The Last of the Wise Lovers Read Online Free PDF

she
was reading was resting on its spine.  I went to the dining room. Mom was
sitting at the large dining room table, writing something in a yellow notebook.
 Another part of her life that took place in the hours when I wasn't home?
       "I think we should call
Dad," I said.
       "What about?" she asked in
a tone that made it clear she was willing to hear any reason except that reason.
       "Nothing," I gave up and went
back to my room.  The phone rang.  Mom answered.  For a moment I
thought of lifting the receiver and listening in, but then I decided not to.
 I'd had enough of the whole thing.
     
       Your guys are making noise in the hall.  It's now
7:00 a.m. and both of them are tired after a long night.  I can hear
they've decided to take turns sleeping.  I'm not tired.  My desire to
tell keeps growing.
     

 
 
 
 
 
THE
SECOND NOTEBOOK
     
    That same night, I thought for the first time of
the man who was destined to die.
       He came to me in a dream.  He
didn't have a face, and his body was hidden by a kind of long robe.  He
sat down beside me on a wooden bench, and I knew he was blaming me for not
convincing Mom to stop whatever it was she was supposed to stop.  I tried
to get up and walk away.  He grabbed me with a clammy hand and bent down
to whisper something in my ear.  I leaned back as far as I could, but he
was taller or more limber and managed to reach my ear.  Of all the things
he could have possibly whispered to me, he chose to give me the answer to the
riddle.  When I woke up I didn't remember what he'd said, but after five
minutes of concerted effort I arrived at the correct solution: Lemon is fruit.
Honey is food. Sour isn't sweet.  I wrote it all down on a Kleenex box and
ran into the kitchen.  Mom was already awake.  In fact, it looked as
if she hadn't slept at all and had spent the night writing something, which she
covered with her arm when I came in.
    "Here," I threw the Kleenex box on the
table, "this has to be the answer."
       She took a piece of chocolate from
the chocolate bar in front of her, put it in her mouth, and looked at me
thoughtfully.  I angled to see what she was hiding.  It was the same
notebook from yesterday, crammed with lines of scrawl.
    "What's that?" I asked.
    "Recipes," she answered absently.
 "I'm trying to think of something good to make for tomorrow, when
your father comes home."
       That sounded strange, but I was
preoccupied with the solution to the riddle.  I slid the box of Kleenex
across the table, in between her arms.  She read it hastily.
      "That's a possibility," she said
generously, "no less reasonable than mine."
       "Yours isn't right...”
       "It's too late," she broke
in just as the clock struck seven.  "I took a stroll to the mailbox
last night and sent it.  Hurry up now, or you'll have to answer to Mr.
K."
       "Will you give me a lift to the
bus?" I asked, forgetting for a moment that we didn't have a car.
       But she had become absorbed in her
writing again.  I went back to my room and quickly got dressed.  Then
I grabbed something to eat and I skipped down the inside steps to the garage.
 When I'd gotten outside, Mom called to me from the window.  I went
back.  I was hoping she'd finally decided to say something to deliver me
from my confusion and embarrassment, but all she wanted was to give me a kiss
goodbye.  Again I went racing down the steps to the garage.  I could
feel the slide in my pocket with every step.
       I had almost an hour to think on the
bus.  I had an overwhelming urge to look at the slide, but I was afraid to
take it out of my pocket.  I tried to concentrate and to remember why the
word `agitator' looked so familiar.  Then I went back over Mom's solution
to the riddle: Honey isn't sour. Lemon is food. Fruit is sweet.  Maybe
fruit was always sweet, as she claimed?  But then her solution itself
would be intrinsically illogical: lemon is fruit - and of course everyone knows
that