The Woman Who Married a Cloud: The Collected Short Stories by Jonathan Carroll Read Free Book Online Page B

and went, and I thought of Beenie’s evenings with her family. Would she visit with Dean and his wife? Or with the daughter? Why did she talk so much about the son, but almost nothing about the daughter? Roberta knew.
    “Because they don’t get along. The girl married a stinker who caused bad blood between them. It breaks Beenie’s heart.”
    “There’s been no reconciliation since she got sick?”
    “No.”
    I could not throw the manuscript away, but my smart wife came up with a solution, as usual. Following her suggestion, I went to the university hall of records, found Annette’s old address, and sent the manuscript there with a note on the package to forward it if necessary. I assumed her parents had a copy of her book, but what a remarkable surprise if they didn’t!
    At two o’clock in the morning, I woke Roberta to read her this passage from Rousseau:
    “She only kept her bed for the last two days, and continued to converse quietly with everyone to the last. Finally when she could no longer talk and was already in her death agony, she broke wind loudly. ‘Good!’ she said, turning over, ‘a woman who can fart is not dead.’ Those were the last words she spoke.”
    “Now, Beenie Rushforth or not? Can’t you imagine her going out like that? Farting and stomping and shaking her broom at the gods!”
    Roberta reached for her glasses on the night table, which was her prelude to saying something that mattered. She would chat with glasses off, but when it was serious, she somehow felt she needed a clear field of vision.
    “I think you’ve got her pegged wrong, Scott. She’s tough in ways, but also very vulnerable. Extremely vulnerable. Just listening to her talk about her daughter is so damned sad! The woman grieves. I think their separation hurts her more than the cancer. You know, I look at her, and we talk, and every time I think, ‘Scott and I are so lucky. We are so, so lucky.’ ”
    I was shovelling snow of the front sidewalk, when the Rushforth Toyota pulled to the kerb in front of me. She got out wearing the giant green government-issue parka her son had given her after he left the army.
    “Scott, you and I gotta talk.”
    “What’s up, Beenie?”
    “That book. You shouldn’t’ve sent it back to the parents.”
    “How did you know about that? Did Roberta tell you?”
    “No, but I knew. From now on, things like that, you either throw away or you keep ’em. Never pass ’em on. They’re your memories, not theirs.”
    “What’re you talking about?”
    “I did the same thing, and it got me into big trouble. You can do what you want, but I’m just telling you now so you know: there can be problems. Keep it or throw it away. That’s the only rule to follow.” She touched my arm, then walked back to her car and got out a bottle of cleaner. “It’s tricky because everything seems loose and open. It’s not! See you later.”
    I watched her walk to the house. What was tricky? How had she known about what I’d done with the manuscript? Keep it or throw it away? Had she gone mad?
    I stabbed the snow shovel into the nearest mound and marched to the kitchen door, preparing either for a talk about Beenie with Roberta, or for a talk with Beenie about what the hell was going on. Looking through the window, I saw both women sitting at the table. Beenie was looking straight ahead and crying. She’d say something, stop, shake her head or drop it in defeat. I continued to watch, not knowing what to do. Finally Roberta happened to look my way. I pointed to me, then to the door. Can I come in? Her eyes widened, and she mouthed a big No! I went back to shovelling.
    When I’d finished the sidewalk and the never-ending path to the front door, I wondered if it was safe to go back inside yet. There was so much happening, and it all had to do with the cleaning woman.
    “Scott?”
    “Yes? I’m freezing! Can I enter my own house now? Or are we wrestling another crisis to the ground?”
    “Come