The Life We Bury by Allen Eskens Read Free Book Online Page A

with the grade, right?”
    â€œThe thought did cross my mind,” I said. “That kind of thing…killing someone, I mean, well, you don't come across that every day.”
    â€œProbably more often than you think,” he said. “There're probably ten or fifteen people in this very building who have killed.”
    â€œYou think that there're ten other murderers in this building besides you?” I said.
    â€œAre you talking about killing or murdering?”
    â€œIs there a difference?”
    Mr. Iverson looked out the window as he pondered the question, not so much looking for the answer as contemplating whether to tell it to me. I watched the tiny muscles in his jaw tighten a couple times before he answered. “Yes,” he said. “There is a difference. I've done both. I've killed…and I've murdered.”
    â€œWhat's the difference?”
    â€œIt's the difference between hoping that the sun rises and hoping that it doesn't.”
    â€œI don't understand,” I said. “What's that mean?”
    â€œOf course you don't understand,” he said. “How could you? You're just a kid, a college pup blowing his daddy's money on beer and girls, trying to keep a passing grade so you can avoid getting a job for another few years. You probably have no greater care in the world than whether you'll have a date by Saturday.”
    The vigor of this emaciated old man caught me off guard; and frankly, it pissed me off. I thought about Jeremy back at my apartment, a TV remote click away from crisis. I thought about my mother, in jail, begging for my help on the inhale and cursing my birth on the exhale. I thought about the thin edge that I walked between being able to afford college and not, and I wanted to dump that dusty, judgmental prick out of his wheelchair. I felt anger rising in my chest, but I took a deep breath, as I had learned to do whenever I became frustrated with Jeremy, and I let it pass.
    â€œYou know nothing about me,” I said. “You don't know where I've been, or what I have to deal with. You don't know the shit I've had to wade through to get here. Whether or not you tell me your story is up to you. That's your prerogative. But don't presume to judge me.” I fought against the urge to stand up and walk out, holding on to the arm of the chair to keep me in my seat.
    Iverson glanced down at my white-knuckled grip, then at my eyes. A hint of a smile, more subtle than a single flake of snow, crossed his face, and his eyes nodded approval. “That's good,” he said.
    â€œWhat's good?”
    â€œThat you understand how wrong it is to judge someone before you know their whole story.”
    I saw the lesson he wanted me to learn, but I was far too angry to respond.
    He continued. “I could have told my story to any number of people. I used to get letters in prison from people wanting to turn my life into something they could make money from. I never responded because I knew that I could give a hundred authors the same information and they would write a hundred different stories. So if I'm going to tell you my story, if I tell you the truth about everything, then I need to know who you are, that you're not just some punk in this for an easy grade, that you will be honest with me and be fair about how you tell my story.”
    â€œYou understand,” I said, “this is just a homework assignment. No one's gonna read it except my teacher.”
    â€œDo you know how many hours are in a month?” Carl asked, apropos of nothing.
    â€œI'm sure I could figure it out.”
    â€œThere's 720 hours in the month of November. October and December each have 744.”
    â€œOkay,” I said, hoping he would explain his tangent.
    â€œYou see, Joe, I can count my life in hours. If I'm going to spend some of those hours on you, I need to know that you're worth my time.”
    I hadn't considered that point. Janet thought Carl would be dead by