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Back Black Ambrosia Save as PDF
Chapters (46)
  1. CoverImage
  2. Introduction by Grady Hendrix
  3. Acknowledgments
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. About the Author
  46. About the Cover

Soon I heard snoring, and in the dim light from the streetlight out in front, I could see the pattern on the wallpaper and the dark little drops that oozed from my palm. I Iicked them away, one by one as they appeared, and wiped the last one on the wallpaper next to the bedroom door.

“I remember my father saying to me, ‘Boyd, someday you’re going to hunt something that’s just a little too smart to be hunted, or a little too warm and pretty to be killed. And when that happens, you’ll hang up your shotgun.’ He never could understand my passion for hunting, and I could never understand how he could just one day give it up. My brother, too. They just sort of stopped going out, but I kept on. There was a challenge to it, there was timing, and knowledge and fresh air and beauty. But it was never enough. There was never enough challenge, never enough beauty, never a big enough thrill. The kill always came too soon; it was always too easy; it was never just quite right. I guess that’s why I kept on—I kept looking for the right chase. I knew it was out there, I just had to find it.”

2

2

Alice died when I was fifteen, and Rolf and I mourned together for a short while. Then, being realistic, I decided it would be best if we went our separate ways. Mother had been the common thread that ran through our lives, and now there was nothing to bind us.

I stayed with him until he sold the house. I sold what little things Mother and I had that were of any value and gave away the rest. The light-­headedness of being free from the burdens of ownership was an extraordinary feeling. I was now responsible only for myself and my small collection of carefully chosen belongings, which I folded and packed into a small cloth backpack I’d bought with the money from the sale of Mother’s jewelry.

On our last night in the house, Rolf took me out for a pleasant dinner and as his sad brown eyes filled with tears, he told me how much he’d adored my mother and how he hoped we’d always keep in touch. I reassured him as best I could, which wasn’t very well as I was anxious to be free of burdens and commit­ments; I wished to divest myself of every obligation. He patted my hand and said, “Angelina, Angelina, Angelina,” and he wiped his eyes, then pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and leaned it against the rose vase. His soulful eyes encouraged me to look inside. It was a check for a substantial amount of money. From the sale of the house, he said.

I didn’t want the burden of it, but I took it.