the Story Of Edgar Sawtelle (2008) by Wroblewski David

Author:Wroblewski, David [David, Wroblewski,]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2010-12-19T00:41:09.656000+00:00

P-O-P-C-O-

Don't fucking fingerspell at me, Claude shouted. Let up on thegas !

And then, before Edgar could react, Claude reached past him and flipped the transmission lever up into neutral. From where he sat, Claude couldn't have seen the shifter window in the dashboard, so it had to have been a wild guess, and he might easily have thrown it into reverse instead. That was an interesting possibility, and one Edgar hadn't considered before. What happened if you dropped into reverse going, what, sixty-four miles an hour? No, make that fifty-eight. Fifty.

The sound of the Impala's engine, roaring while in gear, now rose to a shriek, as if it might leap from its moorings. Claude twisted the key and the engine died. They drifted to a stop. For a while there was just the sound of the two of them panting and a clicking, thumping sound. Edgar looked down and discovered his foot spastically pumping the gas pedal. Their plume of dust caught up with them, then swept past, a dry, brown fog. The cooling engine block made a low ticking sound.

When do I learn to parallel park? Edgar signed. I hear that's tricky.

Claude pulled the keys out of the ignition and sat back in the passenger seat. He couldn't possibly have understood what Edgar had signed, but he started to laugh anyway. Pretty soon he was howling and slapping his knee. Edgar got out of the car and began to walk back up the road toward the house, two or three miles distant. Behind him, he heard the passenger door slam and the crunch of footsteps on gravel. The starter on the Impala whined and stopped, whined and stopped.

Before Edgar had gotten far up the road, Claude had backed the car around and then it was rolling along beside Edgar. The engine made a wounded sound and something was tapping or clicking under the hood. Wha-ting! Wha-ting! Wha-ting! Tingtingtingtingtingtingtingtingting!

Guess I had it wrong about driving, Claude said. No hard feelings?

Edgar walked along.

While you're enjoying your stroll, you might want to consider that you and I have people in common. Your mother, for instance.

And my father, he signed.

Claude couldn't help trying to read his sign, even when Edgar flashed it out. The Impala rolled alongside him while Claude replayed the gestures in his mind.

Yeah, likewise, Claude said, taking a wild guess. Then he gave the Impala the gas. It knocked and stuttered down the road. He'd gone about a half mile toward the house before the car slid to a stop again and he climbed out.

You'rejust like your father! Goddamn it all! he shouted, kicking the gravel. Then he turned and climbed into the Impala and roared away.

Trudy IFTRUDY HADN'T BEEN PREOCCUPIED AS SHE DROVE TOMELLEN, she might have felt pleasure in the trip, for it was one of those perfectly warm June days when the sun felt like a voluptuous and reassuring hand pressing down on a person's skin. Ordinarily she liked the radio, but the roar of air past the truck window was best for thinking, and Edgar was on her mind.

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