Hellgoing Read Online Free

be calling. “I’ve already seen the icebergs,” she says in a voice like she’s packing, or blowing languidly on her nails. “I’ve pretty much got everything I need.”
    â€œNo but my brother can take us,” says Ned. “He’s got a boat.”
    â€œCan take us where?” asks Jane, stiffening for some reason.
    â€œOut to see the icebergs.”
    â€œTo? He can take us to them?”
    â€œTo,” says Ned. “Right to ’em.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œDay after tomorrow.”
    â€œOh, Ned, I leave tomorrow morning.”
    â€œI know,” says Ned. “But that’s the only day he can do it.”
    â€œWhy?” says Jane.
    â€œWhy?” Ned repeats, stymied. “I don’t know, you’ll have to ask him.”
    â€œI can pay him,” says Jane.
    â€œNo, no, no, no,” goes Ned, all east coast hospitality again.
    â€œNo, but, like, to go today or tomorrow, if it’s a matter of money or something, I’ll just pay him.”  
    â€œIt’s not that,” says Ned. “He’s just busy doing something. It has to be day after tomorrow.”
    â€œWell, shit,” says Jane.
    â€œCan’t you get your ticket changed?”
    Jane hasn’t thought of that. It would have to be on her own dime. Then there’s the extra night at the Delta.
    â€œI guess I could,” she says. “It might be pricey. I may have to take you up on that offer to sleep on your couch.”
    â€œGood-good,” says Ned.
    She packs her bags, tucks away her laptop and bids a fond farewell to the hotel room, which she leaves a bedlam of newspapers and empty Evian bottles. She’s been careful to dispose of her liquor empties when out and about, however, dropping them — wrapped up in plastic bags or newspapers — into the first garbage can she comes across on her way to get coffee. So the worst the chambermaids can say of Jane is that she hasn’t caught the recycling bug.
    They drink three bottles of wine over dinner before Ned starts rooting around under the sink for his harder stuff. This is the nicest time they’ve had together so far — it’s because they’re not in public, they can let their hair down and drink as much and as fast as they are inclined. They sit at the kitchen table all night, pouring and talking. They are kitchen-table drunks by nature, Jane realizes — the two of them, for all their combined bar-hopping. This is what they do. This here, as Ned would say.
    The drunker Jane gets, the more she remembers the dream — floating out amongst the icebergs in the cool, clear water. She’s fearless of a hangover, the dream fortifies and reassures her, tells her everything will be cool, clear sailing from here on out. Ice clinks into her glass and she touches it, imagines reaching out, wobbling to keep balance in Ned’s brother’s boat — she’s been picturing a dory, which is probably ridiculous — hand stretching toward the monolith of ice. She fishes the ice cube from her drink, cups it in her palm, holds it to her face, then eyes. Against her eyes, it starts to melt in earnest.
    Jean’s problem? Jean Rhys? She expected such comfort from people, men.
    Jane bursts out laughing, pops the lessened ice cube in her mouth.
    â€œWhat’s that?” asks Ned as if she’s said something, smiling at her.
    Jane shakes her head. She’s embarrassed, ashamed, though she’s always instructing herself never to feel this, about anything.  
    â€œThe symbolism,” she laughs. “I just realized how obvious it is.”
    Ned smiles and pats her hand like grandpa. It’s that stage of drunkenness where you either accept that you understand nothing, or assume that you understand everything. He heads to the cupboard for a bag of Cheetos . Jane crunches more ice, something draining out of her. She feels panic at its going away.