Road to Paradise by Paullina Simons Read Free Book Online Page B

(perhaps his lover, Gazelle?).
    “Well, good luck. Have a great trip.”
    “Thanks. You too.” Oh, idiot! And he smiled at me like I was an idiot.
    And then, because he was a peacock, he opened up his tail. “Feel like getting together before you go? There’s this great place down the coast, in Newport. We could drive.” He hemmed. “Maybe I could drive?” he asked sheepishly, shining down at me his football-jocky, legs-apart smile.
    Hallelujah!
    Hallelujah, hallelujah!
    “Yeah, sure, you can drive. If you want to. When would we go?”
    We went overnight, right before the end. Newport possibly was a nice town. Beachy. White. Quaint, with ships and sails. I heard it was by the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea … but the place we stayed was inland.

    “Emma,” I said the evening before I was leaving. “Tell me about my dad.”
    It took me thirteen years to ask this question. I thought at first she didn’t hear me. You know, when your own voice is just an echo, and you start to doubt whether you spoke at all; start to doubt whether you are at all because the largest, loudest questions in your head are never answered.
    She was so quiet. She was listening to the answers on “Jeopardy.” The largest of the Great Lakes for 10,000 . Apparently it was Lake Superior.
    When they went to commercial, she turned the volume down. “You really want to know?” She sounded pained. But no matter how tense her words, her hands were composed and on her lap, threaded together. “He got into a bar fight. It went terribly wrong and he killed a man. The prosecution said he didn’t use equal force. The dead man used a bottle on your father, but your father used a bat. The bottle was broken, though, jagged edges everywhere. Your father clearly felt threatened. No matter. The man he killed was a local and well-liked, and your father was a journeyman, just passing through. He was convicted of first-degree manslaughter and went to prison for ten years. He got sick in there and died. They said pneumonia. But it could’ve been from his congestive heart failure. He always had a bad heart.” She stood, picked up her empty teacup with a steady hand.
    I didn’t know what to say. “How come you never told me?”
    “You never asked. I told you your daddy had died. I thought that was enough. I didn’t want to upset you. You were always so sensitive. I thought when you were ready you would ask.”
    “How come we never visited him in prison?”
    “He was too far. He was tried and convicted in California. I didn’t want to take you on the bus. I was saving up my money for us to fly, but then he up and died.” She stood in front of me, still holding her teacup, her gray hair set in curlers, her houserobe clean and smelling of detergent.
    “What was he doing in California?”
    Emma didn’t answer at first, rubbing her cup. “I reckon,” she said at last, “the same thing you’re about to do.”
    She was right. I hadn’t been ready, and was still not ready. Only when she had fallen silent did I catch the hook between the lines: your father went to find your mother and he ended up dying in prison. And now you’re going .
    Straining hard to be grown-up, but staring hard to glean her reaction, I asked, “You think my mother is still alive?” I was hoping she’d say, no, Shel, she’s long dead. Don’t go anywhere. Please. Stay here.
    I wanted her to say it.
    “How would I know, Shelby?” she said. “Perhaps.”
    Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. What does one say to that?
    “Where’s the letter she wrote him before she left?”
    “What letter?” Puzzled at first, suddenly she frowned. Her neutral gaze darkened. “Oh my God. Have you been believing vicious gossip all these years? What’s wrong with you? Why are you so eager to make up things about your life? What, life isn’t hard enough?”
    Life was hard enough. “ Am I making it up?” I mouthed.
    “What do you think is going on around here?” Emma clunked her cup down!