Meeks Read Online Free PDF

required him to close his eyes and draw upon a reservoir of private thought. He heard a floorboard creek behind the strange door and froze . . . silence.
    Ben flipped one of the old paintings over on the desk and sat down to face the blank canvas. He arranged the cufflinks carefully on the brim of his father's military cap. He took a pencil from the satchel. He tried to enter the orchard of his mind—Lemons? Apples? Plums? He should start with something that made him feel capable. Apples? He closed his eyes. The pencil rested in his hand, and soon he was wandering aimlessly through his thoughts. He imagined strolling along the rows of fruit trees in a beautifully tailored pale suit. He could see the shapes of women hurrying down parallel rows, women hidden by the thick green branches of vague trees. Ben tried to part the veil of leaves to see them better. Soon he was in pursuit, ignoring the slow-growing fruit along the boughs, until his body interrupted him with some complaint, and he noticed the tree leaves rustling outside and the ivy pressing against the sealed window of his room, and something important, circling his thoughts, remained remote. He dropped the pencil on the canvas, disgusted with his incapacity—he must not put off all that must be done.
    Ben stretched out on the hard, narrow bed. It was only his first day in the house—he could easily launch himself in the morning without shame. He rested his head against the faint bleach smell of his sleeve and fell asleep in the heat. He dreamed he was lying on his back in the park, his black suit fading to pale gray in the sun, his eyes open and staring as the shadows of men and women walking past brushed over him like the blades of a fan.
    When he woke it was dark, and the windowpanes shook slightly in their frames, as a light wind preceded a summer rain. He could hear the rain start against the windowpanes. The hall light shone under his door, and he could hear footsteps in the hall, doors opening and closing. He could hear men's voices—low, loud, pedantic, jocular, earnest, threatening. Bachelors. Sporting, gregarious, capable bachelors! Ben turned to the wall and pressed his hands over his ears, making an oath to reform in the morning.
    * * * *
    Meek
    In the middle of the night, three men shook me awake. The park was cast in milky light, moonlight fused with the pale gold light from the old park lamps, the air was cool and clean. The men stood shoulder to shoulder. Behind them, clouds drifted like ghostly ships across a black and tranquil sea.
    What do we have here?
    A policeman, I said thickly, my brain larded with sleep. Officer Meeks!
    The three men chuckled, then an awkward silence. They stood over me. I saw that one of the men had only a thumb and ring finger on his right hand. It seemed to me that they were hesitating, unsure of how to proceed now that the universe had granted them something so far in excess of their dreams: a policeman.
    They stood around me, one shuffled his feet, another spat at the ground.
    Officer Meeks, repeated one of the men, to amuse the others.
    Yes, I said, pretending to be bored. But some part of me was glad that they were there. There's the kind of loneliness that's a genuine fortress, and there's the kind of loneliness that wants anyone—one never knows which kind one has until it's too late. The man missing the fingers knelt beside me and smacked me across the face, and I heard a soft thump, my head striking the base of the Captain's statue.
    The smallest of the men carried a metal bucket and a paintbrush with a long wooden handle and black bristles. Crab-hand and the third man (he wore a dark, rumpled suit and said nothing) pinned me against the grass, their knees digging into my shoulders. Crab-hand's disconcerting grip took hold of wrist. I couldn't see the faces of the men as they leaned over me, blocking the moonlight, becoming silhouettes bearing strong smells, chemical and bodily. I struggled for the sake of