into the front hall and then he said quietly, “Mother?”
    â€œPat darling,” said his mother without turning around.
    â€œListen,” Pat said quickly, “I don’t want to be a tattletale, but you better stop Mary from writing letters to boys.”
    His mother turned, paring knife in her hand, and regarded him. “And what kind of letters is Mary writing to boys?”
    Pat looked down at the table, at his hands moving nervously. “Letters,” he said, and wriggled. “
You
know.”
    â€œAnd how do
you
know?” his mother said.
    Pat’s face was red, and his voice went more and more quickly. “All the girls are doing it. It’s that Helen Williams. I just happened to see the letters.”
    â€œAnd what boys?”
    Pat stood up and picked up his books, but he said, “That’s the trouble. I don’t know
what
other boys.”
    â€œI’ll speak to Mary,” his mother said. “But you mind your own business after this.”
    â€œBut it’s dirty,” Pat said.
    â€œI’m not worried,” his mother said. “I want you to be a gentleman. A
real
gentleman. Don’t go out without your jacket.”
    Pat hesitated and then said, “I didn’t mean to tell on her.”
    â€œThat’s my fine fellow.” His mother put down the knife and came over to kiss him. “Now don’t get all interested in the library and forget to come home for dinner.”
    Mrs. Byrne had her potatoes pared and set on top of the stove, and the string beans cut and ready to start, when the phone rang. Drying her