Summer of My German Soldier Read Online Free PDF Page A

swim across, although not a year goes by that somebody doesn’t drown in the attempt. This may sound crazy because the only time I ever go swimming is a couple of times in early summer when Edna Louise Jackson’s mother takes a bunch of us to the public pool in Wynne City, but I could swim it. The secret is in absolutely refusing to let the river beat you down. If I had to, I’d measure my progress in inches. One more inch I’ve swum—one less inch to swim. Once you know the secret, then nobody’s river can bring you down.
    On Riverside Drive, “Memphis’s front door,” my father dropped his speed down to between thirty and thirty-five miles per hour.
    My mother was resting her head against the seat, her eyes closed as though she were dozing. She was wearing her healthy-looking black hair in my favorite way—brushed back so that her widow’s peak shone like an extra added attraction above her high forehead. And hers wasn’t an everyday pretty face. The shape of the nose, the cut of the chin, but it was more than that—more than its parts. My mother’s face was an artist’s vision of sensitivity, intelligence, and love. And so it had to be a big lie what they say about beauty being only skin deep. For if it weren’t really there why would it show?
    The problem must be me. I’ve never been what she wanted, never done what she asked. Always making my own little changes and additions. Why do I do it? Why can’t I be better? More obedient? More loving?
    I leaned over, placing my lips against hers. Those lips suddenly tightened. And there I stood, still bending over her. Ugly, naked, and alone.
    She opened her eyes. “I wish you wouldn’t bother me when I’m trying to sleep.”
    “Sorry,” I answered, letting my head fall against the window of the back seat.
    “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she said after a short period of quiet. “If Grandmother tries to give you money you just tell her you don’t need anything.”
    “But I do need something,” I answered, wondering if she could understand.
    She didn’t answer. She put her head back against the seat and closed her eyes again.
    “If I were a rich grandmother with plenty of money,” I said, “I would enjoy giving things to my grandchildren.” I touched her shoulder. “Could you please tell me why it’s all right for you to take things from Grandma—the mink coat, for example.”
    Her eyes shot open. “That was my birthday present.”
    At least I had her attention. “Well, then what about all that new porch furniture? That wasn’t anybody’s birthday present.”
    “That was an anniversary present—for being married to your daddy for fourteen years.”
    That wasn’t a present, I thought, more a reward. I couldn’t, at the moment, decide which one deserved the reward. Neither. Both. The only thing I could think to say was, “Oh.” Until a few moments later I thought of something else. “What if Grandma has money for Sharon. Is that O.K.?”
    “Sharon’s little,” she answered.
    My father followed Jackson Avenue eastward until he came to the old stone gates of Hein Park, mostly hidden nowby a pair of weeping willows. Grandpa had told me of last winter’s ice storm, and how the elms and maples had been damaged. Only the willows remained intact. “Bending,” he had said, “beats breaking.”
    Hein Park was the greenest and most elegant residential area in the whole city. It had narrow, leafy roads which wound past fine old homes set back on limey green grass.
    I nudged Sharon. “Hey, sleepyhead, wake up.” She looked at me reproachfully, like Cinderella being disturbed while waltzing with the prince. “Come on, we’re almost there.” Her expression didn’t change for the better, but she did manage to lift her chin as I retied the ribbon bow at her neck.
    And there it was—my grandparents’ house. A twelve-room Victorian painted the whitest white with windows large enough to welcome in the sun, each with its