Chapter 4 prequel three holtens

Long after my father had left Savannah Lame, the mention of his name still silenced the room.Everyone in our area, young and old, knew him and knew that he held government office overseas.His photographs were cut from newspapers in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom and pinned to the walls of his houses.Father was a man of status, personality, and intelligence, so noble that he became something of a legend.Lowe.Roberts, people whispered, Lovie.Have you heard about Roberts? If your father was a man of his stature, there would be many expectations placed on you that would not be placed on someone of low status.The same is true for me.

I was born of a woman named Alberta.She nursed me until I was strong enough to drink milk.I remember the warm taste of boiling milk.The cradle under the sun is accompanied by soft songs, my ears are full of my dear baby, and finally my eyes can't hold it anymore and close.I remember a dress flapping in the breeze, black bare feet jumping over stones.I don't remember the color of her eyes, the shape of her lips, or the feel of her skin.Alberta is a country girl who cannot read or write, and can't even recite the nine-nine multiplication table.It would be wrong to say that I was born by her as a product of extramarital affairs.But she was the one who gave birth to me in a log cabin.It was she who bought shoes for me, and I embarked on a journey hand in hand with her mother, Ms. Bao.

I grew up like my father, with a light complexion like his, a warm honey shade.Not the bitter chocolate shade of Alberta and her mother.With this face, I have the opportunity to live a splendid life.After all, what could Alberta give me?A pair of black bare feet jumped over the stone.If I were sent to my father's cousins ​​to be raised, I would be able to learn to read and write and memorize the nine-nine multiplication table. Not only that, but I would also become a rich lady worthy of my father, no matter where he was. Philip.Mr. Roberts was almost as important as his father.He is short, with a round stomach that comes from eating plantains and his favorite dumplings.He had a house on several green acres, befitting his status as a wholesaler of groceries in the area.Large and small agricultural products are handled by him.The villagers trusted him very much, and the lower-class residents in the surrounding area would come to ask him to settle small disputes among neighbors.He is not the law, but represents authority.The two jaws hanging from his face carry the weight of this responsibility.

And Martha.Roberts was known around here to have pale gray eyes.It was really strange in her face, because everyone thought her face should not be so dark.She was five centimeters taller than Mr. Philip, and had grown shorter and shorter over the years to preserve her husband's self-esteem.She has three children: two girls and one boy.When her two most beloved daughters died, her hair turned from black to gray overnight.The two sisters died of measles at the same time, only a few days apart.Mr. Phillips and Miss M. (as I might call my father's cousin) had but one child left to raise, their precious son Michael.

Miss Beau, Alberta's mother, in a nice hat and best blouse, took me to the door of my father's cousins.I was a little girl at the time, stumbling around her in fake leather shoes, and only knew how to call her Mama and Na Na (I thought Na Na was a banana).I still remember staring at a pair of white shoes with neat lace, knees bleeding on both sides, and a smiling boy holding a gecko in his palm to show me. Father nodded in agreement, confirming that he would send the money over, and everything was decided accordingly.Alberta will leave Jamaica to work in Cuba, while Miss Bao will stay at her father's cousin's house as a servant.She will watch me grow up.In those years, she helped Michael and me to bathe, dress, and feed; she called him Master Michael, and called me Miss Hortens (someone heard that it was Miss Hortens, and when there was no one, she called me dear baby) .

I sat quietly in the chicken coop and kept watch.wait.Watch the hen lay eggs, and watch the eggs fall softly and silently into the straw. Hortens, where are you?Michel was hanging around outside in his rubber-soled shoes.His shadow frolicked on the slats of the wall, One eye looked in through a hole in the plank, and its eyelashes curled up like a girl's.Come out, Hortens.He slapped the board with his palm, shaking the small world, and scared the hen to drop its eggs and run away.Michel loved watching the chickens flap their wings and run and scream in fright until he could only laugh and cover his ears to stop listening.

I took the freshly laid egg into the house and pushed him aside.He was jumping around me, saying: Show me, Hortens, show me. No, Michael.Roberts, you don't have the patience to sit and watch the egg come out, so you have no right to look at this egg. I brought the eggs into the house, but Miss Mary thanked Michael.She wraps her hands around mine, and the warm touch gradually pulls the egg away from my hand.She stared at Michael's face, her pale eyes burning with love.Michael puffed out his chest like a rooster, and said arrogantly: Mom, do you want me to get some more? She just looked at me coldly and said: Hortens, I don't want you to go to the chicken coop.Don't bother the chickens anymore, hear?

