Egan Hated Nurses Pt. 2

Last of the Breed By Louis L'amour

THE BOY
Eighteen months before when his father had been in his bed on his back, dying, the boy would come to the window and talk to him. At the time Egan hadn't liked it, the old man wasted his strength trying to hide his fear and swallow groans so he could smile and talk nonsense. Egan wanted, at times desperately wanted, to tell the boy to f*ck off and leave his father alone. Of course, then the old man would have cried. He cried at every little disappointment then, after years of it never even entering Egan's mind that his father so much as had tear ducts. He saw his father cry over a spilt cup of yogurt, apologize to tears to Egan for having shat himself. In the night Egan would hear sobbing and lie awake thinking about mentholated tobacco and how as soon as the old man was out of the house he would smoke until his throat closed with phlegm. He would drink every night for the rest of his life.
The boy talked to himself. Seven or eight years old and nobody to talk to over there but his grandmother he would spend his holidays playing by the fence, having loud conversations with himself in the hope that Egan's father would hear and respond. He always did it when he wasn't busy. Always sorry for somebody.

Last of the Breed By Louis L'amour

He left in the dark with her in the mornings. She waited with him at the bus-stop, staring back at the people who stared at them while pretending not to. Stared at the ones who did it frankly, mostly women. Sometimes she would kiss him as the bus appeared at the corner and then step back to avoid the crush. After that she would walk back to the house. It worried him that she would get raped one morning.

Last of the Breed By Louis L'amour


The boy loved her and she loved him. Those first days in January, he stared over the fence at her as if he had ever seen a white woman before, his jaw slack with simple astonishment, as if he were ready the fling himself over the fence to her.

Last of the Breed By Louis L'amour


"They broke into you house looking for him. About two hours after I left to go to work."
The television set that they had removed, and brought back for some reason sat on the armchair, the antenna wire hanging down the floor like the arm of a sleeper.
"He's dead." She was crying, but her mind was the oiled gun that it always was. "Three hours."
They had only one "he" in common. Three hours for what, he wanted to know. He didn't ask, though. He had the idea that it was surgery or resuscitation. He stood looking at his returned TV that he would have to hook up again and let the shock cut into him.

Last of the Breed By Louis L'amour