The Fallen River: An Appalachian Novel by Blake Arthur

Author:Blake Arthur [Arthur, Blake]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2022-01-14T22:00:00+00:00

Joe came over the next day with his truck packed and bike loaded. Aster poured him some orange juice and fried eggs in day-old bacon grease. Joe pondered the ceremonies that took place at Aster’s bar, that revealed themselves to him in the sober quietness. Aster was like a clear mountain stream, and all those around her were laid bare, defenses and coverings lost.

He drank his orange juice and watched her make a pot of coffee for the road. She put on a sweater and scarf over her white tank top. Joe lingered on her beauty, and thought about how all the great women he had known had a special curve, a way that remained from some long-lost fall from divinity. Some women’s curves were easily seen, a line of the neck, or a bend of the hand. Others were hidden only to be found by their lovers. Those remnants of lost gods were the beginnings of men’s bigotry, and jealousy’s dirt, dug by envy. Aster was different though to him. Her curve was fluid, changing in each of her movements, an almost natural dance fitting the world around her. Every move looked effortless, but carefully planned and choreographed. What was difficult was made to look simple and easy. Her ways came through the grace and character from her mother, and the boldness and improvisation from her father. Aster’s body movements transferred into the world around her, an extension of the dance. She orchestrated every patron’s worn seat, a specific table that was just their height, every perspective fitting to the person that filled it. Each held the perfect flawed mug, the fitting cracked bowl. Her form, matched perfectly with function, was seamless and needed no attention. It demanded it.

ASTER. You ready to go?

JOE. Yeah, yeah. Just wandered off a second.

Joe finished his breakfast hurriedly and put his plate by the sink.

They headed out together into the icy snow. The afternoon sun sparkled on the upper ice sheet which coated the powdery marshmallow fluff. Joe put the truck it in to four-wheel drive and pulled up to the first intersection. The truck stalled again. He fired back up the motor and they headed for the highway. He rubbed his hands together and held them over the air vents as they drove, waiting for the truck to warm up. Aster put her hair up in a clip.

ASTER. I haven’t seen you for a few weeks. You know I miss you when you don’t come by.

JOE. Thanks, I figured you were tired of me by now.

ASTER. That’s just your masochistic, fundamentalist guilt coming out. I think you use it as a defense mechanism somehow. If you beat yourself up, then no one else can make you hurt.

Joe considered his new blind spot.

JOE. You know I feel a bit dense around you, like you see more colors of the world. There I go again.

Joe’s intoxication was bleeding through. He was an expert at compartmentalizing, in contrast to his brother, but he could feel his flustering.

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