| OCR Text |
Show -3 glad you're here because I don't know what to do and I don't think Alice is going to be much help." He stopped and took out a handkerchief. While he wiped his glasses he kept looking from me to Morgan; his eyes were gloomy and tender. My brother was capable of deep feelings, deeper than mine, maybe, or at least closer to the surface. "You drive," he said when they brought the car. I wheeled us slowly out of the airport, squinting through the rainy windshield for signs to Route 99 and Marysville. Jacob leaned past Morgan to look at me. "I wasn't sure that you would come at all," he said. There's a little craziness in all of us Skinners. When my father was twenty years old he decided to become a sculptor; he moved his new wife from Ohio to Oregon and went to work in the woods to support his family until he became famous. 3y the time the first son was born it was obvious that the streams of inspiration had dried up in him, but he carried on anyhow. When I cane along perseverence had already turned him into a thin unpredictable melancholy man. He spent long afternoons grubbing in his garden to keep from having to go back into the workshop, but in the end he always went. It turned him sour; he was a sad person. When I got the news he was dead I took Morgan by the hand, dragged her with me to the airport and bought a ticket |