Michael.Roberts, you are really annoying.I told him.A boy who was one year older than me and thirty centimeters shorter taught me to be mischievous.First, I shouldn't climb trees.Mr. Phillips told me that it is disrespectful for a girl to climb a branch like a monkey;Our tummies were full of star apples, raspberries, mangoes.My skirt stuck to my leg and Michel ran after me with a writhing fish dangling from his hand.I should not have hunted scorpions, poured them out of hiding, and tortured them with sticks; I say to that bad kid every day: Michael, don't bother me.You can play all day, but I have something to do.I'm going to wash things in the sink in the shed outside and clean out the kerosene lamp shades.The field under the tamarind tree is my responsibility to keep it clean and comfortable to sit on.But he kept saying: Come, Hortens, come, Hortens.Let's look at the woodpecker's nest.He was impatient, I stood on his back to see what was in the tree hole where the bird flew out, and he moved around underneath; when I wanted to see the bird's nest, he leaned over and sent me to the ground.did you see anythingWell, Hortens, it's me now.

Why did you put me down, Michel?I'm about to watch it. It's my turn, Hortens, to bend over.This older boy climbed on my back and complained non-stop.Stand still, you'll make me fall, oops.I think I see it, don't move, I think I see it.At this time the woodpecker flew out of the hole and pecked at his head.Oh, the woodpecker just pecked a small wound, how loud this boy is. If Mr. Philip knew that I was tricked into doing something wicked, he would definitely send me away.Little girls don't climb trees!He yells at every meal: Principles.We must have principles.Each of us is responsible to humble ourselves before the throne of Almighty God.After giving thanks for the food (sometimes the pre-meal prayers are so long that my neck stiffens), Mr. Phillips begins to preach: We will eventually face God, our Creator, and life is for this day And do the preparation.He rose from his seat, clutching the Bible like a weapon.I am the way, the truth, the life.Sometimes he slapped the table, and Miss Ma looked nervous, grabbing the vibrating bowl and the wobbling pitcher.Only through God, your Lord, can heaven be reached.Mr. Philip stood taller than the mountain, and his eyes fell between Michael and me.Michel dared not look me in the face lest we laugh out loud.We said nothing, not a single word.The saliva sprayed my cheeks from time to time, but I dared not wipe it off, nor did I dare look Mr. Phillips in the face.His forehead danced with the mystery of the Bible, and I was afraid I would be mesmerized by the lines that came and went.Miss Ma put the food on Mr. Philip's plate, nodded in agreement, and then reached out to share the food with Michael and me.We keep our heads down when we eat, just like the table manners that Miss Ma taught us.Holtens, don't put your elbows on the table when you eat, please sit upright.Michael, don't put so much food in your mouth.Only horses chew with their mouths open.

The night before Michael left for boarding school, I screwed myself at the dinner table.Squeeze it into your hands with your nails until the skin is speckled with blood.I don't want to cry.I didn't want to grab the table and beg them to let me go with him.Someone once told me that people are too painful to shed tears. Remember your Creator in your youth.Mr. Philips had spoken, but the time had come to let go of his youthful indiscretions.Follow God's ways like a man. I took my perfume bottle to Michel to use to wipe down the clipboard at the new school.I don't want his clipboard to stink like the stinky boys in our public schools.

