Read Online The Walkaway by Scott Phillips - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Scott Phillips
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and wait.
He walked out of the room and across the parking lot, leaving his door open. The ground was still a little wet from yesterday’s rain, but the sky was clear and blue with rosy tinges at the horizon, and the morning air was already warm and humid. As he passed the Stars and Stripes heading toward downtown he spotted the hooker from the night before, still on duty. She gave him a friendly three-fingered salute. “Hey there, Grandpa. You get a good night’s sleep?”
“Uh-huh. Your shift about over?”
“Yeah. I shoulda gone home a while ago. Guess I just wasn’t sleepy.”
“I bet you hardly ever are,” Gunther said.
“Hah. You got that right. Plus it was so nice out after that rain.”
“See you later.”
“Okay. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she said, and as Gunther moved on he pondered what that could possibly include.
Dot had been awake since before dawn listening to the radio, drinking coffee, and smoking cigarettes. The news didn’t mention Gunther, which annoyed her, since the announcer droned on and on about some incomprehensible finance bill in the Senate or the Congress and how the president was expected to do this or that about it, and who gave a shit anyway? The DJ didn’t even know what it meant, she could hear in his voice that he was just reading it off a page. Next he gave the farm prices and last night’s baseball scores, and then he mentioned that the temperature at the airport was seventy, with today’s high expected at around a hundred and five and humid as a greenhouse. If you’re going outside today, he said, now’s the time to do it. She looked out the window and thought it looked nice out on the back porch, the morning light still soft and diffused and even a slight breeze stirring the branches. A little dewy, maybe, but she could put a towel down on one of the old metal chairs. She’d leave the door open so she could hear the phone.
Outside it was gorgeous. She sat at the little table, drinking from her mug and finding herself comforted a little. The mere absence of the sound of the country station was unexpectedly pleasant, and she realized that the DJ’s deliberately upbeat twang had been jangling her nerves.
She watched a robin pulling a worm up out of the ground and thought of Sidney, aged five or so, watching the same thing one morning and wanting to rescue the worm, running at the bird with his arms flailing and crying furiously, fists clenched, when the bird flew away with the worm in its beak.
He’d been a serious and solitary little boy, and he wasn’t much different as a man. His last girlfriend was gone now and Sidney hadn’t wanted to talk about why. Gunther had seen it coming, though, even with his memory gone south on him; she’s an educated person, he’d said, she wants someone she can introduce at her college reunion and say here’s my husband the dentist, or professor, or lawyer, not here’s my husband the nudie show tycoon.
The robin finished extracting the worm, then flitted into a tree in the yard behind hers where its nest must have been, and as she watched it go the phone rang. She was inside so fast she had it before the third ring. “Mrs. Fahnstiel? Dr. Mercer. Just checking in.” His voice was cheerful and soothing.
She looked at the clock. It was seven-fifteen in the morning, too early for any but an emergency call as far as she was concerned. “Mister Mercer. Where the hell were you brought up that you call people for no reason before eight in the morning?” That she’d been up since four forty-five was irrelevant; it was a question of manners.
Despite yesterday’s skirmish he’d clearly been expecting a friendlier greeting. “I’m sorry—”
“Sorry doesn’t cut the mustard. Call me when you get my husband back.”
She slammed the receiver down, then filled her mug and went back outside. It was a little warmer already, the sky a little bluer, and she wondered what Gunther was doing right then. The worst
He walked out of the room and across the parking lot, leaving his door open. The ground was still a little wet from yesterday’s rain, but the sky was clear and blue with rosy tinges at the horizon, and the morning air was already warm and humid. As he passed the Stars and Stripes heading toward downtown he spotted the hooker from the night before, still on duty. She gave him a friendly three-fingered salute. “Hey there, Grandpa. You get a good night’s sleep?”
“Uh-huh. Your shift about over?”
“Yeah. I shoulda gone home a while ago. Guess I just wasn’t sleepy.”
“I bet you hardly ever are,” Gunther said.
“Hah. You got that right. Plus it was so nice out after that rain.”
“See you later.”
“Okay. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she said, and as Gunther moved on he pondered what that could possibly include.
Dot had been awake since before dawn listening to the radio, drinking coffee, and smoking cigarettes. The news didn’t mention Gunther, which annoyed her, since the announcer droned on and on about some incomprehensible finance bill in the Senate or the Congress and how the president was expected to do this or that about it, and who gave a shit anyway? The DJ didn’t even know what it meant, she could hear in his voice that he was just reading it off a page. Next he gave the farm prices and last night’s baseball scores, and then he mentioned that the temperature at the airport was seventy, with today’s high expected at around a hundred and five and humid as a greenhouse. If you’re going outside today, he said, now’s the time to do it. She looked out the window and thought it looked nice out on the back porch, the morning light still soft and diffused and even a slight breeze stirring the branches. A little dewy, maybe, but she could put a towel down on one of the old metal chairs. She’d leave the door open so she could hear the phone.
Outside it was gorgeous. She sat at the little table, drinking from her mug and finding herself comforted a little. The mere absence of the sound of the country station was unexpectedly pleasant, and she realized that the DJ’s deliberately upbeat twang had been jangling her nerves.
She watched a robin pulling a worm up out of the ground and thought of Sidney, aged five or so, watching the same thing one morning and wanting to rescue the worm, running at the bird with his arms flailing and crying furiously, fists clenched, when the bird flew away with the worm in its beak.
He’d been a serious and solitary little boy, and he wasn’t much different as a man. His last girlfriend was gone now and Sidney hadn’t wanted to talk about why. Gunther had seen it coming, though, even with his memory gone south on him; she’s an educated person, he’d said, she wants someone she can introduce at her college reunion and say here’s my husband the dentist, or professor, or lawyer, not here’s my husband the nudie show tycoon.
The robin finished extracting the worm, then flitted into a tree in the yard behind hers where its nest must have been, and as she watched it go the phone rang. She was inside so fast she had it before the third ring. “Mrs. Fahnstiel? Dr. Mercer. Just checking in.” His voice was cheerful and soothing.
She looked at the clock. It was seven-fifteen in the morning, too early for any but an emergency call as far as she was concerned. “Mister Mercer. Where the hell were you brought up that you call people for no reason before eight in the morning?” That she’d been up since four forty-five was irrelevant; it was a question of manners.
Despite yesterday’s skirmish he’d clearly been expecting a friendlier greeting. “I’m sorry—”
“Sorry doesn’t cut the mustard. Call me when you get my husband back.”
She slammed the receiver down, then filled her mug and went back outside. It was a little warmer already, the sky a little bluer, and she wondered what Gunther was doing right then. The worst
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