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Back The Hiawatha Save as PDF
Chapters (46)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Notice
  4. Dedication
  5. PART ONE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. PART TWO
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. PART THREE
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. PART FOUR
  34. 26
  35. 27
  36. 28
  37. 29
  38. 30
  39. 31
  40. 32
  41. 33
  42. 34
  43. 35
  44. 36
  45. Also by DAVID TREUER
  46. Copyright

After she gave Lincoln away to Betty, the pain in her breasts had been worse than this. Had been worse than anything she’d felt, including the birth. At least then something new was happening, the dull ache and wet spots on her shirt meant that she was left with less than before. She was sixteen and trying to do what was right. Her father had urged her to see the doctor, but she refused. I did what was right. I know. For her, to go back to the hospital was to admit she had been wrong. Her parents kept vigil, sitting in the living room with the lights off. Her father with his pipe and paper, her mother pushing off the floor to send the rocking chair into motion. After a while, after checking in her room, they would go to bed.

Vera would throw the covers off and pull up her shirt, trying to touch her breasts back into stillness. In the dark, nearing Christmas, she took them, one at a time, and tried to get the milk out herself, sucking first on one and then the other. The snow brightened the city and the moonlight bounced around until it poured into her room. And Vera sat up and nursed herself, surprised at how warm it was.

30

Simon isn’t there when the overwrought man—no one knows who he is or why he does it—takes the elevator to the twenty-third floor of the IDS, throws a five-pound weight out the window, then calmly steps out the newly appeared hole. Simon is walking when this happens. Ashish doesn’t want him in the store to interrupt while he drills yet another impossibly young hooker. Irene’s apartment is becoming less and less of an attractive option. He has fixed everything that was broken: improved the water pressure, laid in new linoleum, lined the cupboards with freezer paper, scraped and repainted the windowsills and attached new rope and counterweights to the sashes so now they slide open easily. He is done with all of that and is left with nothing to do. He cannot fix her.

Irene comes home and is either climbing up with Dexedrine or settling down with Demerol, Her moods, the drugs she gets too easily from the hospital, begin to feel like vacation spots, ridiculous tourist traps you can’t avoid: Percodan, Illinois. East Demerol, Arkansas. Morphine, Indiana. He watches her head tilt, her throat clench the pills down, and she gives him that look. He doesn’t bother asking how she gets them. There are doctors lined up, all of them too willing to give her pills. All of them too willing to fuck her silly in the supply closet.