Nathaniel Read Online Free PDF Page A

sense—he’d been in Prairie Bend when he died.
    Died. The word hadn’t really had any meaning to Michael before yesterday. People died, but not people you knew, much less your own father. And yet it had happened. He stared at the coffin, knowing this was the last he would ever see of his father, but even as he watched it, he still couldn’t believe that his father was really inside that wooden box, was really being buried in the ground, was really gone forever. He couldn’t be …
    He let his eyes wander away from the coffin, to scan over countless unfamiliar faces that all seemed to look alike, and then gaze out toward the horizon. Never in his life had he been able to see so far. The town, more like a village really, was behind him, and beyond the low stone wall of the cemetery, the plains stretched endlessly to the horizon, broken only by the slowly flowing river that curved around the town, giving the community its name, and the farmhouses, scattered here and there in the emptiness, each of them surrounded by a few huddled trees planted as protection against sudden prairie winds. And above it all the enormous sky, not the flat kind of sky he was used to, but a three-dimensional sky that seemed to cover the world like an enormous blue bowl. It was all so much larger than anything at home. At home, the city was always close around you, and even when you were out of the city there was a smallness to the countryside, with the forests crowding in and the profusion of low hills cutting off the view in every direction. But out here, on the plains, everything was open. He felt as though he could breathe more deeply than he ever had before.
    He sensed movement next to him and felt his mother’s hand squeezing his own. The service was ending. The minister had stooped down to pick up a clod of the black earth, which he was now holding over the open grave. It was all over, and his father was gone.
    “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …” Strong fingers squeezed the clump of earth, and as Michael stared, it broke up, dirt drumming onto the casket with a hollow sound that made Michael’s throat constrict. A snuffling next to him told him that his mother was crying, and suddenly his eyes, too, filled with tears. Self-consciously, Michael let go of his mother’s hand, pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket, and blew his nose. He felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder, pressing gently. Then it was over. He turned away from his father’s grave.
    And as he turned, something caught his attention. A glint. A movement. At first he wasn’t sure what it was, but as his eyes scanned the plains again, he realized it must have been the sun flashing off the weathervane that stood perched high on the ridgepole of a weathered barn about a half mile away. Yet, as he watched it, he realized that there was no wind today. The vane wasn’t moving. Then what had flashed? Maybe it was just his imagination. He started to turn away once more, to follow his mother toward his grandfather’s car, but once again his attention was caught by the flash. No, not quite a flash. It was something else, something he couldn’t quite focus on. He examined the farm and frowned. There was something different about it, something he couldn’t quite figure out. He cocked his head, shading his eyes with his hand, and then felt an unfamiliar touch on his shoulder. He looked up to find his grandfather frowning at him.
    “You all right?” Amos Hall asked.
    Michael nodded. “I thought I saw something. Out there.”
    The older man followed his gaze, then shrugged. “That’s Ben Findley’s place. Not much to see out there. Man doesn’t keep it up like he should. It comes of living alone.”
    “Doesn’t he have a wife?” Michael asked.
    His grandfather hesitated, then shook his head and started leading Michael away. “Had one years ago, but she left. And you’d do well to stay clear of that place.”
    Michael stopped, turning back to stare once more at the