Visions of Gerard by Jack Kerouac Read Free Book Online Page B

rheumatism she’s helped somewhat with the housework—Crippled, on crutches, a modiste—Never married but many boyfriends helped her—The spittin image of Emil and the lover of Gerard’s little soul as no one else, unless it be the cold eyed but warm hearted Aunt Anna from up in Maine—“Ti Gerard, for your health always do this, take big clacks of air in your lungs, hold it a long time, look” pounding her furpieced breast, “see?”
    â€”“ Oui , Matante Marie—”
    â€œDo you love your Matante?”
    â€œMy Matante Marie I love her so big!” he cries affectionately as they hug and limp around the corner, to the school, where the kids are, in the yard, and the nuns, who now stare curiously at Gerard’s distinguished aunt—Aunt Marie take her leave and drops in the church for a quick prayer—It’s the Christmas season and everyone feels devout.
    The kids bumble into their seats in the classroom.
    â€œThis morning,” says the nun up front, “we’re going to study the next chapter of the catechism—” and the kids turn the pages and stare at the illustrations done by old French engravers like Boucher and others always done with the same lamby gray strangeness, the curlicue of it, the reeds of Moses’ bed-basket I remember the careful way they were drawn and divided and the astonished faces of women by the riverbank—It’s Gerard’s turn to read after Picou’ll be done—He dozes in his seat from a bad night’s rest during which his breathing was difficult, he doesnt know it but a new and serious attack on his heart is forming—Suddenly Gerard is asleep, head on arms, but because of the angle of the boy’s back in front of him the nun doesnt see.
    Gerard dreams that he is sitting in a yard, on some house steps with me, his little brother, in the dream he’s thinking sorrowfully: “Since the beginning of time I’ve been charged to take care of this little brother, my Ti Jean, my poor Ti Jean who cries he’s afraid—” and he is about to stroke me on the head, as I sit there drawing a stick around in the sand, when suddenly he gets up and goes to another part of the yard, nearby, trees and bushes and something strange and gray and suddenly the ground ends and there’s just air and supported there at the earth’s gray edge of immateriality, is a great White Virgin Mary with a flowing robe ballooning partly in the wind and partly tucked in at the edges and held aloft by swarms, countless swarms of grave bluebirds with white downy bellies and necks—On her breast, a crucifix of gold, in her hand a rosary of gold, on her head a star of gold—Beauteous beyond bounds and belief, like snow, she speaks to Gerard:
    â€œWell my goodness Ti Gerard, we’ve been looking for you all morning—where were you?”
    He turns to explain that he was with . . . that he was on . . . . . that he was . . . . that . . .—He cant remember what it is that it was, he cant remember why he forgot where he was, or why the time, the morning-time, was shortened, or lengthened—The Virgin Mary reads it in his perplexed eyes. “Look,” pointing to the red sun, “it’s still early, I wont be mad at you, you were only gone less than a morning—Come on—”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œWell, dont you remember? We were going—come on—”
    â€œHow’m I gonna follow you?”
    â€œWell your wagon is there” and Oh yes, he snaps his finger and looks to remember and there it is, the snow-white cart drawn by two lambs, and as he sits in it two white pigeons settle on each of his shoulders; as prearranged, he bliss-remembers all of it now, and they start, tho one perplexing frown shows in his thoughts where he’s still trying to remember what he was and what he was doing before, or during, his absence, so brief—And as the