Where We Are Now Read Online Free

met Josephine. Gradually he cared less and less about what might be happening to Jeanie though he didn’t forget he had a son living in the world somewhere, maybe even with the Swems in Savannah by now. But why would they have told anyone of the illegitimate child? Perhaps they hadn’t. They could have concocted some story about a marriage abroad. Perhaps someone else had known and told Josephine or her parents.
    He imagined Josephine’s innocent face as she looked at a note, a single line in an unknown hand. “Ambrose Moore has a son.” Who had he told? When had he told? Who would hurt her like that? Had he babbled his secret to some stranger in a bar? How would that stranger know he’d fallen in love with Josephine Dupey? And what would be the point of telling her he had a bastard child? Sheer maliciousness.
    What of Josephine’s father? Milstead Dupey had never really favored him. How could he help being the sort of man that women often liked better than other men did? The banker was a careful person whose guarded look hid his whole-hearted interest in the meanest gossip. Hadn’t he even overheard him questioning the cook about another family she worked for? He would have had his lines out the moment he knew one of Josephine’s suitors was serious. Splaying his fingers out again on the round oak table, Ambrose could see Dupey with fishing poles cast all around him, floats bobbing and sinking suddenly in calm water until they were reeled in with odd bits of old underwear, socks riddled with holes, condoms, and various other pieces of life’s little dirty business swinging in Charleston Bay’s limpid air. How he would have gloried in the slightest rumor! How he would have gathered it to him and gone home to shake it out like a soiled rag in his wife’s and daughter’s shocked faces.
    He knew what the whisperers would say:
    â€œAmbrose Moore, only a poor musician. How can he make enough to support a wife?”
    â€œHeard he’s got a brother in the pen.”
    â€œTennessee mountain trash.”
    â€œOwes money.”
    â€œHe has a bastard son, a son.”
    The whispers grew louder.
    â€œShe was one of his pupils, remember?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œJeanie Swem, one of his discoveries.”
    The unknown voices circled in his head. He put his hand over his ears, reached for the piece of blue paper, shoved it in his trouser pocket, stumbled out to the kitchen still smelling slightly of the cauliflower they had eaten for supper the night before, pushed the back door’s screen so hard it banged against the wall as he fell down three cement steps into theyard. For a while he lay on the ground noticing the clarity of the sky and the tranquillity of the farm with everyone gone. A branch from an adjacent bush stroked his cheek. Ambrose rolled over, sat up, and clasped his knees with both hands but got no further. Dizzy, bruised, and drunk, he waited.
    Edgar’s old black and tan hound came up and tried to lick his face.
    Pushing him away with both arms, he lost his balance and collapsed on his side then gradually sat up clutching his arms around both knees again.
    The dog sidled back to him.
    â€œGo away.”
    The dog sat down in front of him and regarded him with a face mirroring his own pathetic situation so exactly that he felt insulted.
    â€œGo away, Roary!”
    The rest of Edgar’s hounds were gone, given to friends many years ago. Kate wouldn’t have a pack of dogs around. Ambrose peered up at the noonday sun, then down at Roary’s white front paws. The dog continued to regard him mournfully, his great brown eyes, drooping ears, and downcast mouth implied he’d seen everything, and none of it was much good.
    â€œNobody asked you,” Ambrose muttered aloud. He let go of his knees and put both hands on the ground. Moving forward, his fingers pressed against the dirt, feeling the dampness through his trousers, he faced the