The Devil Delivered and Other Tales Read Online Free PDF

in quiet tones. Jim watched his mother nodding, her arms crossed tight against her chest. Smoke whipped in a stream from her face.
    From the city. It had always been obvious. She’d stayed only because of Dad, and now he was dying, and her son was a man, married to a country girl, which was right, and besides, all the words between her and Jim had been used up. The grief they shared was a chasm, impenetrably dark and too terrifying to cross. She wasn’t staying. She was going back, where being alone wasn’t quite so noticeable. I don’t blame her. She’s got her life, lots of years left. She wants to start over. I can hate her, but I can’t blame her.
    Ruth approached. “Roll me one,” she said, sweeping strands of auburn hair from her face.
    “Got some grass for later,” Jim said, watching her mouth, wanting to kiss it and keep kissing it.
    She smiled. “Not my style. You do the hippie thing.”
    “I love you, Ruth.”
    “I know.” She leaned against the car beside him, their hips touching.
    Three weeks married. All she has to do is get close and Christ, all I can think of is fucking her. Dad’s dying, Mom’s leaving, and none of it matters. Christ. He finished rolling her cigarette and lit it for her.
    “Thanks,” she said. Taking it from his fingers. They watched Grandpa and Jim’s mother talking, there at the foot of the porch steps, the old farmhouse rising behind them. The curtains in the windows were drawn. To Jim, it had the look of a place waiting to be struck by lightning, waiting to burn to the ground, sending human souls flying skyward in a shower of sparks, a final release there on the trail blazed by his old man. Release, and relief. He realized, with a sudden thud in his belly, that he hated death, hated it like a person—with a face, a goddamned smile, gold-capped teeth, and eyes as deep as the flames of hell. One of the curtains moved. Elly, Dad’s kid sister, peered out at the two talking in front of the porch. Her face withdrew after a moment, the curtain falling back into place.
    “We’ll be okay,” Ruth said.
    “I know. It’s all right.”
    “Like hell it is, Jim.”
    “I know,” he said again.
    “It’s not all right.”
    “No. It’s not all right.”
    “But we’ll be okay. Are you listening to me?”
    He nodded.
    “Don’t hate her, Jim.”
    “I don’t.” But he did.
    “She’s earned the right. She stood by him, all through this. It was hell for her.”
    “For all of us. Grandpa’s only son. My dad.”
    “It’s different. I know, you can’t see that right now, but it’s different.”
    He shrugged, wishing he weren’t so angry. “When I was a kid, Dad went and plowed up some holy land. A Medicine Wheel, and tepee rings. There was a cairn in the wheel. A shaman had been buried there. A holy man. Or a devil, a spirit, or maybe both, one taking care of the other. Maybe there was a whole lot that was buried there.”
    “You think he’s paying for it, now? Is that what you’re thinking, Jim?”
    He shrugged again, flicking the butt onto the dusty ground.
    “Is that what your grandpa says?”
    “No,” he admitted.
    “Didn’t think so.” Now she was angry. It was a mood of hers that frightened him, because it left him feeling crushed, and that made him feel like he was weak inside. For all the outward toughness, he was weak—he prayed she’d never find out.
    “You’ve been away,” he said. “At school. Grandpa’s not been himself lately.”
    “Are you surprised?”
    He shook his head. “He’s stopped talking about the old days. He told me it’s up to me now to remember. So that’s what I’m doing. I’m Métis. French and Cree, and it’s the Indian part of me that’s doing most of the talking in my mind. These days. It’s, uh, it’s the voice in my blood.”
    She was looking at him now, her eyes searching his face, or maybe studying it. She seemed to have shed her anger, but Jim wasn’t sure what had replaced it.
    “The voice in your