street of the client—Robin Road—measured the distance with dividers: a very long walk, too long given the time, which meant the bicycle. He had no car, had been carless for some time, didn’t mind. Flexibility, adaptability—the keys to resilience, and resilience the key to strength.
The clouds recovered the sun as he dressed. Julian was watching them thicken and darken, a pleasing sight—he didn’t like things too bright—when he sensed another person. He went to the window, looked down. His landlady stood in the yard, looking up. Middle-aged, overweight, dressed on a Saturday in red-and-black checked flannel jacket, jeans, waterproof boots. She saw him and waved. Also a smile, too big. She had good teeth and knew it, no doubt. Julian waved back, keeping his own smile to himself. She made a little window-opening gesture, up up. Julian released the catch, an old-fashioned brass one, the brass all brown, and raised the window.
“A letter for you, Mr. Sawyer.”
A letter. How was that possible? Julian glanced quickly beyond her, saw nothing but what she called the big house on the other side of the long lane, and in the distance the two groves of trees, empty of starlings. Nothing unusual, then. He left his little room, the only habitable space in what she called the carriage house, and went down the worn stairs,
creak creak
. Cold air rose to meet him even before he opened the outer door. Julian noted it, that was all; he was impervious to the elements.
She came toward him, her lipstick the same shade of red as the checks on her jacket. “Settling in all right, Mr. Sawyer?”
He’d already dealt with that question this morning, inane and nosy at the same time. “Nicely, thanks, Mrs. Bender.”
“Gail, please,” said Mrs. Bender. “And I haven’t been a real Mrs. since the Reagan administration.”
“Julian,” said Julian. He supposed her voice was a good feature too, humorous, even intelligent, but what he wanted was the letter. She reached through the buttons of the red-and-black jacket, pulled it out, handed it to him, the envelope warm from being in there against her body. Julian took it in an unhurried, unconcerned way, but his eyes found the return address at once: A-Plus Tutorial Center, his employer. His unconcern turned genuine; a very interesting sensation, that change, the make-believe becoming real, quite physical.
She was giving him an odd look, head on a slight tilt. “Why, you’ve shaved your beard.”
“How can I deny it?”
She laughed, and through her laughter gave him a complicated look reflective of several emotions, all receptive.
“Thanks for bringing the letter, Gail. We’ll have to arrange some less disruptive method in the future.”
She lowered her gaze slightly, down to the little tuft left behind, and locked on it. “It’s no trouble,” she said, missing the point.
I n the envelope, Julian found a dozen A-Plus Tutorial business cards and a note from Margie, the boss, written in big round letters: “So glad to have you on board, Julian. You can ink your name on these for now. We’ll have printed ones in a week or two.” He put them in his pocket, secured the green plastic folder in the spring-loaded carrier over the rear wheel of his bicycle—not his, but a rather new and sturdy mountain bike he’d found draped in spiderwebs in the cellar of the carriage house—rode up the long lane to Trunk Road and turned right.
So pleasant; and the wind was even at his back. Not that it mattered: he was very strong, legs, back, shoulders, without being at all bulky, thick-necked, clumsy. He pedaled through rolling farm country, seeing no one, then into a suburban landscape, perhaps exurban, since the houses were still far apart, and quite suddenly he was rolling down Main Street in Old Mill, ten minutes earlier than he’d expected.
Julian went into a coffee place, had an espresso, studied his map. He discovered a much shorter route to Robin Road in West Mill, a route
The clouds recovered the sun as he dressed. Julian was watching them thicken and darken, a pleasing sight—he didn’t like things too bright—when he sensed another person. He went to the window, looked down. His landlady stood in the yard, looking up. Middle-aged, overweight, dressed on a Saturday in red-and-black checked flannel jacket, jeans, waterproof boots. She saw him and waved. Also a smile, too big. She had good teeth and knew it, no doubt. Julian waved back, keeping his own smile to himself. She made a little window-opening gesture, up up. Julian released the catch, an old-fashioned brass one, the brass all brown, and raised the window.
“A letter for you, Mr. Sawyer.”
A letter. How was that possible? Julian glanced quickly beyond her, saw nothing but what she called the big house on the other side of the long lane, and in the distance the two groves of trees, empty of starlings. Nothing unusual, then. He left his little room, the only habitable space in what she called the carriage house, and went down the worn stairs,
creak creak
. Cold air rose to meet him even before he opened the outer door. Julian noted it, that was all; he was impervious to the elements.
She came toward him, her lipstick the same shade of red as the checks on her jacket. “Settling in all right, Mr. Sawyer?”
He’d already dealt with that question this morning, inane and nosy at the same time. “Nicely, thanks, Mrs. Bender.”
“Gail, please,” said Mrs. Bender. “And I haven’t been a real Mrs. since the Reagan administration.”
“Julian,” said Julian. He supposed her voice was a good feature too, humorous, even intelligent, but what he wanted was the letter. She reached through the buttons of the red-and-black jacket, pulled it out, handed it to him, the envelope warm from being in there against her body. Julian took it in an unhurried, unconcerned way, but his eyes found the return address at once: A-Plus Tutorial Center, his employer. His unconcern turned genuine; a very interesting sensation, that change, the make-believe becoming real, quite physical.
She was giving him an odd look, head on a slight tilt. “Why, you’ve shaved your beard.”
“How can I deny it?”
She laughed, and through her laughter gave him a complicated look reflective of several emotions, all receptive.
“Thanks for bringing the letter, Gail. We’ll have to arrange some less disruptive method in the future.”
She lowered her gaze slightly, down to the little tuft left behind, and locked on it. “It’s no trouble,” she said, missing the point.
I n the envelope, Julian found a dozen A-Plus Tutorial business cards and a note from Margie, the boss, written in big round letters: “So glad to have you on board, Julian. You can ink your name on these for now. We’ll have printed ones in a week or two.” He put them in his pocket, secured the green plastic folder in the spring-loaded carrier over the rear wheel of his bicycle—not his, but a rather new and sturdy mountain bike he’d found draped in spiderwebs in the cellar of the carriage house—rode up the long lane to Trunk Road and turned right.
So pleasant; and the wind was even at his back. Not that it mattered: he was very strong, legs, back, shoulders, without being at all bulky, thick-necked, clumsy. He pedaled through rolling farm country, seeing no one, then into a suburban landscape, perhaps exurban, since the houses were still far apart, and quite suddenly he was rolling down Main Street in Old Mill, ten minutes earlier than he’d expected.
Julian went into a coffee place, had an espresso, studied his map. He discovered a much shorter route to Robin Road in West Mill, a route
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