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Back The Cloud Chamber Save as PDF
Chapters (35)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. Acknowledgments
  5. Author’s Note
  6. One
  7. Two
  8. Three
  9. Four
  10. Five
  11. Six
  12. Seven
  13. Eight
  14. Nine
  15. Ten
  16. Eleven
  17. Twelve
  18. Thirteen
  19. Fourteen
  20. Fifteen
  21. Sixteen
  22. Seventeen
  23. Eighteen
  24. Nineteen
  25. Twenty
  26. Twenty-One
  27. Twenty-Two
  28. Twenty-Three
  29. Twenty-Four
  30. Twenty-Five
  31. Twenty-Six
  32. Twenty-Seven
  33. Twenty-Eight
  34. Twenty-Nine
  35. Thirty

Something came over him then, like he was in his old Soap Box Derby car, heading down Spengler’s Hill with no brakes. He couldn’t stop himself.

“You think it isn’t hard for the rest of us?” he said. “You think you’re the only one with a problem?

“You never do anything,” he spat out. “You just mope around all day, leaving it to the rest of us to take care of everything.”

He might have thought that seeing her then—her thin frame in the worn shirt, her trembling hands—would make him want to comfort her, but he hated her, for how weak she seemed. The next words came out slow and deadly.

“I can see why my dad couldn’t take it anymore.”

“I loved your father so much. You aren’t the only one around here who’s lost him.”

“You still have us,” Nate yelled. “Did you forget that?”

On the drive over to the Torvalds’, Junie did all the talking. She sat on the bench seat in the front next to Uncle Harold, recounting the story in a book her teacher was reading, about a boy in Holland who entered a skating race.

The Torvalds lived in a small ranch-style house just outside of town with a sign over the door that said GOD BLESS THIS HOME. A van was parked out front that Naomi’s father used for his missionary work, doing Bible study classes with juvenile delinquents, shut-ins, and unwed mothers.

Heading up their front walk, Nate imagined how he’d explain his mother’s absence.

Really sorry my mom couldn’t come, see, but the police have been giving her a hard time, acting like she shot my dad . . .

My mom couldn’t come because Sam Carter might be repossessing our property, and she’s got to make a bunch of calls, to see about selling the cream separator. . .

My mom couldn’t come because she can’t keep her fork steady anymore when she eats. As for my dad, don’t even ask. . .

“My mom had a headache,” Nate told Mrs. Torvald when she opened the door. “She said to tell you how sorry she was.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Torvald replied. “I bet a good night’s sleep will do the trick.”

Naomi was in the kitchen. She was wearing a dress Nate had never seen—her church dress, maybe—and her hair was in a bun. Reverend Torvald sat at the head of the kitchen table, reading, but he got up when Nate and Junie entered. Nate studied his belt, imagined how it would be to feel its slap against his skin. The Reverend extended his hand for Nate to shake.