The Weight of Water Read Online Free PDF Page A

and a pay phone.
    I heard his voice before I saw his face. It was low and measured, authoritative and without noticeable accent.
    When he finished the reading, he turned slightly to acknowledge a nod, and I could see Thomas’s face then in the light. I
     was struck by his mouth — he had a loose and generous mouth, the only extravagance in a spare face. Later, when I was sitting
     with him, I saw that his eyes were set closely together, so that I did not think he was classically handsome. His irises,
     however, were navy and flecked with gold, and he had large pupils, dark circles that seemed to have no protection.
    I went to the bar and ordered a Rolling Rock. I was lightheaded and hollow-stomached from not having eaten anything. It seemed
     that every time I had thought of eating that day, I had been called to yet another assignment. I leaned against the bar and
     studied the menu. I was aware that Thomas was standing next to me.
    “I liked your reading,” I said.
    He glanced briefly at me. “Thank you,” he said quickly, in the way of a man who has no skill with compliments.
    “The poem you read. It was very strong.”
    His eyes flickered over my face. “It’s old work,” he said.
    The barman brought my Rolling Rock, and I paid for the beer. Thomas picked up his glass, leaving a wet circle on the highly
     varnished surface of the bar. He took a long swallow and set the glass back down.
    “This is a reading?” I asked.
    “Tuesday night. Poet’s night.”
    “I didn’t know.”
    “You’re not alone.”
    I tried to signal to the barman, so that I could order a snack.
    “Thomas Janes,” he said, holding out his hand. I noticed the fingers, long and strong and pale.
    He must have seen the confusion on my face.
    He smiled. “No, you’ve never heard of me,” he said.
    “I don’t know poetry very well,” I said lamely.
    “No apologies.”
    He had on a white shirt and a complicated cable-knit sweater. Dress slacks. Gray. A pair of boots. I told him my name and
     that I was a photographer for the
Globe.
    “How did you become a photographer?”
    “I saw a show of AP photos once. I left the show and went out and bought a camera.”
    “The baby falling from the third-story window.”
    “Something like that.”
    “And you’ve been taking pictures ever since.”
    “It helped to put me through school.”
    “You’ve seen a lot of terrible things.”
    “Some. But I’ve seen wonderful things, too. I once caught the moment that a father lay down on the ice and pulled his son
     from a fish hole. You can see the clasped arms of the boy and the man, and the two faces with their eyes locked.”
    “Where was this?”
    “In Woburn.”
    “It sounds familiar. Could I have seen it?”
    “Possibly. The
Globe
bought it.”
    He nodded slowly and took a long swallow of his drink. “Actually, it’s much the same, what you and I are doing,” he said.
    “And what would that be?”
    “Trying to stop time.”
    The barman beckoned to Thomas, and he walked to a small platform at one end of the room. He leaned on a podium. The audience,
     to my surprise, grew quiet. There was not even the chink of glasses. Thomas pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his
     trousers and said he wanted to read something he had written just that day. There were words that stayed with me:
Wainscot
and
redolent
and
core-stung.
    Later there were a great many glasses on the table, mugs of cut glass that refracted the dregs. There seemed to be endless
     circles of liquid oak. I thought that nearly half the people in the bar had come to the table to buy Thomas a drink. Thomas
     drank too much. I could see that even then. He stood and swayed a bit and held the table. I touched him on the elbow. He had
     no shame in his drunkenness. He asked me if I would help him get to his car. Already I knew that I would have to drive him
     home.
    A sink with a rusty stain leaned along one wall. A small bed that sagged and was covered with a beige blanket