Sutton by J.R. Moehringer

Author:J.R. Moehringer
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Hyperion
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

FOURTEEN

Willie sits on the steps of the library, waiting for it to open. In the last few months he’s managed to scrounge a few temporary things in the wants. A job mopping floors in an office building—then the boss had to cut back. A job cleaning toilets at the bus station—then the regular guy returned. He’s nearly out of money. He has no family, no friends, besides Marcus, who’s in even worse shape than Willie. He needs to find something permanent, right now, or else.

The library unlocks its doors. Willie runs upstairs to the reading room, grabs an armful of newspapers, settles into a chair. He goes through the wants slowly, hopefully, twice. Nothing. He rubs his eyes, massages his temples.

He turns briefly to the news pages. Four million out of work. Thirteen hundred banks belly-up—this year. Next year the number is expected to be two or three times higher. He crumples the newspaper, tosses it on the floor. The librarians give him a look. He storms out.

He feels the sidewalk poking through a new hole in his shoes. Before he can think about the hole and how he’s going to afford new shoes, his infected tooth starts to throb. He puts a hand to his jaw. He can bear it most days, but today it’s pulsing. He walks and walks, fighting his rage, his hunger, and eventually finds himself before a bank. He gazes at the marble columns, the gold and brass eagles around the front door. He watches customers come and go. He watches the security guard lock up.

Closing time—already? How many hours have passed? He must have fallen into a stupor.

He stumbles back to his flop. He’s paid up for one more week. Then what? He lies on the lumpy bed, pulls the sour-smelling coverlet to his chin. It smells of the previous occupant. And the previous, and the previous. He imagines them all lying here, worrying about the same thing. He nods off.

He wakes drenched with sweat, his neighbor banging the wall. Shaddap in there! Willie must have been screaming in his sleep again. The room is pitch dark. He doesn’t know what time it is. He pawned his clock. But he can tell from the number of lights in the buildings across the street—it’s late. He goes to the basin, wets his wash rag, presses it to his face and neck. He puts on his coat and hat, goes for a walk. He finds himself back at the bank. Across the street is a drugstore. Its front window casts a trapezoid of white-purple light on the sidewalk. Willie stands just outside the trapezoid. He looks at the windows of all the buildings around him. Each window is a story. Probably like his. He makes up the stories, tells them to himself, one after another, stories about people tired, sick, scared, broke. Then he looks at the bank. And looks. An hour passes. Three. The bank’s security guard appears. Willie sees him unlock the door. Creeping

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