The Full Catastrophe by David Carkeet

Author:David Carkeet [Carkeet, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Humorous, FIC000000, LAN009000
ISBN: 9780671643195
Google: z8ZcMkf-m6UC
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 17554080
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 1990-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Thirteen

Cook scampered around his room, peeling his dirty clothes off as if they were on fire. He dashed to the bathroom, splashed water all over himself, and hustled to his armoire to grab a clean shirt and pair of pants. Meanwhile, Dan had yelled greetings to the woman from the roof and was making progress in establishing who she was. He shouted down that he was surprised to learn Jeremy had a friend in St. Louis. Cook listened for the mystery woman’s response, but it was minimal. Dan continued to bellow in a friendly way.

Cook groaned, grabbed his coat and tie, and hurried out the bedroom door, dressing as he ran down the stairs. Beth was just crossing the entryway to the front door, drawn by Dan’s shouting from above. Meanwhile, Robbie, installed at the living room window, hollered, “What a babe!”

“Quick!” Cook said as he hurried to beat Beth to the door. “A nice restaurant nearby. Quick!”

“What?” said Beth.

“Name me a nice restaurant. Quick!”

“Well, there are lots of good restaurants in the Loop,” Beth said thoughtfully. “I don’t know what you mean by nice, but—”

“Vava voom!” Robbie sang out.

“I want fancy,” Cook said to Beth. “Expensive. Come on.”

“Well, there’s Topper’s in Clayton,” said Beth, a little flustered. “What’s going on?”

“How do I get there?”

“Mucho foxo!”

“Robbie, stop that shouting!” Beth yelled. Frowning, she gave Cook directions to the restaurant. Cook flung open the door, shot out, and slammed it shut behind him.

The mystery woman stood on the porch like some six-foot trophy permanently anchored there. Six-foot? Yes. She went up, and she went out as well. She wore a white leather dress with no straps or sleeves or belt or anything. It seemed suspended by its own devices—though he knew it was her devices doing it. Their eyes met and Cook’s immediately glanced off in an awkward ricochet. He couldn’t look at her face. It was like looking at the sun.

“Are you …” he began, but stopped short. Christ, how should he put it? “Do you come from Roy Pillow?”

Something unusual happened to his words. They didn’t reach her. He could almost see them—a continuous stream flowing from his mouth, straight and well propelled at the outset, but then falling at her feet. Granted, his question was odd—his syntax was that of an international spy, or a Freemason deep in a ritual. Still, he had never experienced such a blunt nonresponse.

“Your collar is all funny,” she said. Her voice was flat, but because it came from her it attacked him behind the knees, making him jelly-legged. He reached up and found that one side of his jacket collar stuck up like a cowlick. He straightened it.

“Is that better?” he asked. It was an intimate thing—the little comment, the correction, the reinspection. Here, now, it was grotesque.

“I’m Jeremy Cook,” he said. His name suddenly sounded funny to him.

“I want to learn all about you,” she said. This was a lie. Cook knew it from her vapid tone as well as by pure deduction: no one who looked like this could ever want to learn anything about him.

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