He took it and said, Hortens, I'll learn all the world and you'll stay at a dime a week, skipping rope and reading silly doggerel and counting frogs under a tree. I put my fingers in my ears and sang: What's a little boy made of?Moss, snails, dog's tail He stuck out his tongue and returned the perfume bottle to me.The bottle fell, and I finally wept as the land snatched that fragrant liquid. The fish swim carefree in the river.Woodpecker was busy with himself.Goats look just like goats.The scorpion hides in the hiding place.Even Mr. Phillips shortened his evening readings and asked for the water to be poured long before Miss Mary taught me table manners.And without Michael, I can sit in the chicken coop undisturbed. Every day after school, Miss Bao would call me: Miss Hortens, the little boy is gone, can you help me?Her large, leather-worn hands cascaded from the clothing.Her bosom wobbled: two fallen fruits were trapped in the corset of her dress.Her legs were bent. I asked: Miss Bao, why do your legs stick out like this? With a solemn expression, she sucked it through her teeth and said, "It's not good, Miss Hortens. When my old mother was pregnant, it was said that someone had tricked her.you know what?It's the same as the spell.Then she sang as she washed: Mr. Roberts washed his socks in secret, sitting on the floor. No, Miss Bao, I told her that you sang it wrong.It is the shepherds who sleep out at night and take turns guarding the flock. Miss Hortens, what does shepherd mean? A shepherd is someone who takes care of the flock. sheep?What's there in Jamaica? No, the Shepherd is in England, Miss Po. Oh, England, was the Lord Jesus born in England? Of course, there are sheep everywhere in Britain.The British wear wool so they won't be cold in winter. All her knowledge of England comes from me. Miss Bao, you should speak like the king of England, and don't speak in such a rough country accent. Miss Hortens, why don't you teach me? I taught her a Wordsworth poem I had learned to recite at school. ◇◇◇ In the mountains and valleys, clouds float. I am like a white cloud, traveling alone. Suddenly see narcissus, yellow flowers are quiet. [Annotation: Taken from Guo Moruo's Chinese translation. 】 Although she tells you what the name of the narcissus is, and keeps quarreling with me, insisting that I draw flowers on the ground, but she learns every word, looks at my lips like a fascinated child, and moves her own Make the same shape.She repeated each perfect word, her chin held high, her hands folded under her chest.But soon she was rehearsing her version while she was busy with her own work.Traveling under the clouds, floating in the valley, I saw Miss Hortens, and suddenly I saw Narcissus. When I was fifteen, the high school section of the public school had to lose its star student.Before leaving, Ms. Ma and others urged me to continue to strive for excellence in private schools and assist children (from good families) in their education.I corrected their dictation, underlined misspelled words, and supervised them rewriting the typos six times.I listened to them recite the multiplication table, and when they made the same mistakes, I corrected the bright students and encouraged the lagging students to speak.My favorite job is handing out textbooks at the beginning of term.Those children had new books, and as they turned the pages there was the sweet scent of the sun on wood; the scent of knowledge.At my public school, the rummaging of Nye's grammar books gave off a putrid musty smell, which the books didn't have. The private school was run by the Ryders, who sold all their possessions in the United States to start the school. Mr. Ryder told me when we first met: We are here to run a school for the poor people. Mrs. Ryder commented in the tone of a movie star: Someone must help these poor black children, and education is everything to them. Many people wonder if the Ryders know that their school only accepts the wealthiest, prettiest, and best students in the district, or whether these clean, well-spoken, well-spoken students still look like Poor households. The Ryders were evangelicals, and Mr Philips had no time for evangelicals.He didn't like the way people would fall to the ground like a beast when they were inspired by the Holy Spirit, shaking their bodies and foaming at the mouth.He did not understand that the same people could politely shake the priest's hand and leave the church at the end of