Souvenir by James R. Benn Read Free Book Online

when he has tried me, I shall come forth as gold.
    Silence. No laughter, only the quiet of St. John’s Lutheran Church, a flag-draped casket in front of the altar, mourners sniffling, coughing, shushing the few children, hardly making enough noise to fill the big church. Clay uncupped his hands, releasing Addy’s. He rubbed his fingers against his own palm. Paper, yes. And not supple branches beneath, either. Not the bendable green wood of his youth, no.
    …why do those who know him never see his days?
    Come forth as gold…is that what the preacher said? Is that what this is all about? He tries us, and then we come out golden. Some of us ought to be 24-karat, then. Clay let his eyes set on the coffin. Bob would be one of the golden boys. The Depression, the war, the cops, his family. It all added up to something. Why did he feel like he was so much less? Had he traded away his gold before he earned it?
    Men remove landmarks; they seize flocks and pasture them.
    Clay felt irritated with himself as he tried to focus on the service. He sat up straight for the hundredth time, taking Addy’s hand again, wanting to feel connected to her, not wanting his thoughts to wander, visiting the distant past that was growing more vivid and alive as he aged and his own life moved more slowly, winding down to a weary grayness. He looked at the coffin again, then at Addy, wondering, wondering.
    They thrust the poor off the road; the poor of the earth all hide themselves.
    What is this guy talking about, anyway? The Book of Job, was that Old Testament or New? Sounded dark and gloomy, why is he reading this at Bob’s funeral?
    They lie all night naked, without clothing, and have no covering in the cold.
    Clay shivered. He was wearing a topcoat, but he shivered like a man out in the cold, alone. He hunched his shoulders and rubbed his hands on his thighs, trying to stir some warmth into his thin frame. He didn’t realize he had closed his eyes until he saw gloved hands rubbing green pants, saw his breath frost and felt the cold, cold earth at his back. He opened them, afraid of crying out. He looked around, at Addy, the preacher, the coffin.
    They are wet with the rain of the mountains, and cling to the rock for want of shelter.
    Who? Why was he saying this? Clay felt his face flush, as if he had been slapped. Shame? What did he have to feel ashamed for? Or was it the rain, the near frozen rain, pelting them in the foxhole, stinging their faces and puddling up, drawing their sleeping bags into the wet, brown ooze. Open your eyes, dammit!
    He was moving his feet, trying to get them above the water, slamming them against the riser. He stopped, calmed himself down. Addy looked at him, strangely, concern and fear flashing over her face. He smiled.
    From out of the city the dying groan, and the soul of the wounded cries for help; yet God pays no attention to their prayer.
    Oh no, oh no no no, don’t go on, end it here, now. Clay balled his fists up in his topcoat, fighting the urge to get up, leave, scream, beg, plead. But he had done that all before, just like this character Job. And still, the hurt came, in waves, fresh and new each time, not even familiarity deadening the impact. He felt his eyes water and his lips tremble. He bit the inside of his mouth, incisors snapping down, drawing blood, warm, soothing, the tiny bit of pain well worth it, his own tranquilizer.
    Bob, you are one lucky sonovabitch.
    The preacher finished up the reading, gave his sermon. Clay tried to follow it, to keep his mind occupied. He listened, but couldn’t keep from straying into the past again. Not his own, but the past of the Bible, as Job’s pain spilled out from the pulpit and washed over the mourners. Did things make any more sense back then? Or do they today? He went over the story, trying to find some comfort, solace, or even holiness.
    So this Job is a good man, and God makes him suffer. A lot. Job’s pals say it must be because he’s done something