Read Homebody for Free Online Page A
Authors: Orson Scott Card
into the restoration of beautiful old houses.”
“The ones he started with weren’t all that beautiful. You make it sound romantic.”
“Not romantic, but maybe a little heroic. Don’t you think?” asked Cindy.
“I think Don figures that as long as he can’t be dead, he might as well do this.”
With that, Jay gave her one last cheesy smile and headed back to his minivan. Cindy went for her car, too, not caring that the house was leftunlocked behind her. Don would be back to put on a new door. It was his house now. She’d make sure of that.
It was already almost dark. The wind had picked up and there were clouds coming in over the trees to the west. Autumn coming at last. Real autumn, not just turning leaves but cold weather, too. Cold rain. She hated the cold but she also looked forward to it. A change. The end of the old year. Christmas coming. Memories. People she missed. Melancholy. Yes, that was it, melancholy. That’s what autumn was good for.
But a man like Don, it was always autumn for him, wasn’t it? To lose a child and know that if only a judge had decided differently, if only the law was different, your daughter would be alive.
At least he knew that he had spent everything he had to try to get her back. But would that be consolation to him? Cindy doubted it. She thought of her father. A peaceable, law-abiding man. But he worked with his body, his muscled, powerful body. And there were times when she could see that it took all his strength not to hit somebody. She never saw him hit anybody, but she saw him want to, and in a way that was almost more frightening, because she knew that if he ever did, it would be the most terrible blow.
If Don Lark really was anything like her father, it must eat him alive inside, always wondering if he shouldn’t have just said screw the law and kidnapped his daughter and gone underground. Evenif he got caught, even if he went to jail for it and she got killed anyway, he could live with it better if he knew he had done everything to try to save her. Men think like that, Cindy knew. Some men anyway. Take upon themselves the burden of the world. Have to save everybody, help everybody, provide for everybody. And when they can’t do it, they can’t think of any other reason to live. Was that Don Lark? Probably. A man who had forgotten, not how to live, but why.
5
Doors
Back when Don was a housebuilder, the best part of the job was the beginning. Standing there on a wooded lot with insects droning and birds flitting and treerats scampering up the trunks, he saw the slope of the land, the way it would look in lawn and garden, and where the house would crown the lot. He imagined the plan of the house, where he might put a cellar that opened to ground level in the back yard, or how a deep porch might be especially nice on a hot afternoon. He saw the roof rising among the trees—he always saved the best of the trees, because that kept a house from looking naked and newborn. A brand-new house had to look established, had to look as though it had roots deep into the ground. People couldn’t feel right about moving into a place that looked like it just came to rest there and might blow off again in a year or two, the next bad storm. Tall old trees gave that feeling of stability even on a house finished just the day before.
Once building began, then the peace of thewoods was broken, the dirt torn up and flung into the air as a fine dust that clogged everything. The naked frame showed its origin as cut trees—almost obscene to put them up among the living timbers, as if to cow them into submission by showing them what could happen to trees that didn’t cooperate. Even when the house was nearly done and Don got his own hands deep in the finish carpentry, the pleasure of working with the wood and of watching it all take shape under his hands, that still wasn’t as much of a joy as standing there on the building lot imagining the house inside his head.
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“The ones he started with weren’t all that beautiful. You make it sound romantic.”
“Not romantic, but maybe a little heroic. Don’t you think?” asked Cindy.
“I think Don figures that as long as he can’t be dead, he might as well do this.”
With that, Jay gave her one last cheesy smile and headed back to his minivan. Cindy went for her car, too, not caring that the house was leftunlocked behind her. Don would be back to put on a new door. It was his house now. She’d make sure of that.
It was already almost dark. The wind had picked up and there were clouds coming in over the trees to the west. Autumn coming at last. Real autumn, not just turning leaves but cold weather, too. Cold rain. She hated the cold but she also looked forward to it. A change. The end of the old year. Christmas coming. Memories. People she missed. Melancholy. Yes, that was it, melancholy. That’s what autumn was good for.
But a man like Don, it was always autumn for him, wasn’t it? To lose a child and know that if only a judge had decided differently, if only the law was different, your daughter would be alive.
At least he knew that he had spent everything he had to try to get her back. But would that be consolation to him? Cindy doubted it. She thought of her father. A peaceable, law-abiding man. But he worked with his body, his muscled, powerful body. And there were times when she could see that it took all his strength not to hit somebody. She never saw him hit anybody, but she saw him want to, and in a way that was almost more frightening, because she knew that if he ever did, it would be the most terrible blow.
If Don Lark really was anything like her father, it must eat him alive inside, always wondering if he shouldn’t have just said screw the law and kidnapped his daughter and gone underground. Evenif he got caught, even if he went to jail for it and she got killed anyway, he could live with it better if he knew he had done everything to try to save her. Men think like that, Cindy knew. Some men anyway. Take upon themselves the burden of the world. Have to save everybody, help everybody, provide for everybody. And when they can’t do it, they can’t think of any other reason to live. Was that Don Lark? Probably. A man who had forgotten, not how to live, but why.
5
Doors
Back when Don was a housebuilder, the best part of the job was the beginning. Standing there on a wooded lot with insects droning and birds flitting and treerats scampering up the trunks, he saw the slope of the land, the way it would look in lawn and garden, and where the house would crown the lot. He imagined the plan of the house, where he might put a cellar that opened to ground level in the back yard, or how a deep porch might be especially nice on a hot afternoon. He saw the roof rising among the trees—he always saved the best of the trees, because that kept a house from looking naked and newborn. A brand-new house had to look established, had to look as though it had roots deep into the ground. People couldn’t feel right about moving into a place that looked like it just came to rest there and might blow off again in a year or two, the next bad storm. Tall old trees gave that feeling of stability even on a house finished just the day before.
Once building began, then the peace of thewoods was broken, the dirt torn up and flung into the air as a fine dust that clogged everything. The naked frame showed its origin as cut trees—almost obscene to put them up among the living timbers, as if to cow them into submission by showing them what could happen to trees that didn’t cooperate. Even when the house was nearly done and Don got his own hands deep in the finish carpentry, the pleasure of working with the wood and of watching it all take shape under his hands, that still wasn’t as much of a joy as standing there on the building lot imagining the house inside his head.
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