Read Online The Heyday of the Insensitive Bastards by Robert Boswell - Free Book Online Page B

middle-aged man who followed her, watching her clean, a computer genius she guessed from the mess he kept, who lived alone. “My wife died of a strap infection,” he had said slyly, expecting her to be curious, a stupid joke hiding in the mispronunciation, in his watery eyes, but she had refused to ask. She thought of him as a stalker, a creep, a Heffalump; although, he had given her a set of china, unchipped and almost complete. “I’ve no need for it,” he had said, hiding his secret motives so well she still could not name them.
    She sat in the front seat of her blue Corolla under the shade of the Stalker’s giant sycamore and flattened Mr. Chub’s crumpled letter against her knee.
    Dear Chub,
    Have you forgotten the way to El Paso? We all would like to see your ugly self some of these days soon. Does anyone there call you WaterBoy? Have to come home to hear the words that go straight to the heart. I am doing alright. Really, I am. I know you heard they cut out that lump I had that you did not know about. Which is why I am writing, because I know somedumbody told you. Which I didn’t want. My own way of telling you would have been more fun for the both of us. Anyhow, it is out, and there is a little cut like a smiley face under my nipple. You will like it.
    Come see the girl who loves you no matter what. Hear me? I love WaterBoy. I love Chub. As for Mr. Chub, he is a stranger I don’t or even want to know.
    Don’t step on my heart.
    Your Only One,
Missy
    Monica pressed the letter to her chest. The book would write itself. It would win all the prizes. She and Brian would cruise to Hawaii, Greece, Fiji. Sally would need a private tutor.
    The curtains in the Stalker’s house parted. She would keep him waiting another few minutes. The suspense would be good for his heart.
    There was no question whether Brian would show up, only when. Fate being what it was, she guessed it would happen soon. His wife was already so explosively large, Monica could hardly bear to watch her wade into Casa Azul and drop onto her chair. Their baby was not due for two more months. One day Brian would come to Monica, appear at her trailer door, just before the baby was born or shortly thereafter. He would resurface in her life like a man in a boating accident who has held his breath too long: gasping and clutching, weeping over the good fortune of merely being alive.
    Monica didn’t volunteer at Casa Azul in order to see Brian’s wife. It was important work. She had gone there the first time to gawk at her, but then she saw what they were doing. Food for the hungry. Shelter for the abused. A woman and her baby had spent one night in Monica’s trailer. She had forgotten their names, but they had been dark-skinned, and the woman spoke with an accent. Monica had let them have the bed, while she slept on the sofa, next to Sally’s crib—which was too small for her now. Brian would buy Sally a new bed when he came back.
    Monica lunched in Waffle Park, sharing a picnic table with a guy in a black suit, red tie. His chin was too strong, pulling his face out of proportion, but Brian might be jealous, anyway—he was younger than Brian, closer to her age, and his suit was pressed and creased. If she showed any interest at all, Brian would be jealous—if he had some way to know about it.
    “Are you through with that section?” she asked the man with the chin casually, lightly touching the folded newspaper at his elbow.
    “Help yourself,” he said, pushing it her way.
    Business section, but she glanced over it.
    “Investments?” the Chin asked her. “Checking on your money?”
    “I like to be informed,” she said.
    Her tone was brush-off, but not too brush-off. She didn’t want to ever see him again, but she didn’t want him to know that yet.
    He returned to his lunch—a sandwich, no vegetables at all. She gave up on the business section, pulled her book from her bag. Poetry. Monica had studied poetry for a while, taken classes at the