Goodhouse Read Online Free Page A

Goodhouse
Book: Goodhouse Read Online Free
Author: Peyton Marshall
Pages:
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myself. Tool . At school we learned our thoughts were powerful. If it was in a mind, it was in a body, and soon it would be in the world for everyone to see.
    â€œSplit into eighths,” she said. “You know how many that is? Eight pieces?”
    I was confused. Did she think I wasn’t a native speaker? I did have a slight accent, a touch of rural Oregon. “The whole pile?” I asked.
    â€œWhatever you can do.” She hurried into the house, locked the door, and spoke through the open kitchen window. “Stack them next to the shed.”
    I glanced at the other yards. They were all deserted, but manicured. A red plastic car, only large enough to hold a child, lay on its side, the roof bleached pink by the sun. Ornamental sage grew in clumps along the fence, and I crushed a leaf between my fingers, rubbing its scent on my hands. The maple was newly cut. The wood still had a golden hue and there was no sign of disease, no apparent reason for its removal. I knelt beside the tree and counted back seventeen rings from its outer edge. My finger stopped on a narrow ring. There had been a drought the summer I was born.
    I took a section of trunk and made this my chopping base. I rolled it near the shed, then removed the hated jacket and necktie. I stretched my back, reached over my head. Holding the ax in two hands, I imagined this was my house, my yard, my tree. It took several strokes to warm up and find a rhythm. But once I did, I felt relief to be outside, doing something I was good at. I knew when to relax into the swing, when to tense and when to exhale. I knew to go slow, to pace myself. It was like one of the tasks at school where work had no ending, only an endless middle.
    I continued for a while, humming under my breath, and then, since nobody seemed to object, I sang a little louder. As I worked, shade ebbed across the yard. I lost track of time, and my mind was finally quiet, my body working, a melody surrounding and protecting me. I knew mostly religious hymns. At my old school I’d sung in the choir, and I missed the music.
    I heard the kitchen door open and I went silent. Bethany was walking down the stairs carrying two cups of dark liquid. “Thought you’d be thirsty,” she said. Her feet were bare and her toenails were painted an astonishing candy-pink color. I quickly dropped the ax, not wanting to frighten her. “They’re drinking Bloody Marys and playing bingo,” she said. “Totally moronic. Rachel’s lost like two babies, and I bet this one will flush, too. They all go at five months. Aunt says it’s God’s will and that some children are too pure to be born, but I know it’s farm runoff in the water. That’s why I drink root beer and nothing else.” She seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. Her brown hair had red highlights that had been invisible indoors. “Here.” She handed me a cup and I was surprised to feel real glass. Weapon , I thought.
    â€œI don’t really want kids,” she said. “But I do believe in adoption. It’s the right thing and a lot of people think it’s wrong to adopt out of the country and I definitely agree, since it’s racist if you don’t want an American baby just because it’s too brown or on drugs or whatever. Your voice is beautiful, by the way,” she said. “I was listening to you just now.”
    â€œI thought I was alone,” I said.
    â€œI had my window open”—she shrugged—“so technically, you were.”
    I didn’t know what to say. It had been months since I’d sung in front of anyone, and now the thought of an audience made me surprisingly nervous. I took a sip of the root beer and almost gagged. It didn’t taste like food.
    â€œLet’s stand in the shade,” Bethany said. She grabbed my arm and tugged me toward the shed, then rubbed the spot where she’d gripped me as if trying to erase the contact. Her
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