thought it said eyes on the front, but it doesn’t.”
“What’s it called?”
“ Jane Eyre . It’s a novel.”
“What’s it about?”
“A woman named Jane Eyre.”
He shrugged. “She go to the Laundromat a lot?”
Treha sighed. “It’s about a girl who is orphaned and falls in love with a man who is married, and she won’t compromise.”
He rolled the words around and she saw his lips moving, saying, “Compromise.”
“What’s that mean?” he said.
“Compromise is when you know something is wrong but you do it anyway. And you make yourself think it’s okay.”
Du’Relle nodded. “So you like that book?”
“It’s my favorite.”
They walked farther. When they came within sight of the apartment, Du’Relle said, “How can you read if your eyes move like that?”
“You can do whatever you want if you want to badly enough.”
“Is that why you don’t go to college? Because you didn’t want to go bad enough?”
They crossed the street.
“You ask too many questions.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“Let me ask you a few.”
“Okay.”
“When is your father coming home?”
Du’Relle hesitated and the flashlight went off. The string from the bag cut off Treha’s circulation, so she shifted the clothes to the other shoulder.
“Mama doesn’t talk about it. I think they’re having problems.”
“You think they’re getting a divorce?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I hope not. He’s all the way over in ’ghanistan and they talk on the computer sometimes.”
He moved into the shadows as they came to the stairs and the fractured concrete that led to her apartment. Du’Relle leaned against the railing as if his tour of duty was complete.
“You were brave back there,” he said. “Standing up to those guys. You didn’t look scared.”
“That’s because I wasn’t.”
“How could you not be scared? I was ready to pee my pants.”
A car pulled into the parking lot, one headlight out and the other so cloudy the light was a muted brown. The engine knocked and pinged and sputtered after Du’Relle’s mother turned off the ignition.
“Good night,” Treha said. “Thank you for walking with me.”
“Good night, Miss Treha,” the boy said. He flipped on the flashlight and ran to the car, arms swinging. When he reached it, he opened the door and hung on to it until his mother climbed out.
Inside, Treha stared through the plastic window blinds that were always slightly askew. There were voices in the night, the sounds of late-night television programs and laughter. They passed through the walls and vents and down corridors. Passing sirens and car alarms.
She watched and listened, then reached into her pocket and pulled out the letter. She would never have opened it. It was a crime to open other people’s mail. It pained her to think she had let Dr. Crenshaw down and hadn’t mailed it like she said.
She turned on the light and pulled the ripped page from the envelope.
Piecing the thick paper together, she studied the man’s “doctor’s scrawl,” as he called it. The words were tiny and slanted upward on the unlined page. Some were smudged by the water and others were almost illegible because of the shake of the man’s hand, but after a few moments she relaxed and followed the scribbling.
Dear Calvin,
It has been many years, but I know you’ll remember me and our working relationship. I now live in Tucson, at a retirement home where they do everything but think for me. Unfortunately, thinking is all I do these days. I can’t seem to find release from the deeds of my past. I don’t say this as an accusation or to cast aspersion. I’m sure you have a perspective on the situation now that we can both look back on it.
The lawsuit has added to my thinking on this, of course. I’ve read about the legal action and the progress in the case against the company. I believe my information might help the plaintiffs. I know it would damage Phutura.
My intent is not to
“What’s it called?”
“ Jane Eyre . It’s a novel.”
“What’s it about?”
“A woman named Jane Eyre.”
He shrugged. “She go to the Laundromat a lot?”
Treha sighed. “It’s about a girl who is orphaned and falls in love with a man who is married, and she won’t compromise.”
He rolled the words around and she saw his lips moving, saying, “Compromise.”
“What’s that mean?” he said.
“Compromise is when you know something is wrong but you do it anyway. And you make yourself think it’s okay.”
Du’Relle nodded. “So you like that book?”
“It’s my favorite.”
They walked farther. When they came within sight of the apartment, Du’Relle said, “How can you read if your eyes move like that?”
“You can do whatever you want if you want to badly enough.”
“Is that why you don’t go to college? Because you didn’t want to go bad enough?”
They crossed the street.
“You ask too many questions.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“Let me ask you a few.”
“Okay.”
“When is your father coming home?”
Du’Relle hesitated and the flashlight went off. The string from the bag cut off Treha’s circulation, so she shifted the clothes to the other shoulder.
“Mama doesn’t talk about it. I think they’re having problems.”
“You think they’re getting a divorce?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I hope not. He’s all the way over in ’ghanistan and they talk on the computer sometimes.”
He moved into the shadows as they came to the stairs and the fractured concrete that led to her apartment. Du’Relle leaned against the railing as if his tour of duty was complete.
“You were brave back there,” he said. “Standing up to those guys. You didn’t look scared.”
“That’s because I wasn’t.”
“How could you not be scared? I was ready to pee my pants.”
A car pulled into the parking lot, one headlight out and the other so cloudy the light was a muted brown. The engine knocked and pinged and sputtered after Du’Relle’s mother turned off the ignition.
“Good night,” Treha said. “Thank you for walking with me.”
“Good night, Miss Treha,” the boy said. He flipped on the flashlight and ran to the car, arms swinging. When he reached it, he opened the door and hung on to it until his mother climbed out.
Inside, Treha stared through the plastic window blinds that were always slightly askew. There were voices in the night, the sounds of late-night television programs and laughter. They passed through the walls and vents and down corridors. Passing sirens and car alarms.
She watched and listened, then reached into her pocket and pulled out the letter. She would never have opened it. It was a crime to open other people’s mail. It pained her to think she had let Dr. Crenshaw down and hadn’t mailed it like she said.
She turned on the light and pulled the ripped page from the envelope.
Piecing the thick paper together, she studied the man’s “doctor’s scrawl,” as he called it. The words were tiny and slanted upward on the unlined page. Some were smudged by the water and others were almost illegible because of the shake of the man’s hand, but after a few moments she relaxed and followed the scribbling.
Dear Calvin,
It has been many years, but I know you’ll remember me and our working relationship. I now live in Tucson, at a retirement home where they do everything but think for me. Unfortunately, thinking is all I do these days. I can’t seem to find release from the deeds of my past. I don’t say this as an accusation or to cast aspersion. I’m sure you have a perspective on the situation now that we can both look back on it.
The lawsuit has added to my thinking on this, of course. I’ve read about the legal action and the progress in the case against the company. I believe my information might help the plaintiffs. I know it would damage Phutura.
My intent is not to
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