The Cast Stone Read Online Free PDF

scared. If it looks like I’m in trouble, just pass my shoes over me and I will come back.” And the old woman would go to sleep and dream and toss and turn and talk and if she became quiet, her children would pass her shoes over her and she would wake up and tell them how their uncles were doing. “Delbert killed a moose.” or “Walter fell through the ice, but his dogs helped get him out. He’s okay now.”
    Ben had a secret, Rosie knew. He had a secret and it had a hold of him and wouldn’t let him be, it was like a limp or an ache, and it was always in the way and needed to be cared for like a sore thumb. But Ben had a big secret and it had started to bend him over with its weight. If he wanted to share it with Rosie, she would help him to carry it. She had carried the secret of the priest all her life and it hadn’t crippled her; it had made her strong.
    But Ben’s secret was something newer, something he brought with him to the reserve, something from outside, from the white world. Probably had to do with money. Rosie looked around. The aluminum boat on the trailer parked in the shade of the large pines must have cost Ben a fair price, and the motor, well those don’t come cheap, not new ones anyway, and this house. Rosie turned around and looked at the log structure behind her. He must have spent money on it. Those were new windows set in wooden frames, and the door was solid, not one of those cheap doors like the contractors put on reserve houses. Yeah, Ben had spent a fair amount on his house. It might not look like it unless you looked close. Everything was plain, simple and the best quality. And if you added in the truck, well, Ben had spent a big pile of money since he moved back.
    So Ben had money, big deal. He was a retired professor after all. So why did he go to lengths to act like he didn’t? Maybe he was embarrassed by it. Maybe he didn’t want to embarrass her with it. It didn’t matter. Funny thing about money — you put people and money together and strange things happen.
    She slipped the long thin bead needle through a sequence of different coloured beads, raised the needle and shook the pretty little bulbs of glass down the thread to where her solid left thumb waited to hold them firmly in place while she sewed them onto their designated spot.
    If Rosie could travel like Old Jeanie, she would go find Ben and tell him — tell him what? That she was sitting on his steps while he was away because she wanted to be where he had walked, on boards he had nailed. She was sixty-four years old and acting like she was fourteen. What would Ben want with her? She wasn’t pretty. Not anymore. She wasn’t one of the educated, sophisticated. She was competently literate but wasn’t versed in literature. She preferred to read Stephen King and wasn’t in the least interested in the William Faulkner novel that lay open on Ben’s bedside table.
    Something shifted in the shadow of the pines off toward Rosie’s left. She watched for it with her peripheral vision rather than turn her head and search boldly. The figure moved again. It was not skulking, just moving slowly between her house and Ben’s. She did not recognize the man at first, now that he was obvious and she could openly look at him. His hair was too short for the reserve where the fashion ranged from slightly longer to long. His was very close cropped. There was a familiarity about the face, as hard as it was. Somewhere beneath the mask of sternness lived someone she once knew. He came out of the shadows, walked up, and now stood in front of Rosie.
    â€œWell, drop kick me Jesus. How you doin’, Rosie?” the humour in the words did not make it to the voice so the statement sounded bizarre.
    â€œEnd over end, not to the left or the right, straight through the heart of those righteous uprights.” Rosie completed the football cult song. Her light laugh brought