On Chasing Brad Through Purgatory Read Online Free Page B
Author: Stephen Benatar
just because he honestly couldnât understand why if you existed you permitted such a quantity of suffering. It would be so petty to deny him. To deny membership to someone merely because he didnât tug his forelock when in every other way, apart from the actual card-carrying bit, he practised all your teachings just as truly as any person ever could! You canât deprive him of the same chances which youâre supplying to a nobody like me! Oh Lord, Lord. You who so clearly understand everything. And isnât understanding the same thing as forgiving? You canât possibly be a lesser soulâa meaner, touchier, stubborner soulâthan whoever it was who said that. Wasnât it a Frenchman?
Arrogance? Iâm afraid you havenât heard the half of it.
And listen GodâLordâIâve never known which one I should be talking to. If you insist on sticking to these rules ⦠belief, belief, belief!⦠then count me out. As of this minute. I donât want to be in any place where Brad himself canât be. I donât want any part of a life which he himself canât share. I donât want any further dealings with a God whoâs so very obviously a clubman.
No thank you. Iâll just go along with Gladys. Iâd rather die in his world than live without him in mine.
I licked my lips realizing I had made a declaration of such life-threatening seriousness I ought at least to formalize it.
If Brad isnât somewhere on the road ahead I hereby give notice that as of this moment Iâm officially withdrawing my allegiance. Itâs as if I no longer believe.
There now. Come on and strike me dead.
In spite of everything I rather enjoyed the wording of that last command. The situation hardly permitted of a grin; I was well aware of that; but it got one just the same. My whole approach must seem so vain, my puerile little ultimatum so irredeemably ⦠puerile. Yet so far I was still standing. So far I was still breathing. No thunderbolt, no interruption to that gently warming sun. What could I do but hope then that I might have had my answer?
Yet like nothing short of an overindulged brat I again decided to test how far Iâd be allowed to go.
I said: Then just so long as we understand each other? No crossed fingers; no dirty tricks; no pretending afterwards you hadnât fully grasped my meaning.
Some sort of a sign wouldnât be bad. Some little token of good faith.
Like a bit of skywriting perhaps? Brad lives! You donât even need an aeroplane. Only dip your finger in a trailing wisp of cloud or else some garden bonfire smoke. Brad lives. Just follow the yellow brick road .
I looked about me. Like I say I was at the scene of the accident. Pure instinct had returned me.
But just for the momentâI hoped just for the momentâpure instinct appeared to be stalling. No skywriting. No yellow brick road. Merely a bend and a tree and granules of glass catching the sunlight between the fallen leaves.
So what now I wonder.
5
And a house.
Bendâtreeâglassâleaves. And a house.
It was on the other side of the road some twenty yards back and well hidden behind a weathered brick wall that reached above my head. The wrought-iron gates revealed a sweep of gravel drive, tree-lined and culminating round a circular island of lawn behind which was the front door, shiny and bottle-green. As far as I could see it was the only house in that immediate area. Viewed from the gates it looked impressive, even daunting.
Especially to someone who wore a raincoat that was stained and several sizes too small and had nothing showing below other than bare legs and feet.
I walked up the drive. A dog barked. I looked for a sign that might direct me to the tradesmenâs entrance.
A middle-aged woman in a dressing gown opened the front door. I hadnât even knocked. She was plump, fair-haired, had a pleasant sort of face and held a snarling mastiff by
Arrogance? Iâm afraid you havenât heard the half of it.
And listen GodâLordâIâve never known which one I should be talking to. If you insist on sticking to these rules ⦠belief, belief, belief!⦠then count me out. As of this minute. I donât want to be in any place where Brad himself canât be. I donât want any part of a life which he himself canât share. I donât want any further dealings with a God whoâs so very obviously a clubman.
No thank you. Iâll just go along with Gladys. Iâd rather die in his world than live without him in mine.
I licked my lips realizing I had made a declaration of such life-threatening seriousness I ought at least to formalize it.
If Brad isnât somewhere on the road ahead I hereby give notice that as of this moment Iâm officially withdrawing my allegiance. Itâs as if I no longer believe.
There now. Come on and strike me dead.
In spite of everything I rather enjoyed the wording of that last command. The situation hardly permitted of a grin; I was well aware of that; but it got one just the same. My whole approach must seem so vain, my puerile little ultimatum so irredeemably ⦠puerile. Yet so far I was still standing. So far I was still breathing. No thunderbolt, no interruption to that gently warming sun. What could I do but hope then that I might have had my answer?
Yet like nothing short of an overindulged brat I again decided to test how far Iâd be allowed to go.
I said: Then just so long as we understand each other? No crossed fingers; no dirty tricks; no pretending afterwards you hadnât fully grasped my meaning.
Some sort of a sign wouldnât be bad. Some little token of good faith.
Like a bit of skywriting perhaps? Brad lives! You donât even need an aeroplane. Only dip your finger in a trailing wisp of cloud or else some garden bonfire smoke. Brad lives. Just follow the yellow brick road .
I looked about me. Like I say I was at the scene of the accident. Pure instinct had returned me.
But just for the momentâI hoped just for the momentâpure instinct appeared to be stalling. No skywriting. No yellow brick road. Merely a bend and a tree and granules of glass catching the sunlight between the fallen leaves.
So what now I wonder.
5
And a house.
Bendâtreeâglassâleaves. And a house.
It was on the other side of the road some twenty yards back and well hidden behind a weathered brick wall that reached above my head. The wrought-iron gates revealed a sweep of gravel drive, tree-lined and culminating round a circular island of lawn behind which was the front door, shiny and bottle-green. As far as I could see it was the only house in that immediate area. Viewed from the gates it looked impressive, even daunting.
Especially to someone who wore a raincoat that was stained and several sizes too small and had nothing showing below other than bare legs and feet.
I walked up the drive. A dog barked. I looked for a sign that might direct me to the tradesmenâs entrance.
A middle-aged woman in a dressing gown opened the front door. I hadnât even knocked. She was plump, fair-haired, had a pleasant sort of face and held a snarling mastiff by
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