Round Rock - Michelle Huneven [64]
She felt better after catching a decent catfish—about a pound, maybe more—and better yet after catching another. She gave both to two young men who were trying to fish with string and gnawed-on chicken bones. The men spoke no English and appeared to be living in the hills. She also gave them one of her bamboo poles, some hooks, and the rest of her pork livers, which, she feared, they probably cooked up with the fish over a campfire for lunch.
RED INVITED her to dinner on Tuesday night, and she was surprised not to see Lewis there. He was invited, Red said, but claimed to have overdue schoolwork. She downplayed her disappointment. She promised to take Joe fishing again, and they set a date for the following Sunday. Then, Joe showed her the eggs.
The cradled eggs did not look good, and in fact they were quite cloudy, almost opaque, whereas the control eggs in the cupboard had only a skin of white foam. “Whatever you do,” Libby told Joe, “don’t drop them.”
“YOU ASLEEP?” Lewis asked.
What did he think? It was past eleven on Thursday night. “Where are you?” she asked.
“At Denny’s in Buchanan.”
She was too sleepy to make sense of this. “You coming over?”
“I’m real busy this week,” he said. “I’ve got to get these incompletes out of the way. I thought I should check in, though.”
“Oh.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I didn’t know why you weren’t calling.”
“I’m busy. That’s all.”
She pushed herself up into a sitting position, wanting to say something she couldn’t say while horizontal. If you’re going to start with the weird stuff, let’s just cut it off cleanly. …
He began to talk as if she’d actually spoken. “Libby, I’m no good at meeting expectations. I go right into reverse. I really do have a lot of work right now. I’ve lost seven months to getting sober. I don’t know where I’ve been. Detoxifying. In a sexual fog. It’s been great, too, but now I’ve got to get out from under this academic wreckage. I miss you, though. Tell me—are you outside?”
“No. In my room.”
“Got any clothes on?”
“Lewis …”
“Okay. Be that way. But I’ll see you soon. Don’t worry. We’ll get together. If I don’t blow town first. Just joking. Don’t worry. I’ll show up one of these days. That’s the tiling. I’m sober now. That’s what sober people do. Suit up and show up.”
She had trouble sleeping for the rest of the night, a stomachache high up under her ribs.
“YOU LOOK like hell,” Billie whispered to her. “Get your brains fucked out last night?”
“Shhh …” Libby checked to see if either Bill had heard. They were at Happy Yolanda’s for breakfast. “No such luck,” she whispered.
“Too bad,” Billie whispered back, then said in normal tones, “Here’s the thing. Dad and I want to give you a no-interest loan.”
“That’s so sweet of you,” Libby said, as noncommitally as she could. She smiled at Old Bill. He nodded gravely and looked away. Old Bill was eighty-eight years old, slight and elegant, with snow-white hair and, as always in the summer, oatmeal-colored linen slacks and a white shirt. Libby was never certain how much Old Bill heard; he was, according to Billie, selectively deaf. Although Billie related stories of verbal cruelty, Libby had never known Old Bill to be anything but flawlessly polite.
When Red Ray and Joe walked in, Billie had them pull up a table. “Help me convince Libby to build a house on her property.”
Red sat down next to her. “Sounds like a good idea.”
“I don’t even know if I want to stay,” Libby said. “Besides, I’d have no idea what to build.”
“I thought the bastard left you plans,” said Billie.
“Too expensive,” Libby said. “And awful. All cement and steel, like a jail.” She stopped, struck by her own observation: Stockton had designed them a jail!
“What kind of house do you like?” asked Red.
“Tiny, since that’s all I could afford.”
“Money aside,” said Billie. “If you could have any kind of structure, what would it be?”
“What I like they don’t build anymore. Something wooden and old-fashioned. A classic orchard