Antonia Lively Breaks the Silence by David Samuel Levinson

Author:David Samuel Levinson [Levinson, David Samuel]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 2013-05-08T14:00:00+00:00

All You Do Is Sit at a Typewriter and Bleed

_____

Just before dusk the next day, Henry got on his bike, passing Antonia’s house, wanting to stop, since he hadn’t seen her for a couple days, not since she’d come by the cottage. The house was dark; her car was not in the drive. As he rode past, he thought about Ezra and the ruined weekend. The boy had called him once he’d got back into the city. It had been the middle of the night. “Why are you with her?” he’d shouted, fuming.

Henry had wondered this himself, though he’d also wondered how he could ever live without her. He rode over the Kissing Swans Bridge, so like the bridge he had to cross to get to his house on Osprey Point. So many bridges, he thought, remembering another bridge, this one in Vermont, one of those covered bridges, and he’d just found out he’d won the Pulitzer Prize again and the future yawned bright and sparkling ahead of him. Joyce, his wife, had handed Ezra to him, and he had held the baby in his arms, cradling him as the summer afternoon cradled them. It was love, it had to be, he thought now, as he hurried across the bridge, his thoughts traveling from that bridge in Vermont to this one in Winslow, and Wyatt Strayed suddenly reared up in his memory.

The rain hadn’t stopped until the late afternoon, keeping him indoors, but now the sun was out again, the day steamy and choked with humidity. He went speeding down Old Devil Moon Road; ahead, his house, the yellow Italianate, rose up through the evergreens. Around him, the light was still bright, though he knew that it would soon fade. He could not stay long; besides, he had work to do. Even then, he suspected that he would find himself at Antonia’s door later, his desire for her reawakened. He wondered if she missed him as much as he missed her.

He knew that he’d behaved badly, and his accusations, he suspected, had been a part of his own fears. When she’d come to the cottage, wanting in, he’d refused her. How could he have seen her, knowing what she’d done? It was a violation that ran deep, yet even Henry, who disliked Antonia’s father, Linwood, felt sorry for him. She should have known better than to keep the story and novel a secret from him. Her vague past had finally caught up to her, to them. With horror, Henry again thought, Oh, Antonia, what have you done to us?

His house lay in disrepair, and he took it in, sighing. Behind him, a car crept past, slowing as Henry turned to watch it. Then the car stopped abruptly, headlights slicing through the dusk. As it did, Henry tried to make out the driver. He couldn’t, however. Then it was going again, sending up gravel in its wake. Henry watched until it was gone, then went into the house to find the key.

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