Read Online Calling Home by Michael Cadnum - Free Book Online Page B

skewered by a pin. “I’m going to tell Mead’s parent that you know where he is.”
    â€œDon’t do that!”
    She thought. “Maybe I won’t. But my brother’s coming back soon. I’m going to have him check you out.”
    â€œHow’s your brother going to ‘check me out?’”
    â€œWait and find out.”
    Angela’s brother, Jack, had been in and out of trouble with the law for drugs and petty crimes like extortion and attempted murder. He had been sent to military school in Stockton, and word was that he had turned around and planned to join the Marines. I had been terrified of him during his criminal phase. He scared any thinking person. He was a large, square-headed hulk. He was also smart, in a shifty, unpleasant way. The idea of this military ex-thug coming to check up on me made me fidget.
    â€œI’ll tell him you’ve been abusing my affections.”
    â€œWhat does that mean? You don’t have any affections.”
    â€œIt implies sexual abuse, or something dishonorable like that.”
    â€œYou’re a great friend, Angela, you know that? A terrific friend.”
    She gave me a smile I did not like.

10
    Lani answered the door herself.
    It was not the first time I had visited her large, ivy-covered house, but I did not do it often.
    Her father was a heavyset man who always had a book in his hand. His hand swallowed mine for a moment. “It’s good to see you, Peter. So you’ve come to hear Lani play the piano.”
    â€œYes, sir.” I usually hated calling men “sir,” but there was something deliberate and serious about Mr. McKnight, and he made me respect him without any effort on his part.
    Lani’s father could be very grumpy. He hated to answer the phone, and he always, even now, gave you the impression that you had interrupted a very complex train of thought. He was a man who valued his time, and he didn’t care to have his time abused by a skinny white kid with a dumb expression.
    He had the same serious way of speaking that Lani had. Her mother had died of cancer years ago, when Lani was three. She could hardly remember her mother, but the loss seemed to make both father and daughter take things seriously, their words, and their actions, had weight.
    â€œI wouldn’t want to be a nuisance,” I said.
    â€œYoung people can’t help being nuisances,” said Mr. McKnight. “You’re not so bad. You’re a quiet sort of young man. I think you could go along and not bother anyone.”
    I hoped that I had been paid a compliment, of some sort. I wanted very much for Mr. McKnight to like me.
    Mr. McKnight left us alone with the piano, a baby grand that was polished and very dark. The sight of it made me weak. It reminded me of a coffin.
    â€œYour father always seems busy,” I said.
    â€œHe has many cases. Some attorneys only think about money, but he doesn’t. You better sit down and get ready. I practiced this all week.”
    Lani put her hands on the keys, and the room changed.
    It was the most beautiful music I had ever heard. It was a classical, formal composition that I did not recognize. She played for a long time. When she was done, she played one last note, discordant, arbitrary, it seemed. The last, deep note resounded for a long time.
    â€œWas it all right?” she asked.
    â€œIt was beautiful,” I whispered. “I had no idea—”
    â€œYou thought I wouldn’t be any good?”
    â€œOh, I knew you could play. But that was not ordinary playing.”
    â€œMr. Farrar says I can be very good, but he says I’ll have to dedicate my life to it, and give up a lot of things. He has me practicing every single day. Not five days a week, and not when I feel like it. Every day.”
    â€œIt shows.”
    â€œThank you, Peter. I care about your opinion. Actually, Mr. Farrar quotes a famous music teacher named Suzuki. You don’t