hung up.
5]
Dear Moldenke,
I think of you often these days. How are things in the cities? I wish you could be with me in this country air. Yes, Moldenke. Air. You should be breathing it occasionally, if not constantly. After all, you're the one with the problem heart.
My special regards, as ever,
Doctor Burnheart
6]
She would say, “Play the Buxtehude, Moldenke. I enjoy the chills it gives me.” She would close the door behind herself and leave him alone in the piano room with its pots of ivy and ant-traps.
He would begin the Buxtehude on the cold keyboard. In the bedroom she would listen through a wall.
He would play the Buxtehude until ants crawled along his fingers and assembled on his sleeves.
He would then walk to the kitchen, carrying his hands like packages, and scrape the ants into a teaboil. Roberta would emerge from the bedroom, stand in the doorway in her flannel. Moldenke would turn from the tea boil and smile, his old silver tooth throwing out a rod of light.
Roberta would say, “Tea?”
Moldenke would add mock sugar. “Yes, would you like a cup?”
She would always have a cup. She would say, “As always.”
Moldenke would have his with potato milk, she without.
7]
When he was a boy, a student, whenever he loaned out a book it would come back with nosewipes in the margins and down the spine.
8]
He put the speaker to his better ear and listened for a dial tone. There was static, someone pouring rice from bowl to bowl.
He fixed the speaker in its cradle and went to his lookout. Buildings, vehicles, something above suggesting sky.
Two suns up, a bright day.
American hearts beating in the street.
9]
Over the seasons Moldenke's faith diminished. If he opened a spigot and got water, no matter how clouded or sour, he was gratified, as though he no longer expected it, although he loved water as nearly as he loved anything. That was the way with Moldenke, a brightly burning candle with a shortened wick, destined to burn low and give off gas.
10]
The phone rang. Moldenke answered:
“Hello?”
“May I speak to Mr. Moldenke? ”
“This is Mr. Moldenke speaking. Who's calling?”
“Bunce here, Moldenke. Serious up a minute, please. No fooling around. I don't like the way you hung up on me last call. I never like to see a hang-up. It shows me you're not as interested as you should be, not as engaged as you might be. What's the trouble? Would you like me to put my forearm up your very delicate chuff pipe and pop your spleen like a cherry, or run my thumbnail down your inner spine, assuming you have one? Is that the sort of thing you want? Bunce doesn't cater to the meek, my friend. Remember that even if you forget all else. Remember that much. Open the good ear, jocko. Listen to me. We have the tapes.”
“You have the tapes,” Moldenke said. “What tapes?”
“What tapes, he says.”
“Yes, Bunce. What tapes?”
“Tapes, friend. Tapes! Things said about you in your absence. Yourself as others see you. The works. We have it all. The whole Moldenke. If you ever have a yen to listen to a few of the tapes, give me a call. The number is 555-333-555333-555-333. I'll be around. Give me a ring sometime. We'll have lunch, slug down a few pinebrews, and talk things over. Put all our bags on the table, if you know what I mean. Are you with me, Moldenke? Can you follow me? ”
Moldenke again hung up.
11]
He opened the book to a random page, let his finger float to a random line and read: In 1856 Claude Bernard noted the appearance of cloudy lymph in the duodenum near the entrance of the bile duct. He read no further.
12]
He dialed in a station on the radio and got a weather report:
Cloudy, freezing in the outskirts, cold tonight, colder tomorrow, warming Thursday and Friday, cooling off by Saturday, sleet by Sunday, double suns on Monday, and so on, according to the everyday charts, indicating a possible trend—warm,
5]
Dear Moldenke,
I think of you often these days. How are things in the cities? I wish you could be with me in this country air. Yes, Moldenke. Air. You should be breathing it occasionally, if not constantly. After all, you're the one with the problem heart.
My special regards, as ever,
Doctor Burnheart
6]
She would say, “Play the Buxtehude, Moldenke. I enjoy the chills it gives me.” She would close the door behind herself and leave him alone in the piano room with its pots of ivy and ant-traps.
He would begin the Buxtehude on the cold keyboard. In the bedroom she would listen through a wall.
He would play the Buxtehude until ants crawled along his fingers and assembled on his sleeves.
He would then walk to the kitchen, carrying his hands like packages, and scrape the ants into a teaboil. Roberta would emerge from the bedroom, stand in the doorway in her flannel. Moldenke would turn from the tea boil and smile, his old silver tooth throwing out a rod of light.
Roberta would say, “Tea?”
Moldenke would add mock sugar. “Yes, would you like a cup?”
She would always have a cup. She would say, “As always.”
Moldenke would have his with potato milk, she without.
7]
When he was a boy, a student, whenever he loaned out a book it would come back with nosewipes in the margins and down the spine.
8]
He put the speaker to his better ear and listened for a dial tone. There was static, someone pouring rice from bowl to bowl.
He fixed the speaker in its cradle and went to his lookout. Buildings, vehicles, something above suggesting sky.
Two suns up, a bright day.
American hearts beating in the street.
9]
Over the seasons Moldenke's faith diminished. If he opened a spigot and got water, no matter how clouded or sour, he was gratified, as though he no longer expected it, although he loved water as nearly as he loved anything. That was the way with Moldenke, a brightly burning candle with a shortened wick, destined to burn low and give off gas.
10]
The phone rang. Moldenke answered:
“Hello?”
“May I speak to Mr. Moldenke? ”
“This is Mr. Moldenke speaking. Who's calling?”
“Bunce here, Moldenke. Serious up a minute, please. No fooling around. I don't like the way you hung up on me last call. I never like to see a hang-up. It shows me you're not as interested as you should be, not as engaged as you might be. What's the trouble? Would you like me to put my forearm up your very delicate chuff pipe and pop your spleen like a cherry, or run my thumbnail down your inner spine, assuming you have one? Is that the sort of thing you want? Bunce doesn't cater to the meek, my friend. Remember that even if you forget all else. Remember that much. Open the good ear, jocko. Listen to me. We have the tapes.”
“You have the tapes,” Moldenke said. “What tapes?”
“What tapes, he says.”
“Yes, Bunce. What tapes?”
“Tapes, friend. Tapes! Things said about you in your absence. Yourself as others see you. The works. We have it all. The whole Moldenke. If you ever have a yen to listen to a few of the tapes, give me a call. The number is 555-333-555333-555-333. I'll be around. Give me a ring sometime. We'll have lunch, slug down a few pinebrews, and talk things over. Put all our bags on the table, if you know what I mean. Are you with me, Moldenke? Can you follow me? ”
Moldenke again hung up.
11]
He opened the book to a random page, let his finger float to a random line and read: In 1856 Claude Bernard noted the appearance of cloudy lymph in the duodenum near the entrance of the bile duct. He read no further.
12]
He dialed in a station on the radio and got a weather report:
Cloudy, freezing in the outskirts, cold tonight, colder tomorrow, warming Thursday and Friday, cooling off by Saturday, sleet by Sunday, double suns on Monday, and so on, according to the everyday charts, indicating a possible trend—warm,
Similar Books
Trout Fishing in America
Richard Brautigan
Babe & Me
Dan Gutman
Maybe This Time
Jennifer Crusie
Beautiful City of the Dead
Leander Watts
Uptown Girl
Olivia Goldsmith
Still In Love With Her
Z.L. Arkadie
After the Morning After
Lisa G Riley
The Case of Dunc's Doll
Gary Paulsen
Still Hood
K'wan