Rabbit, Run Read Free Page A

underwater, and push at the one unchained door, push up into the light, and walk, never admitting they were going there, toward the silver medallions, hand in hand tired walking gently against the current of homegoing traffic, and make love with the late daylight coming level in the window. She was shy about him seeing her. She made him keep his eyes shut. And then with a shiver come as soon as he was in, her inside softly grainy, like a silk slipper. Lying side by side on this other girl’s bed, feeling lost, having done the final thing; the wall’s silver and the fading day’s gold.
    The kitchen is a narrow room off the living-room, a tight aisle between machines that were modern five years ago. She drops something metal, a pan or cup. “Think you can make it without burning yourself?” he calls in.
    “Are you still here?” is the answer.
    He goes to the closet and takes out the coat he hung up so neatly. It seems to him he’s the only person around here who cares about neatness. The clutter behind him in the room—the Old-fashioned glass with its corrupt dregs, the choked ashtray balanced on the easy-chair arm, the rumpled rug, the floppy stacks of slippery newspapers, the kid’s toys here and there broken and stuck and jammed, a leg off a doll and a piece of bent cardboard that went with some breakfast-box cutout, the rolls of fuzz under the radiators, the continual crisscrossing mess—clings to his back like a tightening net. He tries to sort out picking up his car and then his kid. Or should he pick up the kid first? He wants more to see the kid. It would be quicker to walk over to Mrs. Springer’s, she lived closer. But suppose she was watching out the window for him to come so she could pop out and tell him how tired Janice looked? Who wouldn’t be tired after tramping around trying to buy something with you you miserable nickel-hugger? You fat hag. You old gypsy. If he had the kid along this might not happen. Rabbit likes the idea of walking up from his mother’s place with his boy. Two-and-a-half, Nelson walks like a trooper, with choppy stubborn steps. They’d walk along in the day’s last light under the trees and then like magic there would be Daddy’s car at a curb. But it will take longer this way, what with his own mother talking slyly and round-about about how incompetent Janice is. It ruined him when his mother went on like that; maybe she did it just to kid him, but he couldn’t take her lightly, she was somehow too powerful, at least with him. He had better go for the car first and pick the kid up with it. But he doesn’t want to do it this way. He just doesn’t. The problem knits in front of him and he feels sickened by the intricacy.
    Janice calls from the kitchen, “And honey pick up a pack of cigarettes could you?” in a normal voice that says everything is forgiven, everything is the same.
    Rabbit freezes, standing looking at his faint yellow shadow on the white door that leads to the hall, and senses he is in a trap. It seems certain. In disgust he goes out.
    Outdoors it is growing dark and cool. The Norwegian maples exhale the smell of their sticky new buds and the broad living-room windows along Wilbur Street show beyond the silver patch of a television set the warm bulbs burning in kitchens, like fires at the backs of caves. He walks downhill. The day is gathering itself in. He now and then touches with his hand the rough bark of a tree or the dry twigs of a hedge, to give himself the small answer of a texture. At the corner, where Wilbur Street meets Potter Avenue, a mailbox stands leaning in twilight on its concrete post. Tall two-petaled street sign, the cleat-gouged trunk of the telephone pole holding its insulators against the sky, fire hydrant like a golden bush: a grove. He used to love to climb the poles. To shinny up from a friend’s shoulders until the ladder of spikes came to your hands, to get up to where you could hear the wires sing. Terrifying motionless