Primal Read Online Free PDF Page B

asks.
    “Yeah?’
    “Sure, it can be ‘get fucked.’ It can be ‘cool fuckin’
shoes.’ It can be ‘Hey, fucker!’ Yup, really it goes easy into every fuckin’
sentence.”
    “Then that’s a useful fuckin’ word.” Gravel grins, pleased
with himself. All three of them are smiling as they grab a bag left by the door
and exit.
    * * *

Chapter Six
    For Hank’s family the saying of good-byes is its own unique
time-consuming ritual. Each family member needs to hug and kiss each other
family member. It is a mélange of motion with an underlying order. There is a
lot of circling around and gushing; when it’s done, everyone has been touched
by everyone else. It is late before the last lingering family member, overloaded
with leftovers, pulls out of the driveway. Alison closes the front door and
leans up against it, tired. Hank’s family is exhausting.
    Polly is coming in the morning to finish the clean-up, so
Alison takes the stairs two-at-a-time, and crosses the hall, into her bedroom.
She tugs a suitcase out onto the bedroom floor. She stops in the doorway of her
closet and scans the hangers: skirts, nope, dresses, nope, nice pants, all
unlikely to be useful - she has a closet full of inappropriate clothing. She
shrugs. Think. Cold dense rainy woods. Well, I don’t know why I don’t own the
long wool underwear and neoprene yellow poncho that I evidently need. Really,
what was I thinking last Christmas when I asked for a Kindle? Oh, I know, I
couldn’t imagine actually being somewhere without Internet. I wonder if I lay
my cutest bikini on the bed if Hank and Jimmy would consider cutting this
fishing thing short out of kindness, or even pity. She crosses to the bureau
and pulls out a pair of sweat pants, two pairs of old jeans, and a sweatshirt;
how attractive, I’m bringing my best in-case-of-freezing-flood-and-mud resort
wear. She arranges the bulky items inside the suitcase, and adds a grungy
shredded pair of sneakers she has kept, in case she ever had the desire to
paint or work in a garden, which she hasn’t, because both involve the potential
for dirt under her fingernails, which she can’t stand. What else? She looks in
the closet. I need some arctic-level pajamas. She sees Hank. He is standing in
the doorway. The grin on his face makes his eyes bright. His thick eyebrows are
raised in a humorous question. A relaxed comfort exists in the space between
them now, as it has for years, the way it does when the struggle is over and
the coupling is complete; whatever, they’re in for the long haul. They will
grow old together, sit side-by-side between the arms of an ample loveseat,
leaning on each other, and looking out at the world, reliving their shared
life. They will be aware of each other’s thoughts in the most intimate way, and
they will enjoy the sustained blissful contentment of knowing another person
thoroughly.
    “What?” she asks. “What are you grinning at?”
    “The vision of you in nothing but fishing waders.”
    She cocks her head, “It’s a little sick the way you’re
enjoying this.”
    “You underestimate yourself. You always have. You might love
it.”
    “That’s true. Perhaps I’ve been hiding all my outdoor skills
from you all these years.”
    “If they’re anywhere near as good as your indoor skills I’m
excited.” They share a knowing smile. Hank walks over and takes Alison in his
arms. “Seriously, honey, I can take Jimmy alone and you can go to the day spa
and get peeled or hot stoned or kneaded like dough, if you like.”
    “And let you get all the glory? No way. I’m not backing out.
It is exactly what everyone expects me to do and I’m a little tired of being
predictable.”
    “In that case, I’m going to knead you like dough myself
right now.”
    “Please tell me there aren’t a lot of bad baking metaphors
on their way.”
    “I’m going to grease the pan.”
    “Stop.”
    “Play with it until it rises.”
    “Really.” She tries hard not to grin.