Homeland and Other Stories by Barbara Kingsolver Read Free Book Online Page B

and not screaming; what’s left but leaving? She can see why people scramble to get self-help books, the same way David falls over his own feet to be obedient. Things are so easy when someone else is in charge.
    She decides she’s a ripe target for a book called How to Improvise a Love Affair That’s Not Like the Failures You’ve Already Seen . That would sell a million, she thinks. Or How to Live with a Man After He’s Stopped Talking .
    David runs down the hill to greet her as she passes the fence separating Verna’s farm from theirs. “Come on, David, come on boy,” she says, and because of the creek between them David is frantic, running back and forth along the bank. He raises his head suddenly, remembering, and takes off up the hill for the long way around by the orchard road.
    Farther up on the opposite bank she can see Whitman’s table saw where he set it up above the wrecked bridge. He is salvaging what lumber he can, and cutting up the rest for firewood. At the moment the saw isn’t running and Whitman isn’t around. Then she sees him, halfway down the bank below the table saw. He is rolled up in such an odd position that she only recognizes him by his shirt. A hot numbness runs through her limbs, like nitrous oxide at the dentist’s office, and she climbs and slides down the slick boulders of the creek bed opposite him. She can’t get any closer because of the water, stil running high after the flood.
    â€œWhitman!” She screams his name and other things, she can’t remember what. She can hardly hear her own voice over the roar of the water. When he does look up she sees that he isn’t hurt. He says something she can’t hear. It takes awhile for Lydia to understand that he’s crying. Whitman is not dead, he’s crying.
    â€œGod, I thought you were dead,” she yells, her hand on her chest, still catching her breath.
    Whitman says something, gesturing, and looks at her the waythe kids in school do when she calls on them and they don’t know the answer. She wants to comfort him, but there is a creek between them.
    â€œHang on, I’m coming,” she says. She begins to climb the bank, but Whitman is still saying something. She can only make out a few words: “Don’t leave.”
    She leans against the mossy face of a boulder, exhausted. “I have to go over there.” She screams the words one at a time, punctuating them with exaggerated gestures. “Or you can come here. Or we can stay here and scream till we hyperventilate and fall in the river.” She knows he isn’t going to get the last part.
    â€œDon’t dive into the river,” he says, or “I’m not going to throw myself in the river,” or something along those lines, spreading his arms in the charade of a swan dive and shaking his head “no.” He indicates a horizontal circle: that he will come around to where she is. She should stay there. He seems embarrassed. He points both his hands toward Lydia, and then puts them flat on his chest.
    They are using a sign language unknown to humankind, making it up as they go along. She understands that this last gesture is important, and returns it.
    David, who had a head start, has already made it to the road. Risking peril without the slightest hesitation, he gallops down the slick creek bank to Lydia. Her mind is completely on Whitman, but she takes a few seconds to stroke David’s side and feel the fast heartbeat under his ribs. It’s a relief to share the uncomplicated affection that has passed between people and their dogs for thousands of years.

Covered Bridges
    L AST SUMMER all of our friends were divorcing or having babies, as if these were the only two choices. It’s silly, I know, but it started us thinking. From there our thoughts ran along a track that seemed to stop at every depot and have absolutely no final destination.
    â€œThen there’s the