Facets by Barbara Delinsky Page B

Eugene made the turn, the Lincoln began to bounce on the rutted road, and the deeper into the woods they went, the worse the bouncing became. Momentary relief came with the occasional spin of a wheel, but the tires were new, regaining their traction every time. So the jolting went on. “Jesus,” Eugene breathed at one point, “and you do this on a cycle?”
    “I got a hard butt.”
    “Must have a hard head. Why in the devil don’t you live in town like everyone else?”
    “’Cause this place is mine. It’s all I got.”
    “It’s isolated.”
    “I like it like that.”
    “You ought to be with people.”
    “I don’t like people.”
    Eugene snickered. “You picked the wrong planet, boy.”
    “I didn’t pick a goddamned thing,” Cutter blurted. “It was picked for me. I didn’t have no say at all. Even this house”—which was coming into sight, looking pathetically ramshackle in the rain—“was forced on me, but it’s the only one I got.”
    The car came to a stop. Yanking at the door handle, Cutter was quickly out and tramping through the sludge toward his front door. With a single push it was open. He went through without looking back and kicked it shut with a heel, just like he always did. In the next instant, Eugene threw it open again.
    “Don’t you have any manners?” he growled.
    Cutter hadn’t expected him to come in. He didn’t need help changing his clothes. “What do you want in here?”
    “I want to look around.” He was scanning the room with a disapproving look on his face. “You live here?”
    “Something wrong with that?” Cutter asked. He didn’t love the place either, but it was the only home he had.
    “Sure is. It’s a mess,” Eugene decided. From a battered table covered with dirty cardboard containers and plastic plates, he moved past an upholstered chair whose shabbiness was barely hidden beneath a pile of worn clothes. “It’s filthy, and it smells. Don’t you have any pride?”
    “I wasn’t expecting guests.”
    “What I’m talking about’s got nothing to do with guests.” He glanced into the shadows, of which there were many, and frowned. “Where do you sleep?”
    “What’s it to you?”
    “Where do you sleep?”
    Cutter hitched his head toward the darkest end of the room, where a narrow ladder led to a loft. In the barely discernible light, the loft didn’t look large enough to hold much. Eugene apparently thought the same thing. “You fit?”
    “I manage.” He watched Eugene stare at the loft for another minute before dropping his eyes. They fell on the old, grimy-topped potbelly stove that stood out from one wall.
    “Is that for heat?”
    “When I got wood.”
    “And when you don’t?”
    “I make do.”
    “You freeze.”
    “Hey, man, I’m not the only one. Lots of people around here don’t have heat.”
    “Not if I can help it,” Eugene muttered. He tugged at a lamp chain. Nothing happened. “And you didn’t pay your bill.”
    “I
couldn’t
pay my bill. Besides, what do I need lights for? When it gets dark, I go to sleep.”
    “So how do you read?” To Cutter’s chagrin, Eugene had spotted the books that were sticking out from under the clothes on the chair. “Did you steal them?”
    “They’re from the library.”
    “Did you steal them?”
    “No.”
    Eugene lifted one. “
Catcher in the Rye
. Any good?”
    “It’s okay.”
    “What’s it about?”
    “Some kids.” He prayed Eugene wouldn’t ask more. He liked the book, felt a kind of affinity for the rebelliousness of Holden Caulfield, but he had a feeling he’d missed a lot of what the author was trying to say. That was what his teachers had always told him, that he was missing things. Personally, he didn’t care. He liked to read, but he didn’t want to be forever taking apart every line. So he missed some hidden meaning. So what?
    When Eugene tossed the book back to the chair, he was relieved, but his relief was short-lived. Folding his arms over his chest,