for confrontation, or so
she told herself, and began to turn around.
The barely audible sound of swearing stopped
her. She took a few more steps toward the open doorway and stood in
the middle of the kitchen, craning her neck to the left to see into
the office.
As she’d thought, he was reading the letter
and didn’t look any too pleased with it. He was sitting in profile
to her, huddled over the space heater on a stool he’d obviously
just knocked together out of the scrap pile. A trouble light
dangled from an open beam, casting him in a halo of
illumination—him, the pizza, and the letter that held his utmost
attention. He was staring at the piece of paper like a man
searching for something he’d never find.
She took two more steps forward, watching in
growing curiosity as he set a half-eaten piece of pizza back in the
box and used his free hand to follow along with the words she’d
written. Her brow furrowed, and she took another step. His action
struck a strange chord in her memory. It seemed out of place,
somehow wrong—until he began to whisper.
Shock stopped her in her tracks. She knew
exactly where she’d seen a similar scene. It had been during one of
her education practicums for her bachelor degree. She’d taught in a
junior high school, the eighth grade, and a few of the children had
been behind in their reading skills. The slowest of them had
resorted to mouthing syllables and using his fingers to guide his
eyes across the page.
Jack Hudson had the same problem. He
couldn’t read.
Four
The conclusion had no sooner registered in
Lila’s mind than Jack looked up and caught her staring at him. She
blushed, and worse, she thought he did too.
Silence stretched between them, thickening
the air with embarrassment and, on her part, guilt. She’d written
the letter out of cowardice and had ended up putting both of them
in a terribly awkward position. When would she learn to face her
problems head-on?
Illiteracy. The word popped into her
mind and her blush deepened. She felt ashamed for him and knew she
had no right. Illiteracy conjured up conditions like poverty,
below-average intelligence, and laziness—none of which applied to
the Jack Hudson she knew.
She didn’t know what to do. Turning around
and leaving would be incredibly rude, unbearably cowardly, and
would get her nowhere. He might or might not figure out that she’d
meant him to be the one to leave. But staring at him didn’t seem to
be doing them any good either.
“Pizza?” he asked, reaching for the box on
the heater, his voice gruff.
“What?” she choked out.
He cleared his throat and looked up at her.
“Pizza. I brought a large one, in case you hadn’t had your dinner
yet.”
“Oh.”
“Have you?”
“What?”
“Had your dinner?”
“No.” The truth was out before she thought
to lie.
“Good.” A grin teased the corner of his
mouth. “I hate to eat alone.”
She didn’t know what motivated her
more—relief from the overbearing tension, the opportunity to ignore
what she’d just seen, the pizza, or the temptation of his smile.
Whichever it was, she practically stumbled over herself jumping at
his offer. “Should I get a couple of plates?”
“That’d be great. I brought a salad from
Rudi’s.”
Her hunger shot up a degree or two, and she
couldn’t keep the hopefulness out of her voice. “With gorgonzola
dressing?”
His grin broadened. “A pint of it.”
She gave him a hesitant smile of her own,
pleased with his choice, but was still feeling rocked by her
discovery. Jack Hudson couldn’t read.
All through dinner he kept the conversation
going with stories about jobs he and Smitty had done. There was the
one about the lady who wanted twenty built-in mannequin heads in
her closet to store her wigs. The sight was so eerie, Smitty had
refused to go anywhere near the bedroom. Or so Jack had thought,
until he went into the huge closet one day and all the heads
simultaneously jerked around toward him,
she told herself, and began to turn around.
The barely audible sound of swearing stopped
her. She took a few more steps toward the open doorway and stood in
the middle of the kitchen, craning her neck to the left to see into
the office.
As she’d thought, he was reading the letter
and didn’t look any too pleased with it. He was sitting in profile
to her, huddled over the space heater on a stool he’d obviously
just knocked together out of the scrap pile. A trouble light
dangled from an open beam, casting him in a halo of
illumination—him, the pizza, and the letter that held his utmost
attention. He was staring at the piece of paper like a man
searching for something he’d never find.
She took two more steps forward, watching in
growing curiosity as he set a half-eaten piece of pizza back in the
box and used his free hand to follow along with the words she’d
written. Her brow furrowed, and she took another step. His action
struck a strange chord in her memory. It seemed out of place,
somehow wrong—until he began to whisper.
Shock stopped her in her tracks. She knew
exactly where she’d seen a similar scene. It had been during one of
her education practicums for her bachelor degree. She’d taught in a
junior high school, the eighth grade, and a few of the children had
been behind in their reading skills. The slowest of them had
resorted to mouthing syllables and using his fingers to guide his
eyes across the page.
Jack Hudson had the same problem. He
couldn’t read.
Four
The conclusion had no sooner registered in
Lila’s mind than Jack looked up and caught her staring at him. She
blushed, and worse, she thought he did too.
Silence stretched between them, thickening
the air with embarrassment and, on her part, guilt. She’d written
the letter out of cowardice and had ended up putting both of them
in a terribly awkward position. When would she learn to face her
problems head-on?
Illiteracy. The word popped into her
mind and her blush deepened. She felt ashamed for him and knew she
had no right. Illiteracy conjured up conditions like poverty,
below-average intelligence, and laziness—none of which applied to
the Jack Hudson she knew.
She didn’t know what to do. Turning around
and leaving would be incredibly rude, unbearably cowardly, and
would get her nowhere. He might or might not figure out that she’d
meant him to be the one to leave. But staring at him didn’t seem to
be doing them any good either.
“Pizza?” he asked, reaching for the box on
the heater, his voice gruff.
“What?” she choked out.
He cleared his throat and looked up at her.
“Pizza. I brought a large one, in case you hadn’t had your dinner
yet.”
“Oh.”
“Have you?”
“What?”
“Had your dinner?”
“No.” The truth was out before she thought
to lie.
“Good.” A grin teased the corner of his
mouth. “I hate to eat alone.”
She didn’t know what motivated her
more—relief from the overbearing tension, the opportunity to ignore
what she’d just seen, the pizza, or the temptation of his smile.
Whichever it was, she practically stumbled over herself jumping at
his offer. “Should I get a couple of plates?”
“That’d be great. I brought a salad from
Rudi’s.”
Her hunger shot up a degree or two, and she
couldn’t keep the hopefulness out of her voice. “With gorgonzola
dressing?”
His grin broadened. “A pint of it.”
She gave him a hesitant smile of her own,
pleased with his choice, but was still feeling rocked by her
discovery. Jack Hudson couldn’t read.
All through dinner he kept the conversation
going with stories about jobs he and Smitty had done. There was the
one about the lady who wanted twenty built-in mannequin heads in
her closet to store her wigs. The sight was so eerie, Smitty had
refused to go anywhere near the bedroom. Or so Jack had thought,
until he went into the huge closet one day and all the heads
simultaneously jerked around toward him,
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