used to be proud of her ability to please him so completely, but lately her skills only left her feeling sad and empty. “Talk to me.”
“Oh . . .”
“Talk to me. Talk to me, Albert.”
“Yes. I will. I want to. I am. . . .”
“I said talk to me.” Her eyes were wide open. His choked, guttural cries rose up from the dark. The words, and feel, and smell of him didn’t matter. It was a voice she wanted, thick and deep with need, helpless with desire. Gordon. Gordon. Gordon. Gordon, beat the pulse in her brain.
CHAPTER 4
G ordon paused in his doorway before the ten-minute walk to the bus stop. He carried a small round watermelon in a plastic bag and a string-tied bakery box. What a luxury, what a privilege, to stand here staring through the thin glass of this door, his to open any time he wanted. The warmth of the late-afternoon sun made him smile as he watched a shabby old man hobble across the street. A small, matted dog limped after him.
The neighborhood was run-down, but its vitality was everywhere. Day or night there would be women on their front steps, children playing on the sidewalks, music blasting from idling cars driven by handsome young men who never seemed to leave them. Life might be a struggle here, but its energy charged the air, blind and unstoppable, as relentless a force as the thrust of new green shoots from the brittle rose canes; the clump of errant daffodils that had pushed up through the scrubby grass; the vines of bittersweet strangling Mrs. Jukas’s shrubs. Even her gnarled, dying dogwood tree was half-alive with pink flowers on one side. He opened his door just as the old woman opened hers. Seeing him, she ducked back inside. She probably thought he was watching her house. It would give her little comfort to know this was the way prisoners awaited release from their cells for meals, work, visitors: they stood like this, staring, waiting.
As he came down the walk, a girl ran around the corner. It was the girl who lived across the street. She dove through Mrs. Jukas’s bushes and disappeared behind her house. He hesitated, then just kept going. He knew the drill well. Nothing to see, nothing to know, old Jackie McBride would whisper. You don’t want to be here forever, do you?You’ve still got a chance, a life out there.
He started down the street for what would be his first trip of any distance alone into the world. Behind him, a car slowed and then drove alongside. He could only see the passenger, a young man with a curly black beard and small round sunglasses.
“Hey, buddy!” He stuck his head out the open window. Cupped in his palm was a badge. “A girl just run by here?”
“No, sir.” The automatic response, respectful—and blind.
“What do you mean? She just came around the corner!” He lifted the sunglasses to squint up at Gordon.
“I don’t know, sir. I just came out.” His heart raced. Imagine! How many times had he heard of this? How many times? Guys like him doing it right, all by the book—only to be trapped in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Out from where?”
“My house. That’s where I live. Seventy-five Clover.”
“Yeah, all right,” the cop said, and the unmarked cruiser pulled into the street.
Gordon was the only passenger on the bus. His stomach felt a little queasy, so he got off at the first stop in Dearborn. He still had a mile-and-a-half walk to Dennis’s. Apparently, not many people in Dearborn rode the bus. They all had cars, two or three or even four, he thought, counting the garage doors now on an enormous yellow house high on the knoll above the street.
He remembered that his brother’s house was gray. He had wanted to go straight home that first day out of Fortley. Dennis had insisted they stop in Dearborn. He couldn’t wait for Gordon to meet the children. And to see his spacious, sunny house. “Mom got such a kick out of this,” Dennis had said with a click of the remote control that triggered a whoosh of
“Oh . . .”
“Talk to me. Talk to me, Albert.”
“Yes. I will. I want to. I am. . . .”
“I said talk to me.” Her eyes were wide open. His choked, guttural cries rose up from the dark. The words, and feel, and smell of him didn’t matter. It was a voice she wanted, thick and deep with need, helpless with desire. Gordon. Gordon. Gordon. Gordon, beat the pulse in her brain.
CHAPTER 4
G ordon paused in his doorway before the ten-minute walk to the bus stop. He carried a small round watermelon in a plastic bag and a string-tied bakery box. What a luxury, what a privilege, to stand here staring through the thin glass of this door, his to open any time he wanted. The warmth of the late-afternoon sun made him smile as he watched a shabby old man hobble across the street. A small, matted dog limped after him.
The neighborhood was run-down, but its vitality was everywhere. Day or night there would be women on their front steps, children playing on the sidewalks, music blasting from idling cars driven by handsome young men who never seemed to leave them. Life might be a struggle here, but its energy charged the air, blind and unstoppable, as relentless a force as the thrust of new green shoots from the brittle rose canes; the clump of errant daffodils that had pushed up through the scrubby grass; the vines of bittersweet strangling Mrs. Jukas’s shrubs. Even her gnarled, dying dogwood tree was half-alive with pink flowers on one side. He opened his door just as the old woman opened hers. Seeing him, she ducked back inside. She probably thought he was watching her house. It would give her little comfort to know this was the way prisoners awaited release from their cells for meals, work, visitors: they stood like this, staring, waiting.
As he came down the walk, a girl ran around the corner. It was the girl who lived across the street. She dove through Mrs. Jukas’s bushes and disappeared behind her house. He hesitated, then just kept going. He knew the drill well. Nothing to see, nothing to know, old Jackie McBride would whisper. You don’t want to be here forever, do you?You’ve still got a chance, a life out there.
He started down the street for what would be his first trip of any distance alone into the world. Behind him, a car slowed and then drove alongside. He could only see the passenger, a young man with a curly black beard and small round sunglasses.
“Hey, buddy!” He stuck his head out the open window. Cupped in his palm was a badge. “A girl just run by here?”
“No, sir.” The automatic response, respectful—and blind.
“What do you mean? She just came around the corner!” He lifted the sunglasses to squint up at Gordon.
“I don’t know, sir. I just came out.” His heart raced. Imagine! How many times had he heard of this? How many times? Guys like him doing it right, all by the book—only to be trapped in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Out from where?”
“My house. That’s where I live. Seventy-five Clover.”
“Yeah, all right,” the cop said, and the unmarked cruiser pulled into the street.
Gordon was the only passenger on the bus. His stomach felt a little queasy, so he got off at the first stop in Dearborn. He still had a mile-and-a-half walk to Dennis’s. Apparently, not many people in Dearborn rode the bus. They all had cars, two or three or even four, he thought, counting the garage doors now on an enormous yellow house high on the knoll above the street.
He remembered that his brother’s house was gray. He had wanted to go straight home that first day out of Fortley. Dennis had insisted they stop in Dearborn. He couldn’t wait for Gordon to meet the children. And to see his spacious, sunny house. “Mom got such a kick out of this,” Dennis had said with a click of the remote control that triggered a whoosh of
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