12
“What? But—but Charlie—” Elisabeth gasped.
Charlie was staring down at his hands, which he was now clasping and unclasping in his lap. For the first time, Elisabeth noticed how rough and calloused his palms were, how his hands were the hands of a worker, not a scholar.
“Where would you go? What would you do?”
“I’d go west,” he said. “To Chicago, or maybe even to California. I’m sick of all of this. Mary’s sick of it, too, I know she is. That’s why she took up with that guy. We’re so tired of Linfield.”
“Charlie, listen to me,” Elisabeth begged. “If you do that, you’ll end up working even harder and reading even less poetry than you do now.”
“Tell me honestly,” Charlie implored. “Why shouldn’t I leave home? I’m so tired of it all. Father is always getting after me to run the parts
