Read Online Inside the O'Briens by Lisa Genova - Free Book Online Page B

boiling in sweat, and he doesn’t breathe.
    His shoulders shrug. He jostles against the guys on either side of him.
    Mother of God. Joe closes his eyes. He can hear his heartbeat throbbing in his red-hot ears. The guy breathing behind him. Cars whizzing by outside. Pigeons cooing in the rafters. Joe unclamps his teeth. He listens to the manic rhythm of his heartbeat in his ears and coaxes it to slow down. He relaxes his face, softens his stomach, his back, his legs. He sips in a breath of air and then another. He listens and breathes and waits. His shoulders stay put. His feet remain planted. He listens and breathes and waits. His shoulders stay. They stay. Please stay. Stay.
    Sergeant Ferolito calls the next drill.

CHAPTER 6

    T he tasty smell of fried peppers and onions wafts over from the sausage cart on the corner, and Joe wants another sub. He’s not particularly hungry, but he’s bored, and that tangy, sweet aroma is undeniably alluring. Intoxicating. He inhales, and his mouth waters. He inhales, and every thought in his head becomes saturated in greasy onions. Women should forget about those fancy, expensive perfumes that all smell like some old lady’s garden. They should dot their wrists and necks with drippings from Artie’s Famous Sausages. Men would be all over them.
    It’s now almost ten, and Joe, Tommy, and Fitzie have been standing together at their post on Lansdowne Street in the shadow of Fenway since four thirty. There’s nowhere to sit, nothing to read, nothing to do but stand, wait for the game to end, and imagine what’s going on inside the ballpark. It’s worse than standing in the women’s intimates department at Macy’s, waiting for Rosie while she’s in the dressing room trying on a bra or some other piece of clothing Joe is too embarrassed to imagine in public. This is taking forever.
    Using their cell phones while on duty is frowned upon, but they all sneak it. Fitzie pulls his from his chest pocket and reads a text.
    â€œShit.”
    â€œWhaddaya got?” asks Joe.
    â€œCardinals up, one nothin’.”
    â€œWhat inning?” asks Tommy.
    â€œToppa the fourth.”
    â€œOkay, okay,” says Tommy. “Still plenty of time.”
    Joe nods and prays to his Pedroia shirt. He sways back and forth on his feet, alternating his full weight between them for a moment, then rolls heel to toe. He’s been standing for over five hours straight, and his feet are begging him for any relief he can offer.
    â€œYou’re like a friggin’ Weeble Wobble over there,” says Tommy. “Will you stay still? You’re makin’ me nervous.”
    â€œSorry, man; my feet kill,” says Joe.
    Fitzie nods. They’ve all been on duty since seven thirty this morning.
    â€œI’m ready for my couch,” says Fitzie.
    â€œAnd a cold beer,” says Joe.
    They all nod. Joe imagines the first few minutes of being home tonight, the gratifying relief of finally pulling his exhausted feet out of his tight, heavy boots, the clean scent of citrus as he pushes a wedge of lime down the glass neck of a Corona, the sweet, cold, beautiful taste of it. Lying down on the couch. A soft pillow beneath his head. Highlights from the game on the TV.
    Joe’s reverie is broken when he catches the pointed look on Tommy’s face, clearly not imagining a couch or a cold beer. Tommy’s stroking the bare skin above his lip, studying Joe.
    â€œYou and Rosie taking any vacation time soon?” asks Tommy.
    â€œNah, nothing on the calendar. How ’bout you and Amy?”
    â€œJust up to New Hampshire to see her folks.”
    Joe nods.
    â€œYou hear Ronnie talking about that cruise he’s going on?” asks Tommy.
    â€œYeah, sounds real nice.”
    â€œYeah,” says Tommy, thinking something over. “Everything okay with you, man?”
    â€œMe? Yeah, I just want to get off my friggin’ feet.”
    Tommy