the service.He said: It is impossible for the Holy Spirit to enter and leave the human body so quickly.I asked him to be extra merciful to the Ryders, for the Holy Spirit only made them look up and sway. Mrs. Ryder is without a doubt the whitest woman I have ever seen.Her short blond hair stood on end like a halo around her head, and her delicate skin was so thin that a network of fine blue blood vessels appeared in several places.But her mouth appeared to be an unfinished opening, and there were no lips to frame the opening.Mr. Ryder's hair was so thin that one naughty boy at school boasted of counting the number of hairs left on it.When the news leaked out of the school and into the city, the number was sixty-five.His poor greasy bald spot was as red as a ripe berry, and when the sun hit his face he had a bunch of brown freckles. They had a car that was the envy of every negro who walked through a field in sandals.Even Mrs. Ryder drove, sitting low at the wheel and wearing a hat with long brown feathers.Everyone stared back as the car passed by.So when gossip ensues, it's no surprise: in shops, in the shade, on street corners, at dinner tables, nosy people discuss when they last saw Mr. Ryder in front of them. Where it shouldn't be.When a young, pretty woman gave birth to a light-skinned, hairless baby, the men sitting at the dominoes sucked through their teeth and whispered that Mr. Ryder was spreading more than just a love of learning.Some watched sympathetically as Mrs. Ryder wandered alone in the district, but there were also many young people willing to put aside their undecided game of dominoes and rush to help. For Michael's homecoming day, I put on the pink floral dress Mrs. Ryder had given me.She didn't need it any more, so I asked her if she could take it home so I could show Michel some nice clothes.I sat all night by the dimly flickering candlelight, adjusting the bodice to be tighter, sewing lace ribbons on, sucking pricked fingers so they wouldn't stain the dress red. The morning Michael came home, we gathered on the front porch.Mr. Phillips and Miss M. felt very nervous when they heard the Gleaner's van creaking along the gravel road. Michel had been home many times before on vacation.It even appeared once when Mr. Philippe had a fever.He read the Bible to his father, whispered in his mother's ear until she was relieved, and only left when Mr. Philip asked for dumplings.But every time he goes home to visit relatives, something is different. Michael.Roberts, what's wrong with your voice?I tease him.We sat on the tamarind tree shaking our legs. You can see Cuba from here.His voice, he said, was rough like an instrument with loose strings. You sound so funny like this.I sing like a girl, croon like a boy, with a goat voice in between.what's wrong with you He jumped silently from the tree and didn't speak until he left home.When I saw him again, I couldn't recognize the heavy bass coming out of his mouth. Come on, Hortens.He said in a throaty rumble, stand on my shoulder and look at the woodpecker nest.He was solid and solid beneath me.Can it be seen? can see.I looked into the empty hole and said.As I came down, I looked up at his face, and we both knew at the same moment: He couldn't be looking over my shoulder.He'll break me in half. Is it the suit, the crisp white shirt, the brown-and-green striped tie pinned?Is it the hat he wears on one side?Maybe it's his thin mustache, or the smile that brightens his face?His eyes, possibly his black eyes, had a glimpse of a naughty boy laughing in them.Or maybe it was Miss Ma's exclamation.Look at you, son.I sent a little boy to boarding school and look what they sent back a man! He stepped down from the van in his bright city shoes, shook hands with Mr. Philips, and bowed his head politely, like a man of society, a man of character, a man of wit.It's noble enough in a way that it makes me want to shout: Michael.Roberts!You see Michael.Roberts yet?Or maybe it was the way he looked at me then, looking through my curves, over my breasts, up to my lips and saying, Well, Hortens, you've grown up.Whatever it was, I knew from the first time my eyes met this handsome, sharp, fresh man, I knew I loved him. We sat down at our usual dinner table that night and Michel watched me.His eyes made me look up.I looked at it once, with a quick glance.He smiled so sweetly that I almost fainted with the sweet taste of his smile on my lips.Miss Bao entered the