[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.“Yes.”“I’ll think about it,” she said, tossing the reply airily over her shoulder as she walked toward the house.Then, louder, she asked, “Have you had lunch?”He followed her into the house and they wound up back in the kitchen.She removed her wind jacket and he could smell the sweat simmer in the navy blue fleece that molded her torso.Looking for something to do, he approached the red light on the Mr.Coffee and poured the inky dregs into the cup he’d used this morning.“That’s been warming all day,” she said.Broker shrugged and continued to pour.She fluffed her hair and faced the cupboards.“It’s always a challenge, finding your way around a stranger’s kitchen.”Broker took his evil coffee to the table and sat down.She moved to the refrigerator, opened it, and inspected the shelves.She took out a plastic container.“Ostrich chili?”“Sounds good.”The social temperature in the kitchen gradually warmed as she found a pot, put it on the stove, played with the gas settings, then pried the cover off the Tupperware container.After she gave him a second medium-stern look, he finally got it and rose from his chair and searched the cupboards for bowls and silverware and glasses, which he arranged in two place settings on the table.“So, how did it go with Milton Dane?”“We talked,” Broker said.“Did you give a formal deposition? I mean, did he ask you questions about me?”“Like what?”“You saw Nancy leave her post.You were in the recovery room after it happened.”“No,” Broker said.“We never got around to that.Not today.”“The wife,” Amy said, spooning globs of cold chili into a black pot.“You got it.The wife, the boyfriend, the money.Hank adrift in limbo.”She turned.“You left yourself out of the cast.”“I don’t belong in it.I’m just passing through.”“What about the accountant?”“I think he was the victim of foul play, I think it involved Hank’s money, and I think her ex-boyfriend was in up to his neck.But I can’t prove it.So I have to let it go for now.”Amy set the flame under the pot and looked through the clipboards until she found a package of Saltine crackers.She twisted her lips in a wondering expression and went to the refrigerator.“I saw this article in The New York Times Magazine about black people’s kitchens and white people’s kitchens.”“Yeah?”“Whites have Coke in the refrigerator.Blacks have Pepsi.” She opened the door.There was a two-liter, plastic bottle of Diet Pepsi in the lower door shelf.They both shrugged.The small mystery contributed to the gradual warming in the kitchen: tiny taste bursts of tomato sauce and chili powder popped over the simmering pot; a film of steam blotted the corners of the window over the sink.“You’re different today.So what’s changed?” she asked.“I figured out the difference between attraction and propulsion.”“Oh, boy, physics.” Amy evaluated him warily.“Sometimes if you find yourself hurtling toward someone it might not be attraction so much as what you’re running away from.”Amy smiled cynically.“The wife.”“No, someone,” Broker protested.“So this is hypothetical?” she asked.“Not exactly.”“The wife,” Amy repeated.“Okay, for the purposes of argument.Say I go over to Jolene’s place to return Hank’s vehicle and I have suspicions about the accountant’s death which I can’t make pan out.But I’m feeling bad about what happened to Hank and I see her dealing with these problems so I sort of step in.”“Step in?” Amy was amused.“Yeah, you know.” Broker gestured with his hands.“I got an idea what you stepped in,” Amy said.Broker objected.“That’s not the point.What I’m trying to say is I have all this.” His hands attempted to manipulate an invisible object in the air.“.stuff in my life that’s hanging fire—Nina leaving with my kid, my marriage—and I wasn’t dealing with it.So I’m rebounding off that.It explains, but does not excuse, getting involved too quick in—”“Oh, so now you’re involved?”“No, I mean, if my life were in order I probably wouldn’t have stuck my nose in.”“Oh, now it’s your nose?” On the stove, the chili was starting to simmer.“You’re not listening to me,” Broker said, getting a little hot himself.“Sure I am,” she said too casually.“You went to bed with her; what’s the big deal?”“Amy?”“That’s not an answer.You went to bed with her and now you feel bad about it and you expect me to give you.sympathy? Now suddenly you want to take me to dinner.”Amy flipped the box of Saltines across the room.It hit Broker’s chest and spiraled to the floor.“Make your own goddamn lunch.”She paced the length of the room, wheeled around, and quipped, “So what did you do with Hank? Stuff him in the closet?”