Read One More for the Road for Free Online Page B

especially Saigon. So, when I look up at this, hell, you know what I mean.”
    She looked up at the net and the hoop.
    â€œNext thing you’ll put flowers—”
    â€œDon’t make jokes!”
    â€œI’m sorry. It’s just—you won’t let go.”
    â€œWhy should I?”
    â€œFor your own good.”
    â€œWhat about his good?”
    â€œI don’t know the answer. Do you ?”
    â€œIt’ll come. God, I’m sick to my stomach. Where’s the damn ladder, I’ll knock it all down.”
    She stared at him so he wandered into the garage and rummaged among newspapers and discovered the basketball, looked out at the hoop, but did not bring the ball out.
    She called into the unlit garage.
    â€œYou hungry?”
    â€œNo,” he said tiredly. “I guess.”
    â€œI’ll fix something.” He heard her walk to the front porch. As the door was shutting, he said, “Thanks.”
    He walked out to stand under the hoop and watched the wind shake the net.
    â€œWhy?” he said quietly. “Why in hell?”
    He glanced along the street west and then along the street east. Down both ways there were garage fronts with basketball boards and hoops, stirred by the same wind, never removed, some for one reason, some for another.
    He counted two on one side of the street, and three on the other.
    What a great way, he thought, to know what kind of families live in those houses.
    He stood for a long while until he felt his wife move behind the front screen door, then he shut the garage door and went in.
    There was wine with dinner, not often observed. She filled his glass twice and waited.
    â€œForgive me,” she said at last. “But you do realize, don’t you? He’s never coming back.”
    â€œDon’t!” he said, and pushed his chair back and put his knife and fork down.
    â€œSomeone’s got to say it.”
    â€œNo they don’t.”
    â€œWe said it all before. It’s been years.”
    â€œI don’t care how many years.”
    She looked down at her plate and said, “Drink your wine.”
    â€œI will when I feel like it.” At last he picked up the glass. “Anyway, thanks.” He drank.
    After a long silence she said, “How much longer will this go on?”
    â€œNow that you’ve started it up again?”
    â€œI didn’t mean to start it up. I just got out the ladder and hired some help.”
    â€œYou just didn’t figure, is all.”
    â€œIt’s just,” she said, “you haven’t slept well lately. I thought maybe if I—well, I wanted to find a way to help you rest. That’s not so bad, is it? You’re worn out.”
    â€œAm I?” He felt his knees and nodded. “Yes. I am.”
    â€œIt must be,” she said, at last, “you’re waiting for something. What?”
    â€œI wish I knew.” He picked up his fork but did not eat. “It’s just last night and the night before I listened.”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œSomething. I must have lain there for an hour, just listening. Waiting. But there was nothing.”
    â€œEat. You’re starving.”
    â€œYes, but starving for what?”
    â€œHere,” she said. “Finish the wine.”
    At bedtime she said, “Try to sleep.”
    â€œYou can’t try sleeping, it’s got to happen .”
    â€œTry anyway,” she said. “I worry.” She kissed his cheek and went to the bedroom door.
    â€œI’ll be in in a minute,” he said.
    Far across town he heard a single university bell chime midnight, and then one, and then two o’clock. He sat with an unread book in his lap and a new bottle of wine to one side, eyes shut, waiting. The wind outside rose.
    Finally when the distant bell sounded three, he got up and walked out the front door and opened the garage. He went in and stood for a long moment, regarding the basketball.