What They Wanted Read Online Free PDF Page A

inside a pencil for hours and don’t blink. What’s that if not discipline? Christ almighty, how come you’re always ranting on about Ben’s drawing but never your own? You’re better than him. Yeah, you are,” I said to his snort. “Pours from you like life. Ben draws a boat, it’s just that—a boat. You draw a boat, and it’s every boat that ever was.”
    “Jeezes let’s not start that agin—”
    “You never allow for your talent—”
    “Here she goes.”
    “Thinks I’m talking through my hat, don’t you. Well, I’m not talking through my hat. Been to enough art showings these past five years to know something when I sees it, and you got something, brother, you really do. I think you’re a visionary, a true visionary. Privileged. And here you are groping and fumbling about with nets and chainsaws! Jeezes. Them days are passed when you gotta hide your paints and jig fish. You can do anything you want now, school’s in! Did you get those brochures I sent you?”
    “What brochures?”
    “Art school in Halifax.” I held my breath. I’d done far more than send him brochures. I’d actually filled out an application into the art program on his behalf and signed his name to it, submitted it to the art college along with a portfolio I’d made up with the drawings he’d given me through the years and an essay explaining why “I” wanted to pursue that course of study. “It’s where I’m doing my master’s. Gorgeous city—no more than a big town, really, and quite close to home, can hop the ferry in the morning and be home before Mother turns out the light. Did you—well, did you get them—the brochures?”
    He was gazing out his side window, scarcely listening.
    “Chris, did you get the damn brochures or not?”
    “No.” He glanced at me irritably.
    “Well, you should’ve, you should’ve had them by now. It’s a well-recognized program and I thought you’d find some of the material interesting. Nice old artsy building, cobblestones out front, great bar right alongside with live music and juicy burgers. Lotsa people our own age milling about, most of them from Newfoundland,” I added. “Always somebody hitching a ride back home for the weekend, or driving and wanting somebody along for company.”
    “Yeah, you’ll like it there,” he said vaguely.
    “I’m thinking about you, brother.”
    “Yeah, well, you just think about yourself, enough to think about yourself. See that little pine tree over there, next to the tall birches? Father got it tagged for this year’s Christmas tree. Don’t mention it, no cutting allowed. We’ll get it late some evening, when it’s dark.”
    “You’re ignoring me.”
    “Think you’ll be home for Christmas?”
    “Don’t want to listen to talk about university art programs. Afraid you might have to do something. Like make a plan, leave home someday.”
    “Will you just watch the gawd-damned road.”
    “I’m watching the gawd-damned road, and I’m telling you that’s half your gawd-damned problem right there, don’t want to leave home. How come? That’s what I can’t figure— how come you don’t wanna leave home, because you don’t, do you?”
    I looked over at him, trying to see what was behind his eyes, what was in his head, what he was thinking. It was always like that; any time I ever spoke to him about leaving he’d scoff it off, turn to something else, make jokes out of it. Surprisingly, he was holding himself back this time, his chest tensed and his mouth working as though he were struggling with some feeling he couldn’t put words to. Kinda reminded me of those times when we used to hide behind the house in fear of some unknown fate.
    But it was no youngster sitting beside me on this day. I could see thick cords jumping in his neck as he strained away from me. I could see the veins roping his wrists as he nervously flexed and re-flexed his hands into fists. He bit his lip as though to quell whatever thought he was struggling