“I thought we were having a serious conversation,” Broker said, standing up suddenly, rattling the bowls and silverware on the table.“How can we have a serious conversation when you won’t tell me the truth,” Amy said.They stared at each other as a cloud of scorched chili reared in the air.“The truth,” Broker said with a perplexed look on his face.“A basis for trust,” Amy said, speaking in her best practical voice.“Look,” he gave in, “it only happened—”“How typical,” Amy smiled sweetly as she spun, walked from the kitchen, through the living room, and up the stairs.The pot on the stove puffed out black fumes, the smoke alarm on the ceiling began to shriek.He heard her footfalls continue to stomp in the hall upstairs.A door slammed.Broker got up on a chair and hit the reset button on the alarm.Then he jumped off the chair, grabbed the pot of burnt chili, and—Ow—immediately drew back his hand.He looked around for a towel, found one hanging over the sink, grabbed the pot handle a second time with the towel, and carried it out to the porch.When he came back in, the alarm was screeching again, so he opened the window over the sink, searched for the switch to the ceiling fan, found it, turned on the fan, then climbed back on the chair and turned the alarm off.Wreathes of smoke hung in the air like the aftermath of battle.Okay.Get out of the house.Feed the birds.The nimble clouds of an hour ago now massed into cold gobs.The wind had acquired knuckles.Hunched over, Broker walked through little squalls of swirling leaves toward the outer paddocks.As he neared them, a crowd of curious hens drifted along the fence line, their stubby wings slightly lowered to warm their long legs.Their big eyes fixed on him like cartoon question marks.He glanced up at winter clouds in October and very much wanted this detour in his life to be over.He ducked into the first paddock and was soon busy, elbowing his way through clumsy hens who crowded around him as he dumped five-gallon plastic buckets of feed into bins.The bigger males hung back while their harems fed.If one put in an appearance, mindful of J.T.’s warnings, Broker exited the pens and just heaved the feed sidelong at the bins over the gates.In each paddock he checked to make sure the water reservoirs were full.Half an hour later he came back up the gravel path toward the barn [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.“Yes.”“I’ll think about it,” she said, tossing the reply airily over her shoulder as she walked toward the house.Then, louder, she asked, “Have you had lunch?”He followed her into the house and they wound up back in the kitchen.She removed her wind jacket and he could smell the sweat simmer in the navy blue fleece that molded her torso.Looking for something to do, he approached the red light on the Mr.Coffee and poured the inky dregs into the cup he’d used this morning.“That’s been warming all day,” she said.Broker shrugged and continued to pour.She fluffed her hair and faced the cupboards.“It’s always a challenge, finding your way around a stranger’s kitchen.”Broker took his evil coffee to the table and sat down.She moved to the refrigerator, opened it, and inspected the shelves.She took out a plastic container.“Ostrich chili?”“Sounds good.”The social temperature in the kitchen gradually warmed as she found a pot, put it on the stove, played with the gas settings, then pried the cover off the Tupperware container.After she gave him a second medium-stern look, he finally got it and rose from his chair and searched the cupboards for bowls and silverware and glasses, which he arranged in two place settings on the table.“So, how did it go with Milton Dane?”“We talked,” Broker said.“Did you give a formal deposition? I mean, did he ask you questions about me?”“Like what?”“You saw Nancy leave her post.You were in the recovery room after it happened.”“No,” Broker said.“We never got around to that.Not today.”“The wife,” Amy said, spooning globs of cold chili into a black pot.“You got it.The wife, the boyfriend, the money.Hank adrift in limbo.”She turned.“You left yourself out of the cast.”“I don’t belong in it.I’m just passing through.”“What about the accountant?”“I think he was the victim of foul play, I think it involved Hank’s money, and I think her ex-boyfriend was in up to his neck.But I can’t prove it.So I have to let it go for now.”Amy set the flame under the pot and looked through the clipboards until she found a package of Saltine crackers.She twisted her lips in a wondering expression and went to the refrigerator.“I saw this article in The New York Times Magazine about black people’s kitchens and white people’s kitchens.”“Yeah?”