Speak Ill of the Living Read Online Free PDF

His head weaved, as if he was fighting a stiff wind on the other side of the glass.
    Little brother?
    â€œI dunno,” Eddie said. “They were great. I climbed Mount Adams, solo.”
    Henry rolled his eyes and rapped the telephone receiver twice on the glass. “No, man,” he said, exasperated. His voice got raspier. “You’re the fucking writer. Tell me like a writer.”
    Eddie stared into his brother’s eyes. Maybe they were not the eyes of a madman, maybe they were just desperate.
    Eddie nodded, looked away for a moment to gather his thoughts, and then spoke slowly, “At twilight I threw down my sleeping bag under an old beech, gray, the color of an overcast sky, climbed into the sack and burrowed myself in the goose down. Dry leaves under me crackled whenever I moved. The day had been humid and I could smell the ground, kind of peppery.”
    Henry Bourque closed his eyes and listened.
    â€œI had a flask with me,” Eddie said. He laughed.
    Henry smiled, said nothing, kept his eyes closed.
    â€œI took two shots of bourbon. And God
dam
! That Kentucky corn whiskey burned on the way down, like drinking pure steam. But it spread its warmth over me. As I closed my eyes I could hear a few raindrops flicking off the leaves of that beech tree. I waited for a drop to strike my face, but one never did.
    â€œIn the morning I hiked past sugar maple with deep ridges in their bark. I saw a doe watching me through a hobblebush, but I pretended not to notice it. The trail cut higher, over boulders, slick with dew. A spruce grouse, fat and brave as hell, fluttered down right in front of me. It was slate gray with a red patch over one eye, like a pirate. It tilted its head at me. I tilted my head back at him. He lost interest and waddled away, into the balsam trees.”
    Henry leaned forward and rested his head against the glass. His eyes squeezed tightly closed.
    Eddie paused, recalling more details from his hike.
    â€œAt tree line, about four thousand feet, I climbed into a cloud. I couldn’t hear anything except my own boots on the rock, and my own breath, panting. I couldn’t see much beyond the next boulder, just white fog. I scaled a steep talas field, following the painted blue blazes on the rock, scrambling on hands and feet like a bug. I could smell my sweat. Green lichen speckled the granite.”
    â€œHow’d the rocks feel?” Henry asked, eyes still closed.
    â€œThey left my bare hands rough.”
    Henry rubbed his hand together.
    Eddie continued, “There’s a sign on the peak, a wooden marker nailed to a shaved log, and wedged in a cairn. I couldn’t see the sign through the fog until I could nearly touch it. The mountain was fifty-eight hundred feet high, it said. Wind was rushing over the summit. It was cold on my face. I stood on the highest rock, the peak of the peak. And then the fog grew brighter, and suddenly the wind pushed it all away, like somebody had thrown a switch. I could see for miles, and from my perch I looked
down
on a hawk circling the valley.”
    Eddie was finished.
    Neither brother said anything for a minute. Then Henry pushed away from the glass and looked at Eddie. “I can see it,” he whispered. “I’m there, on the mountain.” His head weaved again, like a cobra charmed by a flute. He gave a contented little smile and said in a jolly voice, “That’s how I travel, do it all the time. My wife gets sick of describing things for me.”
    â€œYou’re
married
?”
    Henry held up his left hand. “Not allowed a ring in here.”
    â€œBut…how?”
    â€œLonely people outside these walls are looking for conversation, for someone to listen to them, for a husband who will be wholly devoted to them, whatever his circumstances.” He smiled. “They can be sure we’re not cruising the bars when they’re out of town.”
    â€œCan’t be much of a