On Edge by Barbara Fister

Author:Barbara Fister [Fister, Barbar]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-48901-2
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2002-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 18

Ifter a while footsteps crossed the porch and I looked over to find Bobby standing there, his trousers dirty with dust and cobwebs, studying me warily. “What's going on?”

“I just talked to some people in Chicago. I'm going to lose my job.” It was hard to talk, my jaw was so tight.

“What about your lawyer? Won't your union—”

“I'm in no mood for an interrogation, Bobby, okay?”

“Well… fine. Only those files you asked about? I found them in storage.” He held an envelope up. His words made no sense to me, coming through a buzz of white noise. “Ah, forget it. I'll leave em inside for you.”

I stared him off the porch and then sat in one of the wooden chairs that faced the water and pulled out a cigarette. It was chilly, a little breeze skirling off the water, making it hard to light the match. I sat and smoked, concentrating on the monotonous hiss of the waves washing through the rocks below. Ruth came out, hugging herself in a sweater. “What are you doing out here?”

I felt that coiled rage stir at the back of my head. “Nothing. Just… nothing.” She started to pull a chair over. “Go away, Ruth. Please.”

She went back inside. I stared at the line that marked the horizon and focused on that big, empty sea in front of me. I'd fought off the anger, but it left me feeling wrung out and dazed, the way it always did.

Clicking sounds, nails on wood, and Chewie the collie came lolloping along the deck, coming up to lick at my hands, snuffle around my shoes, making loose thoughts rattle in my brain, chatter. It took all the energy I had to lift one hand and stroke the dog's head. He stuck his muzzle up to my face and licked my nose. Sylvester crouched down at my side, rubbing the collie's neck, burying both hands in his thick fur. “I was just checking some lumber stored under the porch,” he said softly. “Heard you talking. You’re in trouble?” He kept looking down at the dog, studying the furry head as he gently scratched his neck.

“I made a bad call. Depends on how you look at it.”

“You can get all confused, trying to figure it out. There's different attitudes. It all depends on how you look at it.”

“I guess. I don't know.”

“I've been thinking about what you said.” His voice was oddly quiet. “Different attitudes. People don't get that.”

“They don't understand anything.”

“I keep thinking about it. At night, especially, it keeps going around in my head.”

A couple of gulls coasted, wings outspread, held in place in the wind. Something started to take shape in the meaningless jangle in my head: Huh? What is this? Something I had said made him want to come back and talk some more.

“You wonder if it shows.” Sylvester's hands paused on the dog's neck until the collie turned and licked at his hand. “In your eyes or branded on your skin, because they all look at you so differently.

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