Jump Cut by Robert R. Irvine

Author:Robert R. Irvine
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blackstone Audio
Published: 2014-06-23T17:03:17+00:00

SIXTEEN

Sparrows, fluffed twice their normal size by wind, watched me from the tall TV antenna that projected from Curt Gordon’s roof. They looked cold, but it was already eighty degrees and only 6:45 A.M. The heat-wave started its third day. Smoke still billowed from the hills above La Canada.

Curt’s uncontained enthusiasm spilled on me when he opened the front door. “Everything’s working out perfectly,” he announced. “Sandy’s coming home from the hospital tomorrow at noon, and we should be back in time for me to pick her up.” He looked at me to confirm the timetable.

“Yeah. We can get the early morning flight out of Albuquerque.”

“Great!” Curt led me into the kitchen. It took him a moment to find two clean cups. He panned the kitchen, pretending to film the piles of dirty dishes and pots that were everywhere. “It’s a good thing Sandy’s mother is coming over this afternoon to clean this place up.” Curt gave me a sheepish, little-boy smile. “Toast?” he offered.

“No thanks. Besides, how could you manage it?”

He grinned. “It’s already made.” With the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, Curt opened the oven and produced a plate of toast. He carried it to the cluttered breakfast table, then loaded a piece with marmalade and munched it happily, sipping coffee between each bite. The English marmalade—by appointment to Her Majesty—tempted me, but I resisted and felt like a saint.

“Mmm,” Curt sounded in mid-swallow, “the baby looks like Sandra, but it has my eyes.”

“Every new father says exactly the same thing.”

“How many new fathers have you talked to?”

“You’re the first one.”

He laughed and spread a quarter-inch layer of marmalade on another piece of toast. After washing it down absentmindedly with coffee, he said, “No kidding, Bob, the kid really looks like her. I guess he really should have been a girl.” But he looked pleased with himself and his son.

Finishing off my meager, unsweetened toast, I asked, “Have you decided on a name?”

Curt flashed me a sly look. “We went for ‘Junior’ after all.”

I nodded.

“And something else,” he added. “How do you like ‘Curt Robert Gordon?’”

I was stunned and didn’t know what to say. “The ‘Robert’ is for you,” he explained.

“Curt …” I couldn’t get anything out. He saw my embarrassment and clapped me on the shoulder. Then to cover the silence he poured more coffee.

“Curt,” I began, “that’s an honor, and the nicest thing that’s ever happened to me.” I grinned sheepishly. A long swallow of coffee went down like it had corners and ended in a square knot at the bottom of my esophagus.

Not knowing what else to say, Curt bent over another piece of toast, applying marmalade as if it were a money­making opportunity.

Morning light streamed into the kitchen, amplified by bright yellow curtains. A Happy Face on the wall which doubled as clock showed 7:15.

“I guess we’d better get going,” I announced. “We’ve got to meet the soundman at the airport.”

“Yep.” Curt jumped to his feet, coffee cup still in hand.

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