Read Online Stranger in the Room: A Novel by Amanda Kyle Williams - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Amanda Kyle Williams
Ads: Link
unreal. Everybody wants smaller government. Well, this is what you get.” He blew out air and tension. “Jesus, I want a cigarette.”
Rauser had quit smoking last Thanksgiving, but he had not stopped wanting one. He pulled a packet of nicotine gum from his pocket. “Can you believe I’m eating this pansy shit?”
7
I picked Neil up at his house in Cabbagetown, an old mill workers’ district turned hip. I hoped we’d be able to function without drawing too much attention to ourselves up in Creeklaw County. Okay, so it’s rural North Georgia, I’m Chinese, and Neil’s a ’60s beach movie on downs. But, hey, it could happen. It was our first road trip together. In the past, Neil had shown only sporadic interest in anything beyond his job description, whatever that was. He seemed to always be tweaking it. I’m never quite sure what will pique his curiosity. Apparently cement mix, chicken feed, and dead people do it for him. That and too many girlfriends.
I glanced over at him in the passenger’s seat looking down at the phone in his hands. This was normal—busy thumbs on tiny keys, a downy coating on slender knuckles that looked like corn silk in the bright sunlight. He might have been Tweeting or stealing the formula for Coca-Cola or making the garage doors in his neighborhood go up and down. One can never be sure where Neil’s perpetual boredom and freakishly overdeveloped technological skills will lead him.
We took I-85 North out of the city with the top down in my old Impala, sped past exit ramps with office parks, chain restaurants, furniture outlets, and shopping malls that became sparse as we moved farther north toward rolling farmland and orchards and long stretches of forests.
We split off on 985 and crossed Lake Lanier on 129. I pulled into a filling station. I needed to suck it up and call my mother, and I knew she would not appreciate the background noise of my convertible. Neil lifted his head, took in our surroundings briefly—gas pumps, convenience store, racks of propane tanks for rent—and went back to his phone.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Keye? What’s wrong?”
I floundered. “I just thought I’d say hi.” Neil looked at me.
I heard the screen door open at my parents’ house. I’d heard it a million times, same door, the one going to the back deck. My father had cans of WD-40 in strategic locations, one just outside the door my mother had pushed open, and he could quiet creaky hardware in the wink of an eye—a quick-draw Clint Eastwood with an oil can and a flathead screwdriver.
“Howard, it’s your daughter calling to say hi. Do you remember the last time she called
just
to say hi?” An indecipherable grunt from my father. “No you don’t, because your daughter
never
calls
just
to say hi.” The hinges squeaked again. Mother was back inside. “I swear I don’t know why I even bother to speak to him. He’s so full of himself lately. Ever since he sold another one of those metal sculptures. And to an art gallery, Keye. Can you imagine? For thousands of dollars! Now all he says are things like
target audience
and
the World Wide Web
. Lord help us.” Mother’s buttery southern accent was heating up. Emily Street always became more southern when she was in the middle of transforming herself—outrage, courage, martyrdom, offense—Mother deftly seized any opportunity. She was a born actress. “I’ve got your father out on the deck right now blistering some poblanos. Might as well put that torch to good use.”
“Mother, he’s getting thousands a pop for his sculptures. It sounds like he’s putting it to work just fine.”
“Thousands a pop? I swear, Keye. Where did you learn to talk like that?” She paused. “You’re going somewhere dangerous, aren’t you? That’s why you’re calling. No, don’t tell me.”
“It’s not dangerous.”
“You always say that. What kind of riffraff are you chasing after this time?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“We’ve told
Rauser had quit smoking last Thanksgiving, but he had not stopped wanting one. He pulled a packet of nicotine gum from his pocket. “Can you believe I’m eating this pansy shit?”
7
I picked Neil up at his house in Cabbagetown, an old mill workers’ district turned hip. I hoped we’d be able to function without drawing too much attention to ourselves up in Creeklaw County. Okay, so it’s rural North Georgia, I’m Chinese, and Neil’s a ’60s beach movie on downs. But, hey, it could happen. It was our first road trip together. In the past, Neil had shown only sporadic interest in anything beyond his job description, whatever that was. He seemed to always be tweaking it. I’m never quite sure what will pique his curiosity. Apparently cement mix, chicken feed, and dead people do it for him. That and too many girlfriends.
I glanced over at him in the passenger’s seat looking down at the phone in his hands. This was normal—busy thumbs on tiny keys, a downy coating on slender knuckles that looked like corn silk in the bright sunlight. He might have been Tweeting or stealing the formula for Coca-Cola or making the garage doors in his neighborhood go up and down. One can never be sure where Neil’s perpetual boredom and freakishly overdeveloped technological skills will lead him.
We took I-85 North out of the city with the top down in my old Impala, sped past exit ramps with office parks, chain restaurants, furniture outlets, and shopping malls that became sparse as we moved farther north toward rolling farmland and orchards and long stretches of forests.
We split off on 985 and crossed Lake Lanier on 129. I pulled into a filling station. I needed to suck it up and call my mother, and I knew she would not appreciate the background noise of my convertible. Neil lifted his head, took in our surroundings briefly—gas pumps, convenience store, racks of propane tanks for rent—and went back to his phone.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Keye? What’s wrong?”
I floundered. “I just thought I’d say hi.” Neil looked at me.
I heard the screen door open at my parents’ house. I’d heard it a million times, same door, the one going to the back deck. My father had cans of WD-40 in strategic locations, one just outside the door my mother had pushed open, and he could quiet creaky hardware in the wink of an eye—a quick-draw Clint Eastwood with an oil can and a flathead screwdriver.
“Howard, it’s your daughter calling to say hi. Do you remember the last time she called
just
to say hi?” An indecipherable grunt from my father. “No you don’t, because your daughter
never
calls
just
to say hi.” The hinges squeaked again. Mother was back inside. “I swear I don’t know why I even bother to speak to him. He’s so full of himself lately. Ever since he sold another one of those metal sculptures. And to an art gallery, Keye. Can you imagine? For thousands of dollars! Now all he says are things like
target audience
and
the World Wide Web
. Lord help us.” Mother’s buttery southern accent was heating up. Emily Street always became more southern when she was in the middle of transforming herself—outrage, courage, martyrdom, offense—Mother deftly seized any opportunity. She was a born actress. “I’ve got your father out on the deck right now blistering some poblanos. Might as well put that torch to good use.”
“Mother, he’s getting thousands a pop for his sculptures. It sounds like he’s putting it to work just fine.”
“Thousands a pop? I swear, Keye. Where did you learn to talk like that?” She paused. “You’re going somewhere dangerous, aren’t you? That’s why you’re calling. No, don’t tell me.”
“It’s not dangerous.”
“You always say that. What kind of riffraff are you chasing after this time?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“We’ve told
Similar Books
