Read Online Elizabeth and After by Matt Cohen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Matt Cohen
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up with both her hands to grab at his finger.
“She’s not scared of me.”
Chrissy just shook her head and went into the kitchen. A few minutes later she came out and said, “Lunch,” her voice high and chipper, absolutely fake. Lunch. And he’d taken Lizzie into the kitchen and sat at the table eating scrambled eggs and toast while Chrissy fed Lizzie in her rabbit-decal-covered high chair, talking to both of them in her high fake voice as though she were some weird kind of television hostess who had invited them onto her program for a meal.
When Lizzie was born, Fred was the first to send a present; most men wouldn’t even
think
of such a thing, Chrissy had noted. And every time there was a dance or a party and Fred had a new girlfriend, Chrissy was the first one to get introduced. “Still burns, still yearns,” Ray had said to Carl about Fred, and sometimes Carl would catch Fred giving him the look, as though taking his measure.
By the time Carl had been living at Ray’s long enough to start feeling like his father, Ray told him Fred had ditchedhis latest cheerleader, the one he’d been parading around all summer, and had moved in with Chrissy in the house on the Second Line.
THREE
T HE DAY C ARL M C K ELVEY RETURNED was the day Ned Richardson went to pay a call at Allnew Building Supplies. He parked under the big maple and slid over to the passenger seat of his truck so he could comb his hair in the visor mirror. Part of the passenger seat was patched with strips of red plastic tape which was the final chapter of another story—the sad tale of Ned Richardson and Lu-Ann Bolger. Once romantically entangled in what he considered an almost-marriage, Ned had lost Lu-Ann over an unfortunate mistake with an axe. He’d had the axe in the truck because he’d been limbing the cedar bush that morning. When he and Lu-Ann drove to town they had such an argument about her cutting her hair that when she slammed out of the truck and marched towards the hairdresser, temper coincided with carelessness: he took the axe from behind the seat and buried it right where she’d been sitting. Even as the axe made a satisfying slice through the simpering beige leatherette, Ned regretted it.
When Lu-Ann returned she saw the stuffing oozing out of the slit like ten inches of last year’s shaving cream. “You expect me to sit on that? What happened?”
“I was going to fix it after you apologized,” Ned said.
“How’d you do that anyway? Take an axe to it?”
“I guess,” Ned replied.
“I’ll say,” Lu-Ann said, slamming the door and walking away, as it turned out, for ever. Ned had waited a few seconds, for his dignity, then went over to the hardware store and bought a roll of red plastic tape—the kind you put on your bicycle or jeans to be visible in the dark. He fixed the seat, then stood in the street waiting for Lu-Ann to come back.
That had been a few weeks ago. Now the only thing he could call his own was this truck. Which wasn’t much for a Richardson, Ned considered, especially given what he’d one day have. But that would be then. This was now. Now he was twenty-three years old and so broke his wallet felt thin in his back pocket. So broke that he was sitting on his taped seat, combing his hair and using his spit to wipe the dirt off his face so he could ask Fred Verghoers for a job.
“Come on, shitface,” Ned encouraged himself, then slid out of his truck and marched towards Allnew. His heart was going like a machine gun. A Richardson walking into Allnew to beg for a job. If Luke could see him. Ned only had to imagine the contempt twisting his father’s lips to keep on.
Fred Verghoers was on a stool behind a large counter. He was wearing the red and gold vest all the employees had, except that Fred’s had a little white strip that read MANAGER sewn onto his pocket.
Fred was looking something up for a customer—Arnie Kincaid, the insurance man. Arnie was about a hundred and twenty years
“She’s not scared of me.”
Chrissy just shook her head and went into the kitchen. A few minutes later she came out and said, “Lunch,” her voice high and chipper, absolutely fake. Lunch. And he’d taken Lizzie into the kitchen and sat at the table eating scrambled eggs and toast while Chrissy fed Lizzie in her rabbit-decal-covered high chair, talking to both of them in her high fake voice as though she were some weird kind of television hostess who had invited them onto her program for a meal.
When Lizzie was born, Fred was the first to send a present; most men wouldn’t even
think
of such a thing, Chrissy had noted. And every time there was a dance or a party and Fred had a new girlfriend, Chrissy was the first one to get introduced. “Still burns, still yearns,” Ray had said to Carl about Fred, and sometimes Carl would catch Fred giving him the look, as though taking his measure.
By the time Carl had been living at Ray’s long enough to start feeling like his father, Ray told him Fred had ditchedhis latest cheerleader, the one he’d been parading around all summer, and had moved in with Chrissy in the house on the Second Line.
THREE
T HE DAY C ARL M C K ELVEY RETURNED was the day Ned Richardson went to pay a call at Allnew Building Supplies. He parked under the big maple and slid over to the passenger seat of his truck so he could comb his hair in the visor mirror. Part of the passenger seat was patched with strips of red plastic tape which was the final chapter of another story—the sad tale of Ned Richardson and Lu-Ann Bolger. Once romantically entangled in what he considered an almost-marriage, Ned had lost Lu-Ann over an unfortunate mistake with an axe. He’d had the axe in the truck because he’d been limbing the cedar bush that morning. When he and Lu-Ann drove to town they had such an argument about her cutting her hair that when she slammed out of the truck and marched towards the hairdresser, temper coincided with carelessness: he took the axe from behind the seat and buried it right where she’d been sitting. Even as the axe made a satisfying slice through the simpering beige leatherette, Ned regretted it.
When Lu-Ann returned she saw the stuffing oozing out of the slit like ten inches of last year’s shaving cream. “You expect me to sit on that? What happened?”
“I was going to fix it after you apologized,” Ned said.
“How’d you do that anyway? Take an axe to it?”
“I guess,” Ned replied.
“I’ll say,” Lu-Ann said, slamming the door and walking away, as it turned out, for ever. Ned had waited a few seconds, for his dignity, then went over to the hardware store and bought a roll of red plastic tape—the kind you put on your bicycle or jeans to be visible in the dark. He fixed the seat, then stood in the street waiting for Lu-Ann to come back.
That had been a few weeks ago. Now the only thing he could call his own was this truck. Which wasn’t much for a Richardson, Ned considered, especially given what he’d one day have. But that would be then. This was now. Now he was twenty-three years old and so broke his wallet felt thin in his back pocket. So broke that he was sitting on his taped seat, combing his hair and using his spit to wipe the dirt off his face so he could ask Fred Verghoers for a job.
“Come on, shitface,” Ned encouraged himself, then slid out of his truck and marched towards Allnew. His heart was going like a machine gun. A Richardson walking into Allnew to beg for a job. If Luke could see him. Ned only had to imagine the contempt twisting his father’s lips to keep on.
Fred Verghoers was on a stool behind a large counter. He was wearing the red and gold vest all the employees had, except that Fred’s had a little white strip that read MANAGER sewn onto his pocket.
Fred was looking something up for a customer—Arnie Kincaid, the insurance man. Arnie was about a hundred and twenty years
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