Fragile Read Online Free PDF

envisioning, outside himself, outside the deep regrets and fears that have haunted him. The form establishes itself as twosmoothly curving arcs, and that is the essential problem of perspective that must resolve itself in his mind before pencil can be put to paper: the building occupies one quadrant of the circle that is the central plaza of the small Midwestern city where he was born. He must see it from a particular vantage point and then translate that view into a certain shallowness of arc that is less than the degree you would see if the building were viewed from directly above or directly in front.
    A plinking of raindrops on the windows behind the drawn shades gives him a rhythm to work to, gathers force and becomes a solid undercurrent of rushing water. Yes, he thinks, remembering. The viewpoint should be from the steps that lead down from the monument that occupies the center of the circular plaza. That is where the viewer would stand: not at the top of the steps where the tall plinth of the monument rises, but midway down so the perspective can take in the entire building, the full ninety degrees of arc, from Kendall Street all the way around to Jefferson, each end of it surmounted by a fantastic and elaborate cupola.
    He closes his eyes and lets himself see it. Hovering before him in the darkness, a shallow arc, the essence of the form. His eyes open and he places pencil to paper. With one effortless sweep of his forearm he traces the line across the virginal page, lightly delineating the pure and uncorrupted loveliness of it. In an instant the line is finished, the page is cleaved in two. He has done it.
    He stands and walks to the window. He tugs the heavy curtains aside and stares through beads of water at the lights of the cars inching their way along the street below, the headlights coming at us, careful girls, hold my hand before we cross the street. Wait now, wait until this car goes by.”
    The cars parked along here make it hard to see. Where do so many cars come from? They should park in the garages by the alley, but they’re lazy and don’t want to pull all the way around back. The tinkling of the bell the vegetable man rings, he rolls his truck down the street the opposite way. It must be Friday, a broad twinkling of the bell calling us to the truck, gears grinding down to slow and pull up at the curb.
    â€œHold onto my hands girls, while we cross. We look both ways.”
    â€œEvening Amelia.”
    â€œHello Tassie, how have you been keeping?” Out here in her bathrobe and a pair of beat up sneakers; I must look like I just came from church or a funeral. Flecks of sunlight striking her black hair, she dyes it darker than coal.
    â€œWho you got there?”
    â€œThis is Jenny, and this one’s Zoe. Babysitting for a good friend of mine.”
    The Mexicans are out and the blacks too, all of them ambling out. If we go a little faster we can get there before it’s a line. Five years ago, there wasn’t a single Mexican on the block. Fifteen years ago not a single black, but things must change, always things must change. Now look, it says
Fruteria Los Compadres
on the truck. The vegetable man rings the broad bell twinkling, parks it and hops around to the back.
    â€œBuenas noches, mi amigos y amigas. Vienes comprar mi excelentes productos del campo. Manzanas, tomates, melónes a la venta.”
    The words roll off his tongue like a song.
    â€œWhat are you buying tonight, Amelia?”
    Tassie cut in front, she had to get there first. The littlest one holds on tighter. All these strangers and the smells, green beans with a crisp dry smell of the dirt in the fields, and the peaches too ripe it seems. The full round smell of ripe peaches, they waited too long on those. Now the other man comes to help, Miguel is his name. I cannot speak a word, but he smiles and pointing there, there, he knows. A handful of beans in the metal scale hanging from the back of the truck, he