Read Online The Tortilla Curtain by T. C. Boyle - Free Book Online
Authors: T. C. Boyle
Tags: Contemporary, Adult
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“My dog--my wife's dog--”
“I'm sorry, Delaney,” Jack Jardine said, leaning into the microphone, “but we have a pending question regarding construction and maintenance of a gated entryway, and I'm going to have to ask you to speak to it or yield the floor.”
“But Jack, you don't understand what I'm saying--look, a coyote got into our backyard this morning and took--”
“Yield the floor,” a voice called.
“Speak to the question or yield.”
Delaney was angry suddenly, angry for the second time that day, burning, furious. Why wouldn't people listen? Didn't they know what this meant, treating wild carnivores like ducks in the park? “I won't yield,” he said, and the audience began to hiss, and then suddenly he had it in his hand, Sacheverell's gnawed white foreleg with its black stocking of blood, and he was waving it like a sword. He caught a glimpse of the horror-struck faces of the couple beside him as they unconsciously backed away and he was aware of movement off to his right and Jack Cherrystone's amplified voice thundering in his ears, but he didn't care--they would listen, they had to. “This!” he shouted over the uproar. “This is what happens!”
Later, as he sat on the steps out front of the community center and let the night cool the sweat from his face, he wondered how he was going to break the news to Kyra. When he'd left her it was with the lame assurance that the dog might turn up yet--maybe he'd got away; maybe he was lost--but now all of Arroyo Blanco knew the grisly finality of Sacheverell's fate. And Delaney had accomplished nothing, absolutely nothing--beyond making a fool of himself. He let out a sigh, throwing back his head and staring up into the bleary pall of the night sky. It had been a rotten day. Nothing accomplished. He hadn't written a word. Hadn't even sat down at his desk. All he'd been able to think about was the dog and the gnawed bit of bone and flesh he'd found in a hole beneath a dusty clump of manzanita.
Inside, they were voting. The windows cut holes in the fabric of the night, bright rectilinear slashes against the black backdrop of the mountains. He heard a murmur of voices, the odd scrape and shuffle of hominid activity. He was just about to push himself up and go home when he became aware of a figure hovering at the edge of the steps. “Who is it?” he said.
“It's me, Mr. Mossbacher,” came the voice from the shadows, and then the figure moved into the light cast by the windows and Delaney saw that it was Jack Jardine's son, Jack Jr.
Jack Jr. swayed like a eucalyptus in the wind, a marvel of tensile strength and newly acquired height, long-limbed, big-footed, with hands the size of baseball mitts. He was eighteen, with mud-brown eyes that gave no definition to the pupils, and he didn't look anything like his father. His hair was red, for one thing--not the pale wispy carrot-top Delaney had inherited from his Scots-Irish mother, but the deep shifting auburn you saw on the flanks of horses in an uncertain light. He wore it long on top in a frenzy of curls, and shaved to the bone from the crest of his ears down. “Hello, Jack,” Delaney said, and he could hear the weariness in his own voice.
“They got one of your dogs, huh?”
“Afraid so.” Delaney sighed. “That's what I was trying to tell them in there--you can't feed wild animals, that's about the long and short of it. But nobody wants to listen.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Jack Jr. kicked at something in the dirt with the toe of one of his big leather hi-tops. In this light, the shoes seemed to grow out of the ground and meld with his body, trunks to anchor the length of him. There was a pause during which Delaney again contemplated pushing himself up and heading home, but he hesitated. Here was a sympathetic ear, an impressionable mind.
“What they don't realize,” Delaney began, but before he could finish the thought, Jack Jr. cut him off.
“By the way--the other night?
“I'm sorry, Delaney,” Jack Jardine said, leaning into the microphone, “but we have a pending question regarding construction and maintenance of a gated entryway, and I'm going to have to ask you to speak to it or yield the floor.”
“But Jack, you don't understand what I'm saying--look, a coyote got into our backyard this morning and took--”
“Yield the floor,” a voice called.
“Speak to the question or yield.”
Delaney was angry suddenly, angry for the second time that day, burning, furious. Why wouldn't people listen? Didn't they know what this meant, treating wild carnivores like ducks in the park? “I won't yield,” he said, and the audience began to hiss, and then suddenly he had it in his hand, Sacheverell's gnawed white foreleg with its black stocking of blood, and he was waving it like a sword. He caught a glimpse of the horror-struck faces of the couple beside him as they unconsciously backed away and he was aware of movement off to his right and Jack Cherrystone's amplified voice thundering in his ears, but he didn't care--they would listen, they had to. “This!” he shouted over the uproar. “This is what happens!”
Later, as he sat on the steps out front of the community center and let the night cool the sweat from his face, he wondered how he was going to break the news to Kyra. When he'd left her it was with the lame assurance that the dog might turn up yet--maybe he'd got away; maybe he was lost--but now all of Arroyo Blanco knew the grisly finality of Sacheverell's fate. And Delaney had accomplished nothing, absolutely nothing--beyond making a fool of himself. He let out a sigh, throwing back his head and staring up into the bleary pall of the night sky. It had been a rotten day. Nothing accomplished. He hadn't written a word. Hadn't even sat down at his desk. All he'd been able to think about was the dog and the gnawed bit of bone and flesh he'd found in a hole beneath a dusty clump of manzanita.
Inside, they were voting. The windows cut holes in the fabric of the night, bright rectilinear slashes against the black backdrop of the mountains. He heard a murmur of voices, the odd scrape and shuffle of hominid activity. He was just about to push himself up and go home when he became aware of a figure hovering at the edge of the steps. “Who is it?” he said.
“It's me, Mr. Mossbacher,” came the voice from the shadows, and then the figure moved into the light cast by the windows and Delaney saw that it was Jack Jardine's son, Jack Jr.
Jack Jr. swayed like a eucalyptus in the wind, a marvel of tensile strength and newly acquired height, long-limbed, big-footed, with hands the size of baseball mitts. He was eighteen, with mud-brown eyes that gave no definition to the pupils, and he didn't look anything like his father. His hair was red, for one thing--not the pale wispy carrot-top Delaney had inherited from his Scots-Irish mother, but the deep shifting auburn you saw on the flanks of horses in an uncertain light. He wore it long on top in a frenzy of curls, and shaved to the bone from the crest of his ears down. “Hello, Jack,” Delaney said, and he could hear the weariness in his own voice.
“They got one of your dogs, huh?”
“Afraid so.” Delaney sighed. “That's what I was trying to tell them in there--you can't feed wild animals, that's about the long and short of it. But nobody wants to listen.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Jack Jr. kicked at something in the dirt with the toe of one of his big leather hi-tops. In this light, the shoes seemed to grow out of the ground and meld with his body, trunks to anchor the length of him. There was a pause during which Delaney again contemplated pushing himself up and heading home, but he hesitated. Here was a sympathetic ear, an impressionable mind.
“What they don't realize,” Delaney began, but before he could finish the thought, Jack Jr. cut him off.
“By the way--the other night?
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