dining room with a plate of fried chicken.Michel's eyes closed as he inhaled the fragrant scent wafting in the air.Oh, baby, Miss Bao, I miss your spicy chicken so much.Mr. Philip looked up in a start, as if a bird had come through the window.There are voices at the dinner table. How dare his children speak at the dinner table.But Michel just patted his belly, as if he didn't notice the transgression. When we had finished, Mr. Philips took up the Bible, comparing it with every meal I could remember.Miss Ma patted my hand and told me to stop playing with my hair.Mr. Philip began: God said let there be light, and there was light.God saw that the light was good, and separated the light from the darkness.God called the light day, and the darkness night. Mr. Philips then paused for a short second, just long enough to clear his throat.His lips were ready to open again to complete the lesson, but Michel's voice said: School taught me that the earth revolves around the sun, that's how the sun moves Miss Ma got annoyed, and quickly interrupted: Michael, it's very rude to talk at the dinner table. Oh, Mom, I'm an adult now, not a kid.Mr. Philippe was silenced only in a state of shock.Michael continued: It is this movement of the sun that causes day and night. Whether it is a child or an adult, no one can talk back at this table.We need to be silent.Miss Ma said. Mr. Philippe, with all the ferocity of the Ten Commandments, glanced from the Bible at his son, and went on talking.When Michael interrupted for the second time, Mr. Philip was in the middle of his mind.God created man in his own image, and he used to read this passage on many occasions.But this time God's painstaking efforts were interrupted because Michael said: Dad, tell me, what do you think of the concept that humans are descendants of monkeys? Miss Ma stood up and shouted: Michael, that's enough. Mr Philip's voice burst like thunder from above: Are you questioning the Lord, your God?Do you presumptuously question the Almighty, the King of kings, the God of gods, your Creator? no dad.Michael said, with the calm that often precedes the storm, I am asking you about a subject that our teachers thought fit to inspire me.I believe it is a common scientific view that humans are monkeys Mr Philip cried: Enough!I jumped a full thirty centimeters from the chair.His chair fell behind him with a frightening clatter.I will not tolerate blasphemy in this house.I will not tolerate blasphemy at this table.Mr. Phillips made a gesture to hit Michel, and I let out a loud laugh as his hand went up in the air, ready to slap on Michel's head.Not because of the joy, but because of the odd situation.Michel dodged the blow and I felt Miss Mary's hand hit the ear as hard as it could.She begged: You two, please obey the rules.But Michael stood tall over his father, and the whole world would think he was going to punch his father.Mr. Philip at the dining table is no longer a mountain, but just a man, short and fat, nothing to be feared.Is it the ringing in my ears that makes my head throb so much?Still glad Michael looked his father in the face and said: Dad, I want us to discuss this topic.Mr. Philip was silent, took the Bible, and led Miss Mary away from the dining room. When it comes to love, it's the little signs to look out for.When Romeo climbed to the top of the wall, I was sure that Juliet must have fainted because of what she knew for sure.Even Miss Bao has a suitor who spends the night under a tree to woo her, so that she can get close to her the next morning (but she misunderstood, she thought the man was just drunk and unable to move).Confessions of Love is only suitable for American movies or books that educated people don't read.Michael refused to accompany me to watch Xiulan.Temple's film.When I complimented her on her sweet voice and bouncy curls, he just looked at me deeply.He Tansi, Xiulan.Temple is just a little girl, I prefer women.The whole world knows that mocking is a sign.He likes to tease me with his knowledge and urges me to test the names of the capitals of the world.Australia, New Zealand, Canada.He knows it all.Ask me something harder.You must be able to ask me a more difficult question than that, right? What is Sheffield known for? no.You want to test my knowledge of geography, not kid stuff.Ask me about fishing grounds in oxbow lakes and floodplains or continental reefs.Come on, test my knowledge.Ask me about the League of Nations, or ask me