Beneath the Weight of Sadness by Gerald L. Dodge Read Free Book Online Page A

stopped and turned to me.
    “No,” he said, and smiled his Truman smile. “It’s because he’s a moron. I can’t imagine what Carly sees in the guy.” He shook his head. “Must be the sex.”
    And then he bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time as he always did.
    Carly was dressed in black, as all of the people were. I would’ve worn something with flowers, something bright, but Ethan begged me not to. I know he is suffering in his own way and so I try to bend to his wishes as much as I can. She has blond hair, the color of golden wheat, I’ve heard Truman say, with green eyes that intensify when she is with him. I wanted to make all the people in front of her go away so that I could hold her, and know that Truman was still there in her heart. I knew that was the only way I would get through this torture.
    “I don’t know what to say, Ethan,” I overheard Laura Stafford whisper to Ethan as she put her arms around him and patted his back.
    Ethan’s face was red from crying and he bowed his head to her shoulder as if they were praying together. They all said that: “I don’t know what to say.” Why do they think that means something to me? Why do they even say it, when they then go on to say how sorry they are; how sad they are for us; how much they wish they could do something to ease our pain while, in fact, they are all glad it isn’t one of theirs lying there in that coffin, that contravention of anything humane or comforting. Truman in a box! Truman not in his room, but locked in a chest with no air for him to breathe himself back to life.
    Some man I couldn’t quite remember was rubbing my arm and whispering something that had to do with tragedy and how he had always admired Truman for his truthfulness and what a brilliant boy he had been. He may have been the terrible man who for six months gave Truman piano lessons until the day Truman finally refused to come out of his room until the man left the house. Truman said he had dirty fingernails and halitosis, but I didn’t have time to substantiate the veracity of that before he’d moved on to Ethan and then to the box where my Truman temporarily lay. And it seemed as if Carly was not getting any closer to me, and I urgently wanted it to be her turn so she could reassure me of Truman being in her heart and in her mind, and therefore so far removed from what seemed to confine him now. I wanted to leave my post next to Ethan and go to where Carly was, the whites of her stunning green eyes red and her beautiful face glistening with salty wetness I wanted to drink.
    But finally she came to me. As soon as I enfolded her in my arms she began to shake furiously.
    “I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered into my ear. “Truman, Truman.”
    The wetness of her voice made it seem viscous.
    “What will I do? I have to still come over and stay with you so that it’s like he’s still here.”
    “Yes,” I said, but I think she thought I was conceding when I was actually confirming his return.
    “Drink wine,” I said.
    She pulled back from me and giggled, only for a moment, and then she covered her mouth and I pulled her into me once again, tightly, and, just as I thought, I could feel Truman coming into me through her. So many times they sat, their heads together, laughing in the living room, Carly looking adoringly at Truman as he explained some thought he’d suddenly had that only Carly, my Carly, Truman’s Carly, would understand. They would sit there on the carpet and Carly would touch Truman’s hand lightly, and even though Truman often didn’t like to be touched he always let her hand rest there.
    “What did you do above the garage all those times?” I whispered into her ear. I felt her stiffen but I wouldn’t let her go, and she leaned into me, shaking her head and crying softly. “I know it’s love that keeps him here. I know you know that. What you did up there is the most tender avowal of his life. Thank you.”
    And then she