Rear-View Mirrors by Paul Fleischman Read Free Book Online Page A

respective schools. Why, I ask myself sharply, didn’t we think to apply to the same university? Then I recall applications were mailed in October, and that we didn’t get to know each other until Christmas.
    I ride beside a flower-filled meadow, my mind traveling a route of its own. Christmas. Ice skating. Ben skating backwards. France. Snails. Cave paintings. Van Gogh. My father’s imaginary French baseball league. I pause on this last topic and find myself laughing at the strange silliness of his diversion. Then I remember that he operated this fictitious concern from October to April, and wonder if this was another of his subversions of mortality: a scheme yielding baseball year-round, creating a world of summer without end, a world in which winter never arrived.
    To my right a hawk hovers above a field, hanging in the air like an asterisk, directing my eye to the grass below. I round a curve, lose sight of the scene, wonder about the hawk’s hidden prey, and find myself daydreaming about mice. Which leads my mind to Of Mice and Men. Followed by musings on the turtle crossing the road in the opening of The Grapes of Wrath; the race between the tortoise and the hare; France, where I’ve read they eat rabbits, and horses; the Donner Party, stranded in the Sierras; then the current state of my own stomach—empty. I ride on a few miles, reach Greeley, population 672, pedal down the elm-lined main street, and decide to stop and eat lunch.
    The town is larger than North Hooton, with two grocery stores to choose from. I stop at one, pay for a tin of sardines, some doughnuts, and an orange juice, and walk across the street to a park. Or “green,” as they call them in this part of the country. I pass a statue honoring the town’s Civil War dead, and eat under an elm. In whose shade I then stretch out, close my eyes—and next open them, to my utter amazement, half an hour later. I look at my watch, reach for my map, and find I’ve ridden twenty-eight miles. I’m nearly half done, and it’s only 12:10. I can afford half an hour for a nap.
    I pick up my stuff, ride two blocks, then take advantage of a gas station bathroom. Coming out, I notice there’s a narrow graveyard tucked between the gas station and a church. Knowing that I can spare the time, I prop the Raleigh against the low fence, open the squeaky gate, and enter. The tombstones lean, as if tremendous gales have tormented the cemetery. A sparrow sings atop one of the stones. I stoop, peer at an epitaph, and make out “June 12th, 1828.” The rest of the inscription is too worn to read. I move along to another gravestone, stoop again—and feel my eyes widen, at once recalling my Uncle Leo’s visit to North Hooton when I see the words “Passenger, as you pass by . . .”
    â€œ. . . Remember you are born to die.
    As you are now, so once was I.
    As I am now, so you shall be.
    Prepare for death, and follow me.”
    Leo’s voice was large, like my father’s, and he’d addressed this epitaph to the assemblage of tombstones as if he were a minister lecturing his flock. He turned toward me. “Preaching to the converted, I’m afraid.”
    I smiled in reply. I heard my father’s ax in the distance and reread the inscription. “Remember you are born to die” was advice he’d certainly taken to heart. His death seemed to have cast its shadow over all his days—except for this one. When I’d come downstairs he was already up, zealously splitting wood, shouting to me that his heart would last a thousand years, fearlessly defying his demise.
    â€œI’d forgotten about this little graveyard hidden away out here,” said Leo.
    I studied the inscriptions on a cluster of stones. “Most of their last names seem to be Pyle. And most of them didn’t live very long.”
    â€œTempus fugit. Time flees. A strong argument against sleeping in late.”