Bright's Passage: A Novel by Josh Ritter

Author:Josh Ritter [Ritter, Josh]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Appalachian Region - Social Life and Customs, World War; 1914-1918 - Veterans - West Virginia, Lyric Writing (Popular Music), Fiction, Literary, Musicians, World War; 1914-1918, West Virginia, General, Veterans
ISBN: 9781400069507
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2011-06-28T04:00:00+00:00

20

Bright couldn’t sleep, and so he lay looking at the bilious sky and the hotel, which sat in its pool of electric light there in the middle of the darkened lawn. On occasion the breeze scooped up a few jostling strains of music being played on a piano, and once or twice voices broke out in singing. The infuriating horse shifted lazily on its feet but then slept. It lay down once to dream, but then it got up again. When the baby cried he fed it from the goat’s milk and rocked it slowly until it fell asleep again. Later, he woke to find the hotel silent, and he changed the boy’s diaper in the darkness. When this was done, he fed it once more. Rachel’s nipples had been small, thimbly things, much tinier than his big index finger. On impulse, he dipped his little finger in the milk and offered it to his son. The boy took it in his mouth and suckled greedily.

She had been out milking the goat when her water broke. As usual in warm summer weather, she was naked, the skin stretched tightly across her enormous belly. She stood there in the yard and called to him. The goat was standing near the puddle of fluid, neck craned up at her. Together the goat and the girl looked at Bright. He had tried to pick her up to take her inside, but she had waved him away and finished milking the goat first.

He stood above her, unsure of whether to touch her or not, and then after a while he went to stand with the horse under the chestnut tree. “Well,” he said, “I guess that it’s happening now. This is what we talked about, ain’t it?” He watched the girl milk. The horse was not watching, but its nostrils flared, pulling in drafts of the new scent and chuffing them out again. “And she’s happy, ain’t she? I mean, we’re going to have a baby. What I mean to say is, thank you for making me go over there and steal her away.”

The horse said nothing in reply.

“Angel?” he said, but if the angel was there it gave no answer.

His wife stood then, the bucket in her hand. “Maybe it’s time we went in to the bed and see what happens,” she said, and held an arm out for him to slip his shoulder under.

He went to her then, the angel forgotten, and carried her feetfirst through the cabin flap, one arm holding the bucket, one arm slung around his neck.

That was the last time she ever put her arm around him. After that had come a feverish nightmare that he could remember only pieces of. The baby’s head was large, and he had twisted around sideways. Bright had been forced to reach in, as he’d seen a man do once with a cow, and pull the infant out by its heels. At some point during this time Rachel had died. He wasn’t sure quite when.

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