Between Here and the Yellow Sea by Nic Pizzolatto

Author:Nic Pizzolatto [Pizzolatto, Nic]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Crime, Short Stories (Single Author)
ISBN: 9781596929135
Google: LL_ZAgAAQBAJ
Amazon: B0022NH8IK
Goodreads: 7896031
Publisher: MP Publishing
Published: 2006-05-15T12:00:00+00:00

The next morning Hoyt woke to the sound of loud whooping. The wall thumped. His dad had been sleeping with a woman named Miss Tilly for the past few weeks. She danced at T-Back’s over in Westlake. The week before, they’d been eating pancakes and Miss Tilly had popped open her robe, flashed one breast at Hoyt and winked. He thought about that as he finally got out of bed. He waited until he heard the sound of her Jeep leaving before exiting his room. He heard his father grunting through his morning push-ups. He poured a bowl of cornflakes and ate. His father appeared a few minutes later wearing a blue jogging suit. Where Hoyt’s body was soft, sloping and round, his father’s was tight, muscled. He told Hoyt “good morning,” drank the rest of the orange juice, and went for a run.

Strange things had been happening in their house. Hoyt heard late-night phone conversations, his father’s voice raised in anger. He found his father home at noon, drinking whiskey and smoking cigarettes in silence. His father had started to bring home boxes, something he’d never done before, boxes labeled Sunrise Palms. The week before Hoyt had found three thick rolls of hundred-dollar bills in his father’s sock drawer.

After two home invasions in their neighborhood, Hoyt’s father had installed an American Security 9000 alarm system. It had motion detectors. If you crossed an invisible barrier, high electric wailing commenced. Hoyt knew there were voids in the radio waves that caged their house. He couldn’t know where they were, though. The unobstructed entrance to his home eluded him.

Inside, there were no pictures decorating the house. Walls were empty and bookshelves bare. There used to be many photos of Hoyt’s mother, but they had gradually disappeared, and finally, one day years ago, his father had told Hoyt that it was time they both moved on. Then all the pictures came down. Hoyt remembered a couple times with his mother that had terrified him as a child. They told him that she was a danger to herself and others, that she wouldn’t want to hurt him, not really, but she might.

When he was six she was delivered to a gated white building that stood alone in green and open country. Ever since then, Hoyt had felt the house was locked into a certain moment. Shortly after the pictures came down Hoyt’s father began exercising relentlessly, devoting long hours to his real estate agency. He was tan. His teeth got whiter.

His father hadn’t mentioned the new rug in the dining room. Hoyt looked at it. Blue and white with a muted bird pattern, the rug lay in a column of sun. The rug appeared to Hoyt in Wal-Mart, and he’d felt the familiar impulse to possess something. This was a constant impulse and unpredictably particular. The things he shoplifted often seemed random and useless. During his quieter moments he was conscious of a thousand vague desires tugging at him, yet the objects of these wants were always changing.

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