to explain about Ireland. He knew I didn't understand these things, but impressing with bragging was the trick Adam used when he first saw Eve.His ego made me want to punch him at one point and tell him that little boys are made of moss, snails, and dog tails.But when he patted me on the head, all reasonable thoughts vanished.I am afraid that when he is close to me, he will hear my heartbeat; like some days, I walked beside him through the shade, leaping and taking steps as big as him; or like sometimes looking at the clear water together , Our face becomes a face with the ripples. But I can't play the game of love all day long.Miss Ma insisted that I should go back to work.But what is Mike going to do? Michael can do just fine without you.You are not children anymore.He is a man, not a boy.He will help his dad.Since the return of his son, Mr. Philip's face had been hard as stone, carved into intolerable expressions.I haven't heard him utter a word that has nothing to do with the Lord since he yelled enough at the dinner table.He looked so miserable that I couldn't help dreaming of holding his hand and making him dance. Miss Ma, can't I help in this room?I asked. What, do you think you are a Caucasian woman or Miss Qianjin?she says.I have no choice. But if I can't see Michael's face, will the morning sun still rise?Will the sun still set if I can't hear him call my name?I didn't need to fret, because when I stepped onto the front porch that first dark and silent morning, Michel was standing at the bottom of the steps, dressed in my best clothes, ready to escort me to the school building.I said: Michael.Roberts, I hope you won't be dereliction of duty because of me. Despite being out of town for a long time due to his education, Michael is still like a father here, and he is equally loved and respected.He knows everyone.Hello, hello, good morning, say it with every step we take.He even knew Mrs. Ryder. When I asked how they met, Mrs. Ryder said: We met at church, Michael? Michel spread his hands and shook his head.I knew he didn't remember.So I said: No, you must have remembered wrongly, because the church that Michael went to was different from the church you and Mr. Ryder had. Mrs. Ryder said hastily: Oh, then, it's at the grocery store.She was a little embarrassed, and her white cheeks flushed for a while. And the mischievous Michael made it worse, laughing at my boss: Is it in the grocery store?Make her blush like a lantern. I asked Mr. Ryder if he knew Michael, and he shook his head.Though I have heard mention of Mr. Roberts' son, I do not believe I have seen him since his return.But then, without saying a word, he turned and stamped the book while I was talking about Mrs. Ryder thinking she met Michael at church. Michel was annoyed as we walked home.Hey, Hortens, what does it matter where I first met that woman?That's none of your business.Just don't talk too much. Michael used to escort me down the sandy road out of town.He's always making up some inconsequential excuse to come with me just to have a little errand or to run errands.Sometimes he puts out his elbow like a gentleman and lets my arm hook him.We will attract the eyes of passers-by, thinking we are a young couple.Other times I caught him hiding, pretending he wasn't here to see me at all.He would feign surprise when I tapped him on the shoulder or waved him from a distance.And I went along with it, giggling gracefully at the joke. Hurricanes can send cows flying and uproot trees, throwing them into the air and snapping them like twigs.Houses, too, will be tossed, walls scattered, roofs twisted, and everything scattered in God's holy game of hide-and-seek.This savage wind could even send the Eternal Rock into the sky, floating as light as a bird's wing. But hurricanes don't come without warning.News of a storm forming would sweep across the island like a breeze, and rumors swirled about the speed of the hurricane, the location of the central eye, and how hard the wind was blowing.I was too far from home to get home safely on the day of the hurricane, and Mrs. Ryder needed my help.Fortunately, the term has not yet started and the children have not yet arrived, but the building must be reinforced to meet the looming ravages.Her husband was nowhere to be found.Mrs Ryder wasn't worried at all, she told me: I know he'll be safe.This will be my first hurricane, and I won't shy away from telling you, Hortens, that I find it quite exciting.She