"That's why the police took Vincent in," he says. "You're the one who ran," I say under my breath. Everything returns to the moment I pushed Taft.
I can hear it in his voice, the accusation sneaking in. "I'm the one who called the police too," he says. Just as his foot begins to engage the clutch, though, Paul yanks the door handle and stumbles out onto the curb. Shaken by the sight of Taft's house, he lightens pressure on the brakes, letting us roll in neutral, prepared to go back. Slush sprays the undercarriage of the car as the suspension dances over a pothole. "Paul" I get out of the car, trying to keep my voice at a whisper. Just beyond them stands the tree line of the Institute woods, its canopy tinseled in white.
#Real football 2012 challenges windows#
At Taft's address, all windows are unlit. I do believe you, it just ain't like Pa-The houses before us are fashioned in white clapboard. They might like a man they laughed at, but they wouldn't respect him, and they wouldn't vote for him. Come the time when the Wobbish country was made a state, they'd tell that story at every polling place. Never to his face, of course, cause there was hardly a soul between Lake Canada and the Noisy River who didn't owe him money or need his maps to prove their claims. They'd be laughing behind their hands, all right. How Armor-of-God Weaver, storekeeper for the western country, future governor, got throwed right off a porch into the snow by his old father-in-law. Soon enough the tale would be all up and down the Wobbish.
He was shamed afore his own wife, cause sooner or later she'd hear the tale from one of those children. An ordained minister, acting as the emissary of the Lord, following instructions given to him by an angel - Satan should not have been able to thrust him out of the house like that, before he even knew what was happening. Satan should have had no power over him, to drive him from the house that way. For it had been his own failure, he knew that now. He could not bear to face the Visitor, knowing how he had failed. Reverend Thrower opened the door of the church and walked slowly, fearfully inside. She moved her fingers to make a fending, and whispered a word to hold him back. He would've done it, too, except that when she saw the look on his face, all twisted up with shame and rage, she didn't know that he was angry at himself, she just knew that he was hurting her, and so she did what come natural to a woman who grew up like she did. That was his thinking, and he was about to throw himself on his knees and bawl like a baby and beg forgiveness. See? You don't even believe your own husband. I know what you 'was just.' Poor little Armor, you just pat him like a little boy and he'll feel better. "Forgive thou my unbelief" He recited a litany of self-excoriation, he rehearsed all his failures of the day, until at last he was exhausted. Thrower knelt at the altar and cried out the name of the Lord. Here I been a Christian who never hit or hurt a man or woman, and I knock my own wife, flesh of my flesh, right down on the floor. A strong man makes me feel weak, so I go home and shove around my wife, what a big man that makes me. Seeing her falling, even before she hit the floor, he felt such a shame go through him, even worse than when her father threw him in the snow. How'd you get snow clear down your shirt? The only possible explanation was that Thrower himself was too weak. It could not be that Satan was stronger than the Lord. The fire in the stove must have burned longer than he expected. He stripped off his cloak, and his topcoat as well. No ma'am, it's like the devil himself, that's what it's like The spirit of evil
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