Blind World by H. M. Rutherford

Author:H. M. Rutherford
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781732404007
Published: 2018-10-31T00:00:00+00:00

CANTO XII

THE FARTHER AND FARTHER DANTE drove from Suzette the more and more his heart sank. Sorrow rocked his very being, mercilessly bothering him the entire trip. The radio grated against his ears but silence tormented him. He kept picturing Suzette’s tiny frame jumping off the bridge, disappearing into the darkness—over and over. All he wanted was to be around when the police finally had a solid answer as to what had happened. He felt so distraught, furious with himself for having let it all boil down to suicide.

He cringed at the thought, the dwindling sun sucking away any warmth that may have relieved him. But soon he would be able to fall again into the peace of a dreamless sleep.

It was about seven when he arrived at the rickety, little one-story home squished between a multitude of houses just as worn. With no driveway, he parked against the curb, tugged out all his bags, and sulked over to the beaten-up door. In the distance he could hear police sirens and he took a moment to look around the questionable neighborhood. Finding nothing, he turned back to the door, opened the torn screen door, and gave it a feeble knock.

A moment passed and the door opened to a small Italian man, flashing a tight grin. He looked just as Dante remembered, wearing a dirty t-shirt and ripped pants, greatly resembling a bum, though his face would belie such a claim. In his eye was a small twinkle, almost hidden underneath a wise brow. Upon his middle-aged face were the marks of happiness around his eyes, his mouth, and across his forehead. His hair, once a thick crown of pride, was thinning on the top. It almost seemed like there was nothing that could dampen such a man’s spirits. But at the sight of Dante’s hopeless and broken expression, the man’s smile faded. After a moment’s pause, he was able to whisper, “Hello, Dante.”

Dante looked away, ashamed. “Uncle Virgil.”

“Come on in,” he said, stepping aside for his nephew.

Dante’s feet hesitated a moment, but he went inside. He wasn’t afraid of hurting his uncle; he was too weak with numbness. Any anger or sorrow he felt barely caught flame. Virgil would be safe from him.

His uncle walked him through the little foyer and into the dingy den where two recliners sat, old and worn.

“Please, have a seat.” Virgil gently took the bags from Dante and hurried away toward the back.

Dante sat himself in the rough, uncomfortable seat and stared at the floor.

Virgil’s quick footsteps returned. “Are you hungry? I made dinner for you.”

“No,” Dante muttered.

“That’s okay—that’s okay,” the uncle replied. “I’ll just pack it into the fridge and save it for tomorrow.” He stood there for a moment, waiting to see if anything would happen.

Dante only gave him a glimpse as acknowledgment.

Virgil nodded and turned to a corner that contained a large desk and a coffee table scrunched against it, both covered in a cloak of loose paper. He went over and started fishing through some of the papers.

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