Read Online St. Patrick's Bed (Ashland, 3) by Terence M. Green - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Terence M. Green
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ate smoked salmon, cheese, drank Caesars, white wine, red wine, slept when we wanted. And we made love. As often as possible. In every part of our multifaceted nest.
We'd been trying to get Jeanne pregnant ever since that blinding, sunny day in Las Vegas, when Elvis gave her away, but nothing had happened. And every now and then, when confiding in close friends, we'd hear variations on the same advice:
"You just need to get away. Relax."
"The Greek Isles. You need to go to the Greek Isles."
"Timing. It's all timing."
"It never happens when you want it to. It's always an accident."
"Don't think about it. Just do it."
The Poconos was three years after the wedding in Las Vegas. We were three years older. Time was running out.
Nothing had happened.
Nothing happened in the Poconos either.
III
Days Inn served the continental breakfast in the lobby: coffee, muffins. While I ate, I read USA Today and The BG News ("A daily independent student press"). Newspapers were my business; they interested me.
They were my father's business too.
I drove along Wooster, just to have a look. Pretty homes, lovely verandas. BGSU seemed enormous—it stretched its way along into town until I came to Main Street—a real, honest-to-goodness Main Street.
The Cla-Zel Theater, billiards, pizza, Chamber of Commerce.
American Family Insurance, Kirk's Coin Laundry, H & R Block, Huntington Banks.
I pictured Adam going to Bowling Green State University, editing The BG News , eating with classmates at Mark's Pub. Maybe this was where he might have ended up if I hadn't entered his life, taken him north. Taken him away from his father.
I got back on I-75, headed south. My eye was drawn to my hand on the steering wheel, to the red garnet there.
The flat Ohio countryside continued. Near Findlay, two cement silos rose up on my left: "Pioneer Sugar."
Only talk shows or static on the radio.
NINE
I
Psychologists call it "Searching Behavior." For the living, it is one way that some deal with grief for the loss of a loved one. I'd read this somewhere, but couldn't remember where.
I think it's simpler than that. I think there are family ghosts. I think they are something real and powerful that we carry inside us, that without them we're empty, without direction. They steer us, advise us, converse with us daily.
They bring the past and the present together. Give us a future, a perspective. They humble us.
At Exit 161: the University of Findlay. Exit 145: Ohio Northern University. Exit 142: Bluffton College.
Adam could be studying at any of them. Findlay and Lima must have newspapers where I could work. Or the Dayton Daily News. It was possible.
Near Lima: Comfort Inn, Days Inn. "United States Plastic." Beside it: "Christ Is the Answer."
I crossed the Ottawa River, thought of Canada's capital. Like Dixie, my world and the past had come with me, clinging, recurring like distant speed bumps.
Ohio State University, Lima Campus, off to the east. A woman hanging wash on a line.
Flat. Cows. The sun came down in actual rays through the clouds: like a postcard.
I was thirsty. The juice machine back in the Bowling Green Days Inn lobby had been out of order.
Economy Inn, Hampton Inn, The Olive Garden—all visible from the highway.
Exit 111: the Neil Armstrong Air and Space Museum. The sign said, "75 South—Dayton." Again. There was no doubt where I was going.
At Piqua, Exit 83: "Paul Sherry RV's, Ohio's Largest Dealer, 350 + New Ones & Used." Red Carpet Inn. Edison Community College.
The giant Panasonic factory on my right, near Troy.
Dayton, eighteen miles.
I thought of Adam and the three blond students I'd seen at Chi-Chi's in Bowling Green, thought of them in residence at the bucolic campus there, of how different his life was compared to theirs.
Near Tipp City, south of Troy, the road flared to three lanes. The chain restaurants resurfaced: Red Lobster, Bob's Crab
We'd been trying to get Jeanne pregnant ever since that blinding, sunny day in Las Vegas, when Elvis gave her away, but nothing had happened. And every now and then, when confiding in close friends, we'd hear variations on the same advice:
"You just need to get away. Relax."
"The Greek Isles. You need to go to the Greek Isles."
"Timing. It's all timing."
"It never happens when you want it to. It's always an accident."
"Don't think about it. Just do it."
The Poconos was three years after the wedding in Las Vegas. We were three years older. Time was running out.
Nothing had happened.
Nothing happened in the Poconos either.
III
Days Inn served the continental breakfast in the lobby: coffee, muffins. While I ate, I read USA Today and The BG News ("A daily independent student press"). Newspapers were my business; they interested me.
They were my father's business too.
I drove along Wooster, just to have a look. Pretty homes, lovely verandas. BGSU seemed enormous—it stretched its way along into town until I came to Main Street—a real, honest-to-goodness Main Street.
The Cla-Zel Theater, billiards, pizza, Chamber of Commerce.
American Family Insurance, Kirk's Coin Laundry, H & R Block, Huntington Banks.
I pictured Adam going to Bowling Green State University, editing The BG News , eating with classmates at Mark's Pub. Maybe this was where he might have ended up if I hadn't entered his life, taken him north. Taken him away from his father.
I got back on I-75, headed south. My eye was drawn to my hand on the steering wheel, to the red garnet there.
The flat Ohio countryside continued. Near Findlay, two cement silos rose up on my left: "Pioneer Sugar."
Only talk shows or static on the radio.
NINE
I
Psychologists call it "Searching Behavior." For the living, it is one way that some deal with grief for the loss of a loved one. I'd read this somewhere, but couldn't remember where.
I think it's simpler than that. I think there are family ghosts. I think they are something real and powerful that we carry inside us, that without them we're empty, without direction. They steer us, advise us, converse with us daily.
They bring the past and the present together. Give us a future, a perspective. They humble us.
At Exit 161: the University of Findlay. Exit 145: Ohio Northern University. Exit 142: Bluffton College.
Adam could be studying at any of them. Findlay and Lima must have newspapers where I could work. Or the Dayton Daily News. It was possible.
Near Lima: Comfort Inn, Days Inn. "United States Plastic." Beside it: "Christ Is the Answer."
I crossed the Ottawa River, thought of Canada's capital. Like Dixie, my world and the past had come with me, clinging, recurring like distant speed bumps.
Ohio State University, Lima Campus, off to the east. A woman hanging wash on a line.
Flat. Cows. The sun came down in actual rays through the clouds: like a postcard.
I was thirsty. The juice machine back in the Bowling Green Days Inn lobby had been out of order.
Economy Inn, Hampton Inn, The Olive Garden—all visible from the highway.
Exit 111: the Neil Armstrong Air and Space Museum. The sign said, "75 South—Dayton." Again. There was no doubt where I was going.
At Piqua, Exit 83: "Paul Sherry RV's, Ohio's Largest Dealer, 350 + New Ones & Used." Red Carpet Inn. Edison Community College.
The giant Panasonic factory on my right, near Troy.
Dayton, eighteen miles.
I thought of Adam and the three blond students I'd seen at Chi-Chi's in Bowling Green, thought of them in residence at the bucolic campus there, of how different his life was compared to theirs.
Near Tipp City, south of Troy, the road flared to three lanes. The chain restaurants resurfaced: Red Lobster, Bob's Crab
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