The Writing on the Wall A Novel - By W. D. Wetherell Page 0,29

because the future is what they began talking about.

Lawrence told us he had been admitted to Columbia University in New York to begin a special accelerated program in the spring. He did not bother being modest about this since, he explained, it was a perfect opportunity for a boy with his abilities and ambitions. He would not miss small town life at all—he was very funny about this, very sarcastic and mocking. As usual with Lawrence, the more he went on the handsomer he became. It was as if only sarcasm could fill his face with energy, make his beauty come to life.

“Boobus Americanus!” he yelled toward town. “Sunday school yokels, Odd Fellows, the glorious commonwealth of morons! Goodbye to you all! Goodbye Philistines! Goodbye Boosters! Goodbye Klu Klux Krazies who reek of dung!” He waved his arm around. “Goodbye mills, goodbye cows, goodbye town!”

Peter and I both laughed, though we wanted to shush him, he yelled so loud. Peter, when it was his turn, spoke more quietly. He was not sure yet, he had only been here a few months, but he was beginning to think this was as good a place as any to make a life. There were no book stores within a hundred miles, true, but other than that it had many of the qualities he had been looking for. He wanted to teach and be with his books and take walks in the hills and these seemed perfectly attainable goals. He was afraid Lawrence was over-valuing the rest of the world. Here where people needed each other they had to be more tolerant of differences, not less.

He said it again, as if wanting to stamp it on the day and make it permanent.

“I want to enjoy my books and teach and every once in a great while be blessed with students like you.”

It was my turn after that, my turn to speak of my future, and while I could sense them watching me, waiting, I had nothing.

“I need to go now,” I said. We all sprang up together and beat the leaves from each other’s shoulders. It was the happiest afternoon I had ever spent. I wanted to tell them that but felt too shy.

We walked back up the railroad tracks and they waited with me for the train. The Indian Summer that had lasted so long was over now. The clouds lowered, the wind gusted, icy pellets blew down—and thus began the harshest, cruelest winter in a hundred years.

Once again, as on the first wall, the spacing between lines tightened as the writing dropped toward the floor. Once again, as with the first wall, Vera was kneeling by the time she finished. It took more effort than reading a book, with the constant adjustments needed to make out the words—stepping close where the script was faded, stepping back again when her eyes began blurring things up. Her back hurt from stooping, her neck was sore from following the lines toward the top, and now her knees ached, too, so her whole body was involved. The ironic thing was that her fingers and wrists had toughened considerably; a week’s worth of scraping had burned all the soreness out, so she felt she could go on stripping wallpaper forever if that’s what it took.

At times, reading, she felt a tugging sensation, not just on her eyes, not just on her heart, but on every part of her still capable of responding to the world. Take me out of myself! In the middle of the wall she had made this appeal and almost immediately it had been answered. A different era. A different consciousness. Different wounds. The sensation of inhabiting these was addictive, her imagination wanted more and wanted it instantly, and it was only the fact she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast that made her decide to take a break.

There was housekeeping to attend to. Strips of paper covered every inch of the parlor floor and she had to sweep this and take it outside to her little fire. The dishes, the few she had used, hadn’t been washed in two days. The lantern had to be refilled, but she knew how to do this from camping, and this time she brought the kerosene in with her so she could work deep into the night.

She slid the ladder over to the next wall, took an appraising squint at things, decided to use the broadest scraper first. No words emerged from under the first piece she peeled,