Nothing That Meets the Eye Read Free Page B

“Thanks.”
    But he was not done exploring. He would want many more idle days.
    Above Trevelyan Boulevard, vanishing into green meadow and forest, lay the most attractive roads Aaron had ever glimpsed. He rambled them till midafternoon, stopping to fondle pet calves tethered in front yards, to chat with a housewife canning blueberries in an open-doored kitchen, to attend the milking of seven goats, as he sat on the hay-littered threshold of the barn. He brought handfuls of fresh grass and distributed the bunches equally among their eager mouths. He learned the best-yielding breeds of goats, the market price, the fat content and by-products of goats’ milk.
    â€œYou might like a taste now’t you know all about it,” the goat farmer said, returning from his kitchen with a slab of brown cheese on white bread.
    The bread was warm and bent in his hands. Never had he eaten anything so delicious. The moments at the goat farm seemed to complete a transformation. Actually, he was elated beyond the power to think, but he realized one thing, that he had never before enjoyed merely the fact that he existed.
    III
    T he twelve o’clock whistle of the leather factory began a white-breathed scream that carried easily over the entire town, and under its cover, as he walked a quiet road beside the river, Aaron opened his mouth and shouted his happiness. He heard mountain after mountain echo the whistle until its circle expanded beyond his sense.
    Five men walked from the dark shadow beneath the factory shed. They wore blue work shirts and blackened trousers and caps. In long slow-climbing strides they came up the greasy slope to the bridge road that led to Trevelyan Boulevard.
    â€œHowdy!” one called to Aaron, and the others followed suit and spoke or waved a greeting.
    Aaron leaned against the brick back of the general store and watched them with a kind of envy and awe, these sole representatives of the armies of factory workers that cover the earth. They did not carry lunch pails, nor would they go to a crowded cafeteria for their meal. Their homes were only around the corner, where a woman would now be setting home-cooked food on a table. He blinked his popping eyes at them as they rose like giants at the crest of the road, then dispersed.
    IV
    â€œH ello.”Aaron turned from the bridge window and saw Freya standing on the wooden floor. “Hello.” He smiled, genuinely glad to see her. “How are you?”
    â€œOkay.”
    She came on her bare feet into the bar of sunlight to the window at which he stood. He could see fine dark hairs on her delicate arms, and freckles across her thin, pointed nose. Her eyes were large and of a clear milky gray that suggested blindness. She wore the same lavender dress with the broad hem patterned with strawberries.
    â€œWant me to lift you up?” he asked.
    â€œNope.” She boosted herself to the sill, resting her weight on her forearms.
    The whistle sounded, from the top of the giant stack, and though it split their ears at this proximity, Freya remained motionless throughout it, staring downstream.
    Aaron forgot to watch the five men. He had formed the habit of attending the twelve and four o’clock whistles, for the punctuality of the change of shifts was pleasant to observe in the town where nothing else seemed governed by clocks. But now he could not take his eyes from the little girl. He had forgotten her since the first evening, and now he was grateful she had troubled to stop and speak to him.
    â€œThat’s my favorite house to visit,” she told him.
    He looked where she pointed and saw a house he had not noticed before, set back at the edge of the forest. It was white with a purplish roof, and its windows were slaty in the shadow.
    â€œIs it? Who lives there?”
    â€œNobody.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œWant to go see it?”
    â€œSure.”
    She hopped off the sill. He followed her down past the factory and up a