They could only conjecture from the warmth of its waters that the aquifer lay deep underground, near the hearth of the Earth. Jacob sounded out for Bloom the hiss and groan he would hear when the vapors rose and expanded into the pipes of their new home. He spoke of flowering gardens and bulky vegetable patches, the scents of citrus groves and the perfume of trees canopied in mentholated leaves, of a narrow promontory pointing like a finger over an ancient seabed to a distant shore, and he said to his son, Please, my dear, tell me you want to see it. Bloom wanted to say, No, I don’t want to see it. I want to go home. But he said, instead, Yes, of course, Father, I want to see it all. For this kindness, Jacob thanked his son, and thanked him again; he bent over and squeezed Bloom tight, pressed his cheek against the stiff collar of his shirt, and, for several moments too long, held him there. Father and son dwelled in the comfort of prolonged silences thereafter. They listened to the clatter of rails beat the rhythm of their progress across the prairies.
