Read Online The Year We Left Home by Jean Thompson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jean Thompson
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steaks for dinner. Tomatoes, green beans, and bakery rolls. Say the word, I’ll get supper on the table in two shakes.” Now that he was awake he was hollowed out with hunger. The beer sloshed inside him.
“Maybe in a little.”
“Will Elton be here?” Elton was Deb’s teenage son, who mostly lived with them.
“I don’t know.”
She wasn’t going to give him the time of day, just freeze him out. “Hey,” he said. “Big Chief Stone Face.” He laughed, har-de-har. Deb was Indian, and sometimes he could kid her about that. Not now.
She lifted her beer as if it drink it, then put it down again. “You could have cleaned the place up a little.”
“Those dishes? They’ll take me thirty seconds. Watch me.” Now he remembered that he’d put a load of clothes in the washer but had forgotten to transfer them to the dryer. With any luck he could sneak down to the basement and get the dryer going before she noticed.
“So why aren’t they done already? What’d you do all day instead?Are you listening, Ray? I get up at six in the morning, I spend eight solid hours—”
“All right,” he said, but not fast enough.
“—getting phone calls from people who have real, actual things wrong with them, I mean they can’t walk, or breathe, or crap, and them I feel sorry for, not somebody who’s, what do you call it? ‘Struggling with a sense of vocation’?”
“That was a joke.”
“Yeah, like you’re always so funny.” She looked around her as if seeking the source for her disgust. “Your garden’s not doing shit.”
“Give it a little more time.” They’d eaten lettuce and radishes early on, but the hot-weather vegetables, tomatoes and peppers and corn, were struggling. It was just too cool and gray here, nothing like summer should be. The corn was especially pitiful, a few scrawny stalks that were never going to produce ears. Anyone from back home would have laughed himself silly over it. Back home they grew hybrids so tough and sturdy, they’d stop a car.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Watch me. There’s a couple things in the newspaper I’m going to check out.”
“Good plan.”
It wasn’t like he never worked. He’d put in three weeks on a loading dock, he cleaned carpets for a realtor, he had a builder who called him whenever he had a demo job. But he wasn’t the career type. Deb knew that by now. She just had to kick up a fuss every so often.
“How about I get busy with supper,” he said coaxingly. “Kitchen patrol.” He was starving and there was a taste in his mouth like old rags. “Need another beer?”
She shook her head. He extricated himself from the sagging chair and held out a hand to help her up. Deb was on the squatty side and sometimes she had trouble. “I’m gonna sit out here for a while,” she said.
“Suit yourself.” She’d get over it. She always did. He thought she sort of liked having that big pile of resentments and disappointments to rev herself up with.
He got the clothes in the dryer rolling and started in on the dishes. They were only dishes and not that big a deal. The front-door lock rattled. Elton was home.
Elton went into his bedroom and cranked up his music. Ray didn’t like admitting it because it made him feel about sixty years old, but he hated a lot of the music these days. It was just volume, screaming, without any soul or melody or anything else that scratched you where you itched.
Elton was in the bathroom now. He stayed there a long time. When he came into the kitchen, Ray said, “What’s up, Big Man?”
Elton didn’t answer right away. It was a teenage thing, and Ray understood that. The music did most of the talking for him, crashing and shrieking from the bedroom, its moron refrain: “High-voltage rock ’n’ roll, high-voltage ROCK ’N’ ROLL!”
“Dinner in fifteen, twenty minutes.” Ray had the kitchen all polished and wiped down and was getting his pans organized. Elton wasn’t waiting. He made himself a
“Maybe in a little.”
“Will Elton be here?” Elton was Deb’s teenage son, who mostly lived with them.
“I don’t know.”
She wasn’t going to give him the time of day, just freeze him out. “Hey,” he said. “Big Chief Stone Face.” He laughed, har-de-har. Deb was Indian, and sometimes he could kid her about that. Not now.
She lifted her beer as if it drink it, then put it down again. “You could have cleaned the place up a little.”
“Those dishes? They’ll take me thirty seconds. Watch me.” Now he remembered that he’d put a load of clothes in the washer but had forgotten to transfer them to the dryer. With any luck he could sneak down to the basement and get the dryer going before she noticed.
“So why aren’t they done already? What’d you do all day instead?Are you listening, Ray? I get up at six in the morning, I spend eight solid hours—”
“All right,” he said, but not fast enough.
“—getting phone calls from people who have real, actual things wrong with them, I mean they can’t walk, or breathe, or crap, and them I feel sorry for, not somebody who’s, what do you call it? ‘Struggling with a sense of vocation’?”
“That was a joke.”
“Yeah, like you’re always so funny.” She looked around her as if seeking the source for her disgust. “Your garden’s not doing shit.”
“Give it a little more time.” They’d eaten lettuce and radishes early on, but the hot-weather vegetables, tomatoes and peppers and corn, were struggling. It was just too cool and gray here, nothing like summer should be. The corn was especially pitiful, a few scrawny stalks that were never going to produce ears. Anyone from back home would have laughed himself silly over it. Back home they grew hybrids so tough and sturdy, they’d stop a car.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Watch me. There’s a couple things in the newspaper I’m going to check out.”
“Good plan.”
It wasn’t like he never worked. He’d put in three weeks on a loading dock, he cleaned carpets for a realtor, he had a builder who called him whenever he had a demo job. But he wasn’t the career type. Deb knew that by now. She just had to kick up a fuss every so often.
“How about I get busy with supper,” he said coaxingly. “Kitchen patrol.” He was starving and there was a taste in his mouth like old rags. “Need another beer?”
She shook her head. He extricated himself from the sagging chair and held out a hand to help her up. Deb was on the squatty side and sometimes she had trouble. “I’m gonna sit out here for a while,” she said.
“Suit yourself.” She’d get over it. She always did. He thought she sort of liked having that big pile of resentments and disappointments to rev herself up with.
He got the clothes in the dryer rolling and started in on the dishes. They were only dishes and not that big a deal. The front-door lock rattled. Elton was home.
Elton went into his bedroom and cranked up his music. Ray didn’t like admitting it because it made him feel about sixty years old, but he hated a lot of the music these days. It was just volume, screaming, without any soul or melody or anything else that scratched you where you itched.
Elton was in the bathroom now. He stayed there a long time. When he came into the kitchen, Ray said, “What’s up, Big Man?”
Elton didn’t answer right away. It was a teenage thing, and Ray understood that. The music did most of the talking for him, crashing and shrieking from the bedroom, its moron refrain: “High-voltage rock ’n’ roll, high-voltage ROCK ’N’ ROLL!”
“Dinner in fifteen, twenty minutes.” Ray had the kitchen all polished and wiped down and was getting his pans organized. Elton wasn’t waiting. He made himself a
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