The Good Son by Craig Nova

Author:Craig Nova
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780307345776
Publisher: Crown
Published: 2006-01-24T00:00:00+00:00

Wade Cannon

THE FARM. SUMMER. 1950

IT HAD BEEN A MONTH SINCE CHIP HAD PROPOSED TO CAROLYN and since then he had finished in Cambridge and come to the farm, where he sat on the porch in the evenings, drinking a mint julep and smoking a cigar. He was alone. At times I thought he was all right. We even went to the movies a couple of times and sat before the flickering images. They still hadn’t fixed the hole in the screen.

For the last week Chip had been killing time, waiting a few days before joining Pop in the West to do some fishing. He was already late.

Mrs. Mackinnon put an ad in the New York papers that read, “Wanted: woman with clear hand to transcribe notebooks. One month. Room, board, and one hundred and fifty dollars.” It also gave our P.O. box, and the name of the town. The next day I was sitting in my room and staring out the window and I saw some movement there beyond the pine grove, on the road. It was white and quick, and I thought nothing of it until I saw a young woman walking along the road and across the bridge that went over the ponds. She was wearing a white skirt and blouse and was carrying a little jacket. She had ashy hair.

I watched as she went along, past the garage and up to the porch where Chip was sitting, and then I went downstairs and came up to the porch, where I waited. Chip stood up. He was wearing light trousers and a jacket.

“Are you lost?” he said.

“No,” said the girl, “I’ve come about the job.”

The girl put her hand to her mouth and smiled, but it wasn’t just friendly. She frowned, but then stopped that, too.

“Here,” she said, and showed the paper.

“I’ll get my mother,” said Chip. “Miss . . . ?”

“Cooper,” she said, “Jean Cooper.”

Chip had been waiting for tea, and Charlotte put it on the table. Chip waited. The tea service had been polished recently enough to reflect the blue sky, the color of Jean’s skin and hair, Chip’s eyes, tanned face, and stone-colored jacket.

“Good,” said Chip. “I’ll . . .”

He took a step toward the door, but he didn’t go upstairs.

“Would you like,” said Chip, “. . . a cup of tea?”

“Yes,” she said, “I’m a little tired . . .”

She didn’t walk like it though, as she came up the stairs to the porch, moving up each one, carefully putting one foot in front of another, although you wouldn’t have noticed it without watching. I was thinking of my wife, of the years I’d spent in the movie theater, of that tear in the screen in town. Chip said it looked like a bat. I stood and watched. She scared me, because she could be so steady.

“Why don’t you sit down?” said Chip.

He held out the chair for her and then sat down himself. Chip filled a white porcelain cup by running the hot tea through a strainer, and then gave the cup to Jean, who took it, each finger touching the saucer.

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