The Spirit Wood Read Online Free PDF Page A

in teaching would no longer compromise his chances of leading a decent life. He knew she'd be relieved, indeed elated, for him.
    And yet, her expression told another, contradictory, story. Her face had always had a certain drawn, careworn look about it, and the strain of the last couple of days had apparently added to it: the circles under her eyes were darker than usual; the gray in what had once been her jet-black hair seemed more pronounced. As she looked at him now, across the table, it was with a deep concern and even, though he suspected he must be misreading it, something likefear—fear for his safety, the look he'd seen when he was seventeen and saying good-bye to go on a three-week cross-country car trip with two of his friends from school. It seemed a mysterious way to greet such good news.
    “Peter,” she said, as if she'd been reading his mind the whole time, “I am happy for you,” and she reached one hand across the table toward him. He took it in his own good hand, feeling her cold, lean fingers beneath his own. “And you, too, dear,” she said, extending the other to Meg. “I think you two had a bit of good luck coming to you.”
    “This is a pretty healthy bit, I'd say,” Kennedy added. “Peter, I'm going to give you this packet here,” and he slid a manila envelope across the table to him, “and ask you to read over everything inside, sign the papers wherever necessary, and return them to my attention as soon as you can. If you've got any questions, just give us a call, and I'm sure Connie can tell you what's what.” Then, clearly switching gears, he said in a much less brisk and businesslike tone, “There's just one other thing I must bring up. You should know that as of yesterday morning at least, the police and county coroner's office were still investigating the circumstances of Mr. Constantine's death. The supposition is that he had a heart attack while out alone on the dock, late last Sunday night, and that the bruises and other markings which turned up on the body resulted from his being buffeted against the rocks and dock pilings. I'm sure it will all be cleared up in the next day or two, barring anything else untoward showing up, but I'll certainly let you know if I hear anything more.” There was a brief silence in the room at this sudden reminder of the actual death and its unusual circumstances, before Kennedy, stretching out his arms with his palms laid flat against the table, said, “And with that, I think we've covered about everything we need to. Thank you all for coming here—Peter, be sure to get those papers back to me as soon as possible.”
    On the street outside, the shock of the warm sunlight and the rush-hour traffic made what had just transpired in Kennedy's office seem to Peter more real and, at the same time, more difficult to believe. The crowded sidewalks, the bleating of the car horns, lent it all a background of everyday credibility, while rendering the cool, hushed tranquillity of the law office more remote and improbable than ever. Meg, however, settled the question by hugging him so hard he had to plead for mercy on behalf of his wounded arm.
    His mother had put on a pair of round, lightly tinted sunglasses, which concealed the weariness in her eyes, but the waning sunlight made her features appear more pale, more drawn than ever. There were lines in her throat that he had never noticed there before.
    At Peter's insistence, they all climbed into a Checker cab that had just deposited its passenger right in front of them and rode to Mrs. Constantine's apartment building near First Avenue. It was one of the great, gray prewar buildings, with a frayed green awning and a doorman too tired to stand up when they passed through the lobby. His mother's apartment was a small one bedroom, furnished with an overstuffed brocade sofa, squat, heavy armchairs, and worn old Oriental carpets on the floor. The only cheerful touches of color and life came from a variety of