jumped up and down like a restless little girl, closing the door with a smile.We piled up the tables and chairs, locked the closet, and she hummed from time to time, looked in the mirror, and combed her hair before locking the door.She turned to me and said: Isn't it special to stand under a hurricane?You can feel the power of God in full force.But I was saying prayers, hoping that the roof of the school building would remain stable, and I had no time to answer this nonsense. I wasn't surprised when Michael knocked on the door of the school building.How could he stay home on a hurricane day?After introducing the fluttering and vigorous flock of sheep and chickens into the safe barn, after closing the latch tightly, shaking it violently with manly strength, and re-checking it two or three times; After that he had to sit with Mr. Philip in the windowless room in the middle of the room.Anger within the house can blow like a storm outside the door.So Michael ran two miles to stay with me on the day of the hurricane.Two miles of eerie, birdless silence, as terrible as the wind that followed. Was his shirt wet from the rain or sweat from running?The shirt clung to the muscles of his body, transparent lumps showing the smooth brown skin beneath the clothes.His chest rose and heaved with panting.Sweat dripped from his brow, down his cheeks and full lips.I told him at the door: Michael.I can take care of myself, Roberts, and you don't have to keep coming around to protect me.He looked into my eyes, and without saying a word, he pulled up the shirt that was stuck to him, and patted it lightly.He dried his neck with his hands, wiped his forehead, and let his chest drop. But then he saw Mrs. Ryder over my shoulder, seemed to wake up suddenly, and pushed me aside, straight to her side.The force he pushed me was not light.He ran away, I was afraid he would hug her.He called her Stella by an acquaintance, and not even Mr. Ryder in my presence.He said: Stella, I saw your husband in his car, and thought you might be because he hesitated for a while, looked at me first, and then said: alone. The rain was pouring on the wall, and the three of us sat like bugs caught by a little boy.Fear began to gradually appear in Mrs. Ryder's eyes.For hurricanes, her girlish eagerness dissipated as the roof bounced like flimsy skin.An occasional knock at the door by the wind is no more terrifying than an impatient visitor.At other times, the shrieks were like the horrific chorus of a crowd of tortured victims.And the blows, the dashes, the slams, the slams, no matter how far away, would make Mrs. Ryder wail: Oh, Michael, thank the Lord you're here. And I couldn't figure it out from beginning to end, how did Michael know her name was Stella? A latch flew back, and a strong wind blew into the room.All of a sudden, everything—books, papers, chairs, clothes—comes to life, dancing in invisible torrents.A shoe rushed through the opening, hit the blackboard and stopped.Michael struggled to close the latch, and Mrs. Ryder screamed as she watched the dead cloth shoes.After Michel slammed the door shut, there was finally a trace of calm in the room.But Mrs. Ryder sobbed.Her blond hair is a little tousled, but her cheeks are still fair, her skin is still fine, with a network of tiny blue veins, and her voice still sounds like a movie star when she says Oh, Michael, I'm so scared.Michel walked towards her without hesitation, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. Hortens, light another lamp.That's all he said to me.The lights cast our shadows onto the wall.At what time of day did this married woman ask Michael to call her Stella?Stella, he spoke softly to her.Stella, he called to comfort her.Stella, he caressed.At what grocery store did Mrs. Ryder give Michael the freedom to talk as intimately as her husband? Mrs. Ryder, I whispered, are you wondering where Mr. Ryder is?She looked at me with teary eyes, but didn't answer.Michel put his hand on Mrs. Ryder's, sliding his fingers deftly into hers.She looked at him with ecstatic blue eyes, and squeezed his fingers tightly. What a hurricane, just when you think you can't take it anymore, it just gets stronger.The young single woman I was supposed to protect was stuck in a dark room with a handsome man for God knows how long.I should have been afraid of gossip coming out of the mouths of nosy people.A married woman like Mrs. Ryder should have paid more attention to my reputation.But