April & Oliver Read Online Free PDF Page A

her, her eyes glassy and unfocused. “April,” he says hoarsely. “It’s me, Oliver.”
    For an instant their eyes meet. “He was afraid of the dark,” she says finally. “Remember? We used to read him to sleep.”
    Oliver bows his head. He touches her back, her dress damp. “Let’s go,” he says, feeling a catch in his throat. “You’ll get
     pneumonia.”
    She gets to her feet in a slow, druggy way. He is surprised by her compliance. The way she looks, he thinks he can suggest
     anything and she will agree.
    “When was the last time you slept?” he asks.
    “I pace,” she says. “It’s a kind of sleep.”
    “Hardly.”
    “My body won’t stay down. Like it’s full of helium.”
    Ballast,
Oliver thinks. “I’ll follow you home.”
    They walk to the gate, and she tosses her shoes through. Oliver clasps his hands together to give her a leg up. It’s an automatic
     gesture snatched from childhood. Her stockings are torn, her dress clinging to her thighs. When she is perched on top, he
     tells her to wait, fearing that the sidewalk will hurt her feet. He hoists himself up and leaps down.
    “I can jump by myself,” she says. “How do you think I got in?”
    “It’s cement on this side,” he says, reaching up. “I’ve got you.”
    He takes hold of her waist and she slides down, her dress bunching up against his abdomen. It doesn’t matter how many trees
     they scaled as kids, how familiar these gestures; she is completely alien. She gazes at him, her eyes black as volcanic ash.
     “Oliver,” she says. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
    He hesitates, and then lets go.
    She tugs down her skirt and picks up her shoes. He watches. Nothing about what to do next occurs to him until he hears her
     ignition.
    Oliver trails closely, April’s taillights reflecting on the slick highway. She pushes eighty, exhaust billowing. He imagines
     the wheel vibrating in her hands. When they reach her building, Oliver follows her upstairs. The hallway is floored with dingy
     linoleum, the walls in need of paint.
    “Your suit,” she says.
    “It’s only rain,” he says, draping his jacket over the back of a chair. “Have you eaten?”
    “The olives gave me indigestion,” she says, opening the refrigerator.
    Oliver glances at the stove clock to see that it is gaping from its socket, wires exposed, stopped dead. “What’s his name?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “The protection order.”
    “History,” she says. “That’s his name.”
    “What if he comes back? Shouldn’t you stay someplace else?”
    “Here, have some salami before it goes bad. I don’t eat it.”
    Oliver glances at the meat. “What did the police tell you?”
    “To change the locks.”
    “And have you?”
    “Here’s some bread, but you probably don’t eat white, do you?”
    Oliver rolls a slice of meat with his fingers and puts it into his mouth. He is hungrier than he realized. “April.” He swallows.
     “Locks?”
    “He’s got the protection order,” she says. “He won’t come here.”
    “So you’re still sleeping here while he has a key?”
    “Budweiser?”
    “April.”
    “I haven’t brushed my hair in three days,” she says, exaggerating. “I need a shower. Can you let yourself out?”
    “Do what you need to do,” he says.
    She slips out of her muddied heels and walks languidly on the hardwood floor, reaching behind her neck to release the top
     button of her dress. Oliver remembers the one in his pocket.
    Once the bathroom door clicks shut, he starts opening cupboards. The existence of the rifle strikes him as a disastrous prospect.
     The apartment is small enough; he ought to be able to find it. He opens a cabinet stuffed with electronic parts, camera lenses,
     and various tools in no apparent order.
    When Oliver hears the shower, he moves to the bedroom, glances under the furniture and into the closet. On her bedside table
     is a plastic-coated library copy of Flannery O’Connor stories. More books line the