Read All Flesh Is Grass for Free Online Page B

looking at one another, in that awkward pause that falls between old friends after years of not seeing one another, neither one quite sure of what should be said, searching for some safe and common ground to begin a conversation.
    â€œBack for a visit?” I inquired.
    â€œYeah,” he said. “Vacation.”
    â€œYou should have looked me up at once.”
    â€œJust got in three or four hours ago.”
    It was strange, I thought, that he should have come back to Millville, for there was no one for him here. His folks had moved away, somewhere east, several years ago. They’d not been Millville people. They’d been in the village for only four or five years, while his father worked as an engineer on a highway project.
    â€œYou’re going to stay with me,” I said. “There’s a lot of room. I am all alone.”
    â€œI’m at a motel west of town. Johnny’s Motor Court, they call it.”
    â€œYou should have come straight to my place.”
    â€œI would have,” he said, “but I didn’t know. I didn’t know that you were in town. Even if you were, I thought you might be married. I didn’t want to just come barging in.”
    I shook my head. “None of those things,” I said.
    We each had a drink of beer.
    He put down his glass. “How are things going, Brad?”
    My mouth got set to tell a lie, and then I stopped. What the hell, I thought. This man across from me was old Alf Peterson, one of my best friends. There was no point in telling him a lie. There was no pride involved. He was too good a friend for pride to be involved.
    â€œNot so good,” I told him.
    â€œI’m sorry, Brad,”
    â€œI made a big mistake,” I said. “I should have gotten out of here. There’s nothing here in Millville, not for anyone.”
    â€œYou used to want to be an artist. You used to fool around with drawing and there were those pictures that you painted.”
    I made a motion to sweep it all away.
    â€œDon’t tell me,” said Alf Peterson, “that you didn’t even try. You were planning to go on to school that year we graduated.”
    â€œI did,” I said. “I got in a year of it. An art school in Chicago. Then Dad passed away and Mother needed me. And there wasn’t any money. I’ve often wondered how Dad got enough together to send me that one year.”
    â€œAnd your mother? You said you are alone.”
    â€œShe died two years ago.”
    He nodded. “And you still run the greenhouse.”
    I shook my head. “I couldn’t make a go of it. There wasn’t much to go on. I’ve been selling insurance and trying to handle real estate. But it’s no good, Alf. Tomorrow morning I’ll close up the office.”
    â€œWhat then?” he asked.
    â€œI don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”
    Alf signaled to Mae to bring another round of beers.
    â€œYou don’t feel,” he said, “there’s anything to stay for.”
    I shook my head. “There’s the house, of course. I would hate to sell it. If I left, I’d just lock it up. But there’s no place I want to go, Alf, that’s the hell of it. I don’t know if I can quite explain. I’ve stayed here a year or two too long; I have Millville in my blood.”
    Alf nodded. “I think I understand. It got into my blood as well. That’s why I came back. And now I wonder if I should have. Of course I’m glad to see you, and maybe some other people, but even so I have a feeling that I should not have come. The place seems sort of empty. Sucked dry, if you follow me. It’s the same as it always was, I guess, but it has that empty feeling.”
    Mae brought the beers and took the empty glasses.
    â€œI have an idea,” Alf said, “if you care to listen.”
    â€œSure,” I said. “Why not?”
    â€œI’ll be going back,” he said,