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Show 9-6 "Your dad said you weren't coming. Your grandpa's sick?" "Yes, but he's much better. And I got bored waiting at Ruth's house. So I decided to come on over. They know where to find me." I spoke carefully, saying each word precisely, as if good diction would cover the lie. We stood now in the shade and looked into the cool cave under the trees, peopled again by the quiet, solemn men. Andrew didn't pay attention to them, but guided me with a hand on my shoulder to a wooden table. "Who's Ruth?" "A great friend of my mother's. And mine." He nodded. We sat across from each other and for the first time since we had met I had a chance to look full in Andrew's face. I rested both elbows on the table and my chin on my hands and I looked at my friend. He took off his hat and brushed back his hair from his forehead where it clung in brown curls. In the dark light of the shadows, his face looked less hot and angry, the color faded. The shadows clustered around his eyes, giving them a look of sadness and pain. Andrew looked back at me. The bookbag lay between us on the table. Minutes passed. We didn't move. "Have you ever seen a face like mine?" Andrew asked quietly. "No." And then I asked, "Does it hurt?" Andrew looked down at the bookbag and smoothed its canvas with his muffled hand. "Not much now. But at first. Oh, Annie, I wanted to die." He rested his forehead on his hand. |
