All Bedlam Courses Past (part one hundred seventy-nine)

 

 

 

 

 

All Bedlam Courses Past

 

 

Chapter Seven

Can’t Leave for Staying

 

(part one hundred seventy-nine)

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

He set the bottle on the floor. A pint is not much, Richard thought.

“Wish no bad end on anyone,” the sheriff said. “But I don’t get out this way often.” He dropped a five-dollar note on the seat of the old chair.

For the burial…

Or all interpretation seemed to suggest so. Richard belatedly called thanks.

What else, what insult, what challenge? He sat and blind-handed the note into his pocket.

The last thing he’d said to his father…

Chiding him for not keeping the stovepipe clear. Hadn’t been conversation. The last thing said and answered, his game of playing spiritualist. I’m off, Verbena. Daddy would walk out when the sermon touched some idiocy of faith, the preacher on about loaves and fishes, the risen Lazarus. Most of all he had hated preachers whose Bible looked composed in their heads, Sunday to Sunday. “Ought to be the minimum for keeping fools from the ministry, that they are able to read their own sacred text.”

The last word of genuine exchange…

God, Richard said to himself. He felt some prayer in this, that the Higher Power dun him in all ways earned, yet tender that saving chance…that miracle.

Would Daddy rouse at the sound of Mama’s voice? Nothing entertainable in the notion of her turning up…just another angle to learn if futility sat solid as a millstone, or had some priable chink. No, Death, pleased to steal away the man on his feet or sitting up in bed, joking or full of vinegar, showing appetite or hoping to…

He had asked, when did all this start?

And I’d said to myself, what if I try? Be polite as anything. Let him be at fault.

And I got off on this and that and forgot.

Ache having built to a poise where bustle might dispel it, or festering like a bad tooth cure its unfamiliarity, Richard felt permitted to leave his seat. Whisky, Daddy. Mother’s milk. He found a spoon and measured, pushed the lips apart, let a trickle fall.

A swallow, but no waking.

He took a long swig himself. He lay on the floor beside the cot, wanting a sparing drunk, half the bottle left for tomorrow. Time passed, and he floated, but the voyage could not launch. Get up, get up, Richard thought hard at his father, get some color back into you.

 

Dear Miss Haws. It has been some years now since you became acquainted with me, through my father, who at the time was resident at your hotel, and employed by you.

Or, dear, etc…. My name is Richard Everard. Raise that eyebrow of hers.

Some years ago…etc… Sadly, I write to inform you of my father’s passing.

Postscript. You will perhaps, on this mournful occasion, take some pleasure in learning that I have recently met again your Mr. Jasper.

(Why anyone who’d known Jasper would take pleasure at being reminded of him… Still, it was a thing to remark, a proof you were no stranger.)

PPS. I shall soon find myself at loose ends, and will, following the necessary arrangements, be in a position to depart Cookesville for the taking up of new opportunities. If I may beg the kindness of your recommendation

 

 

191

 

 

---

Bedlam

All Bedlam Courses Past (part one hundred eighty)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(2024, Stephanie Foster)