
Rachel Kushner Reads Edna O’Brien
The New Yorker: Fiction
The Last of the Cider
Mary made his bed in the daytime and carried up a ewer of water from the n barrel every evening so that he could wash himself. She washed the checked shirt he wore. And that day his bare back got red from too much sun, she put milk on it to soothe it. It was his last day with them. After supper, he proposed giving each of the grown up children a ride on the motorcycle. Her turn came last. Mary felt that he had planned it that way, but it may have been that her brothers were more persistent about being first. The tears ran down her cheeks so that she did not put on the light. They would all stand around and consume the
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