Read Online Fearless by Rafael Yglesias - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rafael Yglesias
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wasn’t going to be believed. “Ask the stewardess,” she pleaded in a hoarse voice. “Even she couldn’t make it work! It got stuck!”
“Nobody’s saying anything to contradict you, honey. Okay? I’m asking questions to find out some fact that might help us find out what happened to your son.” Bea studied her sheet of paper. “The airline hasn’t made a seating plan available. You don’t remember your seat number, do you?”
“Forties. It was in the forties. Forty-eight?” Carla pulled on Bea’s hand to prompt her.
“I don’t know. Really. I’m telling you everything I do know.”
“Is he dead?”
Bea was neither shocked nor wary of the question. “I don’t know. I know he isn’t here in this hospital and they tell me that all the children are here. But that’s not definite. I don’t want you to assume that they’ve got all their facts straight. There’s a lot of confusion. Can I call someone for you? Your husband? The airline is supposed to notify everyone they can reach, but you probably know how to get to him faster. If you tell me a number I’ll call him now and tell him you’re here and you’re fine.”
“He’s at work,” Carla said.
“Do you know that number?”
“It’s in Manhattan. It’s 555-4137. That’s a 212 area code.”
Bea was writing it down. “Okay. What’s his name?”
“Manny.” Carla was exhausted by this conversation. After Bea left, she collapsed. Her head hurt. Feeling returned to her injured leg; it throbbed and there were pangs just below the knee. All her muscles also wakened to pain. Up and down her back, through her shoulders, down to the tiniest muscle in her arms, they were bruised.
She moaned.
A nurse came over and said, “They’ll be getting to you in a jiffy. We’ve got a lot of people who are badly hurt.”
Shut up. What have you got to complain about? You’re alive, ain’t you?
She cried as quietly as she could.
In his room at the Sheraton Max took a shower. He turned on the hot water so high he nearly scalded himself. When he was done he stood between the twin beds facing a wall mirror, rubbed himself dry, let the towel drop and studied the full length of his body. He had a trim and vigorous figure, thanks to both genetics and regular exercise. A fine down of black hair draped over his pectorals and swirled about his dark nipples. Max shut his eyes and touched his chest lovingly, as if it belonged to someone else. Then he skimmed down with the flats of his palms, feeling his rib cage and fatless flanks, his pulsing stomach and rubbery penis. It was a young man’s body. He opened his eyes and saw a middle-aged head on top. His kinky bush of hair was all gray and the curls were exhausted, squashed at their apex, unfinished circles. His face looked overused and it was. He wondered how many times he had scraped the skin with a razor, fried it in summer, blasted it with exhaust or cold. His ears were big, growing into the elephantine excess of old age. His mouth was pinched by fatigue and his pale lips showed disappointment at the corners. Worst of all, his light blue eyes, which used to twinkle with wonder and mischief when he was young, were dead. They cowered beneath a prominent forehead inhabited only by worried and angry thoughts.
He stroked his penis with one hand and held his testicles in the other. He had no sexual fantasy in his head, no tickle of desire prompting him. He wanted to be erect.
The old unhappy face changed. His eyes brightened, his skin relaxed. His cock lengthened, surged away from his shadowed pelvis, and announced him to the world.
Satisfied that everything worked, Max dressed. While putting on his clothes he remembered his fight with Jeff over his choice of jeans and a polo shirt. The purpose of this trip to LA was to win a major job from the owner of a chain of discount electronics stores. The owner was interested in hiring them to design and oversee the construction of his expansion into New York City.
“Nobody’s saying anything to contradict you, honey. Okay? I’m asking questions to find out some fact that might help us find out what happened to your son.” Bea studied her sheet of paper. “The airline hasn’t made a seating plan available. You don’t remember your seat number, do you?”
“Forties. It was in the forties. Forty-eight?” Carla pulled on Bea’s hand to prompt her.
“I don’t know. Really. I’m telling you everything I do know.”
“Is he dead?”
Bea was neither shocked nor wary of the question. “I don’t know. I know he isn’t here in this hospital and they tell me that all the children are here. But that’s not definite. I don’t want you to assume that they’ve got all their facts straight. There’s a lot of confusion. Can I call someone for you? Your husband? The airline is supposed to notify everyone they can reach, but you probably know how to get to him faster. If you tell me a number I’ll call him now and tell him you’re here and you’re fine.”
“He’s at work,” Carla said.
“Do you know that number?”
“It’s in Manhattan. It’s 555-4137. That’s a 212 area code.”
Bea was writing it down. “Okay. What’s his name?”
“Manny.” Carla was exhausted by this conversation. After Bea left, she collapsed. Her head hurt. Feeling returned to her injured leg; it throbbed and there were pangs just below the knee. All her muscles also wakened to pain. Up and down her back, through her shoulders, down to the tiniest muscle in her arms, they were bruised.
She moaned.
A nurse came over and said, “They’ll be getting to you in a jiffy. We’ve got a lot of people who are badly hurt.”
Shut up. What have you got to complain about? You’re alive, ain’t you?
She cried as quietly as she could.
In his room at the Sheraton Max took a shower. He turned on the hot water so high he nearly scalded himself. When he was done he stood between the twin beds facing a wall mirror, rubbed himself dry, let the towel drop and studied the full length of his body. He had a trim and vigorous figure, thanks to both genetics and regular exercise. A fine down of black hair draped over his pectorals and swirled about his dark nipples. Max shut his eyes and touched his chest lovingly, as if it belonged to someone else. Then he skimmed down with the flats of his palms, feeling his rib cage and fatless flanks, his pulsing stomach and rubbery penis. It was a young man’s body. He opened his eyes and saw a middle-aged head on top. His kinky bush of hair was all gray and the curls were exhausted, squashed at their apex, unfinished circles. His face looked overused and it was. He wondered how many times he had scraped the skin with a razor, fried it in summer, blasted it with exhaust or cold. His ears were big, growing into the elephantine excess of old age. His mouth was pinched by fatigue and his pale lips showed disappointment at the corners. Worst of all, his light blue eyes, which used to twinkle with wonder and mischief when he was young, were dead. They cowered beneath a prominent forehead inhabited only by worried and angry thoughts.
He stroked his penis with one hand and held his testicles in the other. He had no sexual fantasy in his head, no tickle of desire prompting him. He wanted to be erect.
The old unhappy face changed. His eyes brightened, his skin relaxed. His cock lengthened, surged away from his shadowed pelvis, and announced him to the world.
Satisfied that everything worked, Max dressed. While putting on his clothes he remembered his fight with Jeff over his choice of jeans and a polo shirt. The purpose of this trip to LA was to win a major job from the owner of a chain of discount electronics stores. The owner was interested in hiring them to design and oversee the construction of his expansion into New York City.
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