The babies fall into a tear-stained slumber, so exhausted that they may
even bless their frazzled mothers by sleeping through the night. In the
bodies of the teenage girls who are not yet mothers the blood arrives.
One native son sneezes, another has an orgasm. A teenage boy pops a
pimple. A toenail falls off. The carpenter slides the board into place. In
Miss Hazel Williamss parlor, the piano student strikes a B-natural. At
St. Davids, Eustace Craven finally succeeds in moving his bowels.
The dead sigh and look to the place where Llewellyn will be buried,
right over there, next to the unoccupied bit of earth that has been reserved
for his wife. Cenotaphs are such a waste of real estate.
The rain comes and soaks the ground. Cool and clean, it is a great
relief to all concerned. The dead get back to work. They barely registered
Hopes presence, so few of them notice that she has already, once
again, gone missing.
And above the field that has been in Llewellyn Dewey Joness family
for over a century, three birds, all native to Nebraska but of disparate
species, are traveling earthward on a cold downdraft. After uttering
a few words to one anothertoo quickly for the dead ornithologist
fathers to translatethey fly off in different directions.
No one notices Llewellyns Titleist 100, bearing a crescent-shaped cut
on one side, looking like a partially peeled exotic fruit. It continues to
arc up into the sky until it disappears.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...