The Hours by Michael Cunningham Read Free Book Online

Richie.
    ‘‘I’m having cereal,’’ he says. He grins. It could be said that he leers. He is transparently smitten with her; he is comic and tragic in his hopeless love. He makes her think sometimes of a mouse singing amorous ballads under the window of a giantess.
    ‘‘Good,’’ she answers. ‘‘That’s very good.’’
    He nods again, as if they share a secret.
    ‘‘But honestly,’’ she says to her husband.
    ‘‘Why should I wake you?’’ he answers. ‘‘Why shouldn’t you sleep?’’
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    ‘‘It’ s your birthday,’’ she says.
    ‘‘You need to rest.’’
    He pats her belly carefully but with a certain force, as if it were the shell of a soft-boiled egg. Nothing shows yet; the only manifestations are a certain squeamishness and a subtle but distinct inner churning. She and her husband and son are in a house in which no one but they have ever lived. Outside the house is a world where the shelves are stocked, where radio waves are full of music, where young men walk the streets again, men who have known deprivation and a fear worse than death, who have willingly given up their early twenties and now, thinking of thirty and beyond, haven’t any more time to spare. Their wartime training stands them in good stead. They are lean and strong. They are up at sunrise, uncomplaining.
    ‘‘I like to make your breakfast,’’ Laura says. ‘‘I feel fine.’’
    ‘‘I can make breakfast. Just because I have to get up at the crack of dawn doesn’t mean you have to.’’
    ‘‘I want to.’’
    The refrigerator hums. A bee thumps heavily, insistently, against a windowpane. Laura takes her pack of Pall Malls from the pocket of her robe. She is three years older than he (there is something vaguely disreputable about this, something vaguely embarrassing); a broad-shouldered woman, angular, dark, foreign-looking, although her family has been failing to prosper in this country for over a hundred years. She slides a cigarette out of the pack, changes her mind, slips it back in again.
    ‘‘Okay,’’ he says. ‘‘If you really want me to, tomorrow I’ll wake you up at six.’’
    ‘‘Okay.’’
    She pours herself a cup of the coffee he’s made. She comes back to him with the steaming cup in her hand, kisses his cheek. He pats her rump, affectionately and absentmindedly. He is no longer thinking of her. He is thinking about the day that lies ahead of him, the drive downtown, the torpid golden quiet of Wilshire Boulevard, where all the stores are still locked up and only the most cheerful and dedicated figures, young early-risers like himself, move through sunlight still innocent of the day’s smog. His office will be silent, the typewriters in the secretarial pool still shrouded, and he and a few of the other men his age will have a full hour or more to get caught up on paperwork before the phones start ringing. It seems sometimes to be impossibly fine that he should have all this: an office and a new two-bedroom house, responsibilities and decisions, quick joking lunches with the other men.
    ‘‘The roses are beautiful,’’ Laura tells him. ‘‘How did you get them this early?’’
    ‘‘Mrs. Gar is in her shop at six. I just kept tapping at the glass until she let me in.’’ He looks at his watch, though he knows what time it is. ‘‘Hey, I’ve got to go.’’
    ‘‘Have a good day.’’
    ‘‘You too.’’
    ‘‘Happy birthday.’’
    ‘‘Thank you.’’
    He stands. For a while they are all absorbed in the ritual of his leaving: the taking on of jacket and briefcase; the flurry of kisses; the waves, he from over his shoulder as he crosses the
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    law n to the driveway, Laura and Richie from behind the screen door. Their lawn, extravagantly watered, is a brilliant, almost unearthly green. Laura and Richie stand like spectators at a parade as the man pilots his ice-blue Chevrolet down the short driveway and into the street. He waves one last time, jauntily,