Read Online Strong Motion by Jonathan Franzen - Free Book Online Page A

that extended to the back of the house. In theory at least, since this house now belonged to his mother, it was a second home to him. He opened the door and walked in.
    The dining-room table, to his left, was covered with folders and portfolios. A broad-shouldered man in a white shirt was seated with his back to the hall, and at the head of the table, reading a stapled document, sat Melanie.
    “Hi Mom, how you doin’,’’ Louis said."
    She looked up at him severely. Only the white tip of her long nose held her half glasses on. She was wearing a crimson silk dress, crimson lipstick, and earrings with large black stones. Her dark hair was pulled tightly behind her ears. “Hello Louis,” she said, returning her eyes to the document. “Happy Easter.”
    Her companion had swung around, capturing the back of his chair in an armpit, and revealed a flushed and amiable face with chalky blue eyes and a bushy reddish mustache. His collar was open, his necktie loosened. He seemed so delighted to see Louis that Louis immediately shook his hand.
    “Henry Rudman,” the man said. He almost but did not quite say Henwy Wudman . “You must be the son that lives in Sumyull. I think your mother said Belknap Street?”
    “That’s right.”
    Henry Rudman nodded vigorously. “Reason I ask is I grew up in Sumvull myself. You familiar with Vinal Avenue?”
    “No, sorry,” Louis said. He leaned over his mother’s shoulder. “Whatcha reading there, Mom?”
    Melanie turned a page in pointed silence.
    “It’s an old brief,” Wudman answered, leaning back in his chair expansively. He waggled his pen like a drumstick. “We got a piece of architectural ornamentation upstairs that’s worn out its welcome. The town of Ipswich agreed a few years back to pay for its removal. Now it’s looking like they want to welsh.”
    “That’s some ornament,” Louis said.
    “Hey, to each his own. I know what you mean, though. I understand you moved up here from Texas. What do you think of the weather?”
    “It stinks!”
    “Yeah, wait’ll you see it do this in June. Tell me, you a Sox fan yet?”
    “Not yet, no,” Louis said. He was appreciating the attention. “Cubs fan.”
    With a big mitt the lawyer swatted his words back in his direction. “Same diff. You like the Cubs, you got everything it takes to be a Sox fan. I mean for instance, who lost us a Series in ’86, Bill Buckner. Who did us the favor of trading us Bill Buckner, Chicago Cubs. Like some kinda conspiracy there. What two teams played the most years without winning the ultimate cigar, you got it, Sox and Cubs. Listen, you want to see a game? Let me send you a couple tickets, I’m a nineteen-year subscriber. Unlikely you’ll get tickets like these through normal channels.”
    Louis drew his head back in surprise, thoroughly disarmed now. “That would be great.”
    Melanie cleared her throat like a starter motor.
    “Hey, don’t mention it,” Rudman said. “I’m a corrupter o’ youth. You gotta excuse us, though, we’re looking at a snake’s nest here.”
    Louis turned to his mother. “Where’s Dad?”
    “Outside. Why don’t you look in the yard. As I told you on the phone, Mr. Rudman and I have a lot to discuss by ourselves.”
    “Don’t let me . . . disturb you,” he told her in his Nembutal voice.
    In the kitchen he found coffee cake, a party-sized urn of coffee, and, on a long counter, other bakery products in white boxes with the name “Holland” in blue crayon. His eyes widened when he opened the refrigerator. There were pâtés and seafood salads in transparent plastic cartons, jumbo fruits in decorated tissue paper, a tin of Russian caviar, half a smoked ham, whole foreign cheeses, premium yogurt in unusual berry flavors, fresh artichokes and asparagus, kosher dill pickles, an intriguing stack of wrapped deli items, German and Dutch beers, name-brand soft drinks, juices in glass bottles, and thirty-dollar-a-pop champagne—
    “Louis.” His mother