“Whites have Coke in the refrigerator.Blacks have Pepsi.” She opened the door.There was a two-liter, plastic bottle of Diet Pepsi in the lower door shelf.They both shrugged.The small mystery contributed to the gradual warming in the kitchen: tiny taste bursts of tomato sauce and chili powder popped over the simmering pot; a film of steam blotted the corners of the window over the sink.“You’re different today.So what’s changed?” she asked.“I figured out the difference between attraction and propulsion.”“Oh, boy, physics.” Amy evaluated him warily.“Sometimes if you find yourself hurtling toward someone it might not be attraction so much as what you’re running away from.”Amy smiled cynically.“The wife.”“No, someone,” Broker protested.“So this is hypothetical?” she asked.“Not exactly.”“The wife,” Amy repeated.“Okay, for the purposes of argument.Say I go over to Jolene’s place to return Hank’s vehicle and I have suspicions about the accountant’s death which I can’t make pan out.But I’m feeling bad about what happened to Hank and I see her dealing with these problems so I sort of step in.”“Step in?” Amy was amused.“Yeah, you know.” Broker gestured with his hands.“I got an idea what you stepped in,” Amy said.Broker objected.“That’s not the point.What I’m trying to say is I have all this.” His hands attempted to manipulate an invisible object in the air.“.stuff in my life that’s hanging fire—Nina leaving with my kid, my marriage—and I wasn’t dealing with it.So I’m rebounding off that.It explains, but does not excuse, getting involved too quick in—”“Oh, so now you’re involved?”“No, I mean, if my life were in order I probably wouldn’t have stuck my nose in.”“Oh, now it’s your nose?” On the stove, the chili was starting to simmer.“You’re not listening to me,” Broker said, getting a little hot himself.“Sure I am,” she said too casually.“You went to bed with her; what’s the big deal?”“Amy?”“That’s not an answer.You went to bed with her and now you feel bad about it and you expect me to give you.sympathy? Now suddenly you want to take me to dinner.”Amy flipped the box of Saltines across the room.It hit Broker’s chest and spiraled to the floor.“Make your own goddamn lunch.”She paced the length of the room, wheeled around, and quipped, “So what did you do with Hank? Stuff him in the closet?”“I thought we were having a serious conversation,” Broker said, standing up suddenly, rattling the bowls and silverware on the table.“How can we have a serious conversation when you won’t tell me the truth,” Amy said.They stared at each other as a cloud of scorched chili reared in the air.“The truth,” Broker said with a perplexed look on his face.“A basis for trust,” Amy said, speaking in her best practical voice.“Look,” he gave in, “it only happened—”“How typical,” Amy smiled sweetly as she spun, walked from the kitchen, through the living room, and up the stairs.The pot on the stove puffed out black fumes, the smoke alarm on the ceiling began to shriek.He heard her footfalls continue to stomp in the hall upstairs.A door slammed.Broker got up on a chair and hit the reset button on the alarm.Then he jumped off the chair, grabbed the pot of burnt chili, and—Ow—immediately drew back his hand.He looked around for a towel, found one hanging over the sink, grabbed the pot handle a second time with the towel, and carried it out to the porch.When he came back in, the alarm was screeching again, so he opened the window over the sink, searched for the switch to the ceiling fan, found it, turned on the fan, then climbed back on the chair and turned the alarm off.Wreathes of smoke hung in the air like the aftermath of battle.Okay.Get out of the house.Feed the birds.The nimble clouds of an hour ago now massed into cold gobs.The wind had acquired knuckles.Hunched over, Broker walked through little squalls of swirling leaves toward the outer paddocks.As he neared them, a crowd of curious hens drifted along the fence line, their stubby wings slightly lowered to warm their long legs.Their big eyes fixed on him like cartoon question marks.He glanced up at winter clouds in October and very much wanted this detour in his life to be over.He ducked into the first paddock and was soon busy, elbowing his way through clumsy hens who crowded around him as he dumped five-gallon plastic buckets of feed into bins.The bigger males hung back while their harems fed.If one put in an appearance, mindful of J.T.’s warnings, Broker exited the pens and just heaved the feed sidelong at the bins over the gates.In each paddock he checked to make sure the water reservoirs were full.Half an hour later he came back up the gravel path toward the barn [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]