every sound brought them closer, every gesture brought them closer.In the end, their heads finally formed the shape of a heart on the wall.At that time, I wanted to rush out of the room, through the window, through the wall, and escape into the arms of the reliable hurricane. No living person should see the underside of the tree.Those roots, tangles of untidy branches, hang at will into the soil in search of nourishment.After the hurricane, I escaped from the school building, and the world was turned upside down.The surrounding fields were undulating with this black and evil source of chaos.The trees that had been rooted in the ground for many years were uprooted, the branches that should have been exposed to the light are now stuffed in the soil, and the fruits are flying around like shotguns.The tin roof fell to the ground, and the creaking cart wheels rolled in the air, disorderly and chaotic.I stumbled across this unearthly landscape, panicking like a blind man who has regained his sight. At first I only saw four people gathered around a tall tree, pointing and shaking their heads.Then the others came five, six, seven.Some came running from the fields, some called others to come.When everyone reached the old tree, they stopped and were dumbfounded.I walked around the legs of a tall man, looked over the heads of two children, passed a woman wiping tears from her eyes with a white handkerchief, and saw Mr. Ryder's body. he died.Like a piece of cloth wrapped around the base of a tree, the spine twisted, with multiple breaks that bent him backwards.He was naked, his clothes torn by the storm except for a ragged shirtsleeve that was still in place.His mouth is wide open, is that a smile or a yell?Around him, his internal organs were slaughtered, exposed like a blood-red bouquet, exposed to the sunlight that should not have been seen. I'm sure I'm going to yell.I think I cried out: He is a jealous God!I may hold my head and shout: Do not commit adultery.You shall not covet your man's wife.Because the small group of people looked at me coldly for a moment, frowned, and then continued to chat: Mrs. Ryder should be informed that Mrs. Ryder must find someone to bring Mrs. Ryder.I'm not sure if the roar I heard is only in my head.But I am sure of what I said afterwards.I know what I'm saying, and I speak it out loud for everyone to hear.I remember exactly what I said, in my strongest and steady voice because I kept talking until everyone was staring at me. Mrs. Ryder and Michael.Roberts was alone in the school building. When I finally got home, there was chaos.Were the people who were watching Mr. Ryder's dismembered body the same people who are now gathering on our front porch?Was it the same woman who wiped the tears from her eyes with the white handkerchief?是同一個高大男子嗎？或者他們是不同的人，如今在嚴肅陰沈的菲力普先生周圍推擠，等著聽他如何排解鄉里間的焦慮不安？寶小姐在爲萊德先生的死而啜泣嗎？或者她流眼淚是因爲那群人竊竊私語：麥可．羅伯茲，你聽說麥可．羅伯茲的事了沒？ 瑪小姐一把握住我的手腕，經過人群，將我拖進屋子裡。她把空蕩蕩的房間門關上，用力甩了我一耳光，我整個人跌到地上。妳知道我兒子和那個女人在做什麼？妳知道我兒子和萊德太太有不倫的勾當？她是有夫之婦！我想從房裡逃開，但她用憤怒的力量阻止了我。 妳爲什麼要這樣對我？I asked. 我兒子和那個女人。她失去了理智。她又打我，這一次她的手握成拳頭。有人發現我兒子和那個女人敗德地抱在一起。she yelled. 突然間，她的力氣消失了。她癱了下來，跌坐到椅子上，身體又回復成脆弱的老婦人。我望著她，將手輕放在她的肩膀上。她又像蛇一樣倏地盛氣凌人。她直直盯著我，舉起手來打我。但我逃出了房間。我跑到雞舍，把自己和一群不明所以的母雞擠在一起。我坐在那裡安靜守衛，透過木頭上的洞向外望著那陣紛擾，而那個洞是原本用來偷看我的。 我到城裡待了一陣子，待在如今已空無人煙的校舍。我要確定學校已經安全關閉，要到校準備開學的孩子們回家。我在門上釘了張關於這場悲慘意外的告示。萊德先生尙未入土。萊德太太寄居在福音教會牧師那裡，等待姊姊來帶她遠離這個小島。鎭上，謠言隨微風飛送。萊德先生是怎麼死的？他是想感受颶風的威力嗎？他在不該出現的地方被人抓到了嗎？有些人說萊德先生的死並非意外。流言在報紙上出現照片上是萊德太太悲慟的臉，閃光燈的強光捕捉到麥可。我所到之處，皆聽聞有人低語麥可．羅伯茲的名字，熟悉得有如鳥鳴。 那是在我終於從校舍返家的三天前。在餐桌旁坐下的人是菲力普先生。仍然矮小，仍然有著圓滾滾的肚子，是吃大蕉和最愛的水餃而來的。但他沒有聖經。空蕩的雙手懸在刀叉上發抖，水杯搖晃著倒了出來，液體沿著下巴往下滴，但他始終沒擦乾。瑪小姐坐下來，將餐巾紙整整齊齊放在膝頭。即使我們望著菲力普先生，等他開始唸祈禱文，也沒有感恩辭。沒有感謝主。也沒有麥可。餐桌的另一邊沒有麥可盯著我。沒有企圖吸引我目光的麥可。 寶小姐一如往常，端著一碗蒸騰騰的飯進來，但她將飯放到餐桌上後，將兩手放到我的肩膀上，等大家都看到之後，才回去幹活。久久之後，當瑪小姐不再驚訝地張嘴盯著我們倆，我還能感受到她溫暖的觸感。就是在當時，生平以來的第一次，我敢在餐桌上說話。我問：麥可呢？菲力普先生先抬起疲憊的雙眼冷冷看我，才從椅子上起身。他沒有動盤子上的食物，便從飯廳離開了。 瑪小姐開口，沒有看我的眼睛：麥可走了。 gone? 對，麥可走了。 gone?I yell. 噓，小孩子，這裡還是餐桌。 gone?Where are you going?我沒有理由平心靜氣說話。 U.K.瑪小姐說道，若無其事地將空叉子舉起來放進嘴裡。 U.K!我從桌邊起身，英國？I yelled. 孩子，小聲點，不然就要挨我的打了。sit down.坐下來吃飯。 我又坐下來輕聲問：英國？ 當然是英國。她說，彷彿麥可不是飄洋過海，而只是走到鎭上。麥可從很久以前就一直計畫要到英國。 他什麼時候去英國的？ 今天早上不過這應該和妳沒什麼關係。 He didn't tell me. 妳以爲他什麼都會告訴妳嗎？我兒子顯然不會把他的事都告訴妳。He is a man.他到英國，目的是加入皇家空軍。我無能爲力，只能看著她的嘴唇形成那些對我毫無意義的話。他們需要像我兒子一樣的男人。有勇氣和教養的男人。那裡馬上就要打仗了。祖國正在召喚我兒子這樣的男人去當英雄，他們的家庭也會以他們爲榮。 可是他去多久了？ 她又一次把空叉子舉起來放進嘴裡，然後發現我看到她沒在吃東西，便把叉子放下，用餐巾紙輕拍臉頰。但她沒給我答案。 我聽到盤子上輕聲的一滴、兩滴，才感覺到臉頰上有淚。難道我最後一眼看到的麥可．羅伯茲，就是那片牆上的影子嗎？還是報紙上用閃光燈瞬間捕捉的照片？麥可走了？這一次無論我如何用力把指甲嵌進手裡，也止不住啜泣。