The Garden of Last Days by Andre Dubus III

Author:Andre Dubus III [Dubus III, Andre]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781409035275
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2009-11-09T18:30:00+00:00

DRIVING DOWN MANATEE in the predawn, it was no use even trying to sip his coffee and ice his wrist and drive and listen to the young girl whine for food and her mama. Maybe he shouldn’t’ve woke her up just to get some Benadryl down her, but he knew how things went—you don’t look out for one thing and then the other comes up and hits you on the back of the head: What if she woke up when he planned to lift her out of Cole’s seat at the temple on Lido Key? How could he lay her down somewhere then? But now she was as up as Cole used to get after a good nap, sitting straight, pushing her hair back from her eyes, looking out at dark, sleeping Bradenton.

“I’m hungry.”

“It’s late, Francie. You go back to sleep till we get to your mama’s house.”

He glanced up at her in the rearview. She seemed to take in what he’d said: Sleeping, then her mama.

“My name is Franny.”

“Franny.” He smiled at her in the mirror. He liked her spunk, but what would come of it? Spunk turns to sassy turns to bitch turns to whore. Just like her mama. Who’s to say this runt wouldn’t grow up into another Spring? Another Marianne? Just smiling and shaking her tits and leading you on till you’re broke and your Visa’s full and you’re holding your dick in your hand?

“I’m hungry.”

His numbed wrist rested against the door handle. Every time he slowed or sped up or made a turn, the ice pack slid off onto his leg and he had to press his knees to the wheel to hold it steady and readjust the pack with his good hand. He wasn’t even going to try to sip the coffee from the holder. He never did find a cup worth a shit for driving and had settled on a red plastic one from Busch Gardens with no lid and already a third of it had sloshed out all over his truck carpet. He needed to stop and get a proper cup. He needed to stop and get this girl a snack so she’d get quiet again and the Benadryl could kick in.

“Please, I’m hungry. And I’m thirsty.”

“I heard you, hon.”

In the darkness he drove under live oaks, Spanish moss hanging down like nagging reminders of something he’d forgotten to do. He passed by scrappy yards and small houses, everybody in them asleep, probably curled up to someone they loved. He’d never gotten tired of that with Deena. Even after she’d gained all that weight. Even after nights of bitching and screaming, it’d all be over by one or two in the morning and they’d just be echoes in his head and she was a soft, warm body he’d curl up against, his nose in her hair, his hand and arm on her soft hip. Whenever he dreamed of Marianne, he never did get that far with her—the way he saw Deena, like she wasn’t just a woman but home itself.

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