the 1800s, youknow, except then they’d use coals in a hot pan. Did you ever go to Old Sturbridge Village? It’s one of those historic re-creation places. I learned that there.”
One hand fell loose from the blankets. The wrinkled, icy fingertips had flecks of polish clinging to the nails. Charlie stopped babbling. His throat felt full of thick bile. He coughed. At least her trembling had stopped.
A tangle of maroon hair clung to her neck. She was beautiful. And somehow familiar.
“Have . . . have we met before?”
“Blue,” she said, her voice almost too quiet to hear.
“What did you just say?”
“Blue,” she said again, still staring at the ceiling. “Blue jacket.”
Charlie looked down. He was wearing his old blue parka.
“Yes.”
“In the road.”
“. . . yes,” Charlie said.
“And I saw you . . . lying.”
“Lying where?”
Her words were dreamy and slow, like a sleepwalker’s. Maybe she
was
asleep. Or in a trance.
“Lying in the road,” she said. “My second day.” Her eyes met his, flashing emerald. “Charlie.”
And then he remembered. The car running him off the road. The girl coming to see if he was all right. Her red hair.
“Rose.”
A smile, just barely visible, tickled the corner of her mouth.
“That’s me.”
And so they met. Again.
Charlie pulled a sweatshirt over his damp torso. The dry clothes felt good. His skin was chapped and red, as if burned by the cold. Water drummed in the shower. Charlie tugged on heavy socks and tried not to picture the movements of the beautiful naked girl suggested by the changing pitch of ringing droplets.
Her dress lay in a knot by the bathroom door, reminding him of the black leathery seaweed that lined stony beaches. She’d worn no shoes, and her feet and knees had been caked with mud, as if she’d been wandering the woods for days. A half-crazed refugee from a gala event.
Flashlight in his teeth, Charlie shimmied under the generator with the cobwebs and old hornets’ nests. He popped out the old transistors, the glass brown and smudged, and replaced them. He crawled back out and flipped the flat switch at the back. There was a noise like something heavy dropping inside the metal casing, and the fan began to sputter and turn. A few cartoonish wheezes, and the generator was pumping again. The lights in the house came on, and he could hear the furnace turn over in the basement.
Charlie threw his hands in the air like a prizefighter.
Rose was in the living room, wrapped in a towel.
“Oh,” Charlie said, averting his eyes. She was awfully curvy, and that towel wasn’t much cover. “Sorry.”
She wore Thaddeus’s ancient Sony headphones, the thick cord corkscrewing to the stereo.
“These are
wonderful
!” she shouted. “You can’t hear
anything
but the
music
!”
Charlie turned down the volume. “Yeah. They’re pretty retro.”
She removed the phones and ran her fingers along the book spines.
“What are these?”
“Those are my dad’s,” Charlie said. “Well, some of them are my dad’s technical books. He loves them, but they’re a little dry for me.”
The shower had completely revived her. Her cheeks were pink. She was pink all over. Her eyes were sparkling, though slightly unfocused. Her bare foot tapped the carpet.
She took down a book and opened it sideways, like a laptop, her brow lifting in wonder. She turned the spine so the text was readable, and jabbed the page with her finger. She scowled and jabbed again.
“What’s wrong with this?”
“What do you mean?”
“The links don’t work.”
“There aren’t links. It’s a book.”
She dropped it to the floor.
“What’s that?” she pointed.
“A coffee grinder.”
“And that?”
“A La-Z-Boy.”
“And that?”
“A toaster oven. You don’t have one at your house?”
“No, ours was different. Ours . . .” The word hung on her lips. Her toe stopped tapping. She teetered once and dropped to her knees.
Charlie crouched beside
One hand fell loose from the blankets. The wrinkled, icy fingertips had flecks of polish clinging to the nails. Charlie stopped babbling. His throat felt full of thick bile. He coughed. At least her trembling had stopped.
A tangle of maroon hair clung to her neck. She was beautiful. And somehow familiar.
“Have . . . have we met before?”
“Blue,” she said, her voice almost too quiet to hear.
“What did you just say?”
“Blue,” she said again, still staring at the ceiling. “Blue jacket.”
Charlie looked down. He was wearing his old blue parka.
“Yes.”
“In the road.”
“. . . yes,” Charlie said.
“And I saw you . . . lying.”
“Lying where?”
Her words were dreamy and slow, like a sleepwalker’s. Maybe she
was
asleep. Or in a trance.
“Lying in the road,” she said. “My second day.” Her eyes met his, flashing emerald. “Charlie.”
And then he remembered. The car running him off the road. The girl coming to see if he was all right. Her red hair.
“Rose.”
A smile, just barely visible, tickled the corner of her mouth.
“That’s me.”
And so they met. Again.
Charlie pulled a sweatshirt over his damp torso. The dry clothes felt good. His skin was chapped and red, as if burned by the cold. Water drummed in the shower. Charlie tugged on heavy socks and tried not to picture the movements of the beautiful naked girl suggested by the changing pitch of ringing droplets.
Her dress lay in a knot by the bathroom door, reminding him of the black leathery seaweed that lined stony beaches. She’d worn no shoes, and her feet and knees had been caked with mud, as if she’d been wandering the woods for days. A half-crazed refugee from a gala event.
Flashlight in his teeth, Charlie shimmied under the generator with the cobwebs and old hornets’ nests. He popped out the old transistors, the glass brown and smudged, and replaced them. He crawled back out and flipped the flat switch at the back. There was a noise like something heavy dropping inside the metal casing, and the fan began to sputter and turn. A few cartoonish wheezes, and the generator was pumping again. The lights in the house came on, and he could hear the furnace turn over in the basement.
Charlie threw his hands in the air like a prizefighter.
Rose was in the living room, wrapped in a towel.
“Oh,” Charlie said, averting his eyes. She was awfully curvy, and that towel wasn’t much cover. “Sorry.”
She wore Thaddeus’s ancient Sony headphones, the thick cord corkscrewing to the stereo.
“These are
wonderful
!” she shouted. “You can’t hear
anything
but the
music
!”
Charlie turned down the volume. “Yeah. They’re pretty retro.”
She removed the phones and ran her fingers along the book spines.
“What are these?”
“Those are my dad’s,” Charlie said. “Well, some of them are my dad’s technical books. He loves them, but they’re a little dry for me.”
The shower had completely revived her. Her cheeks were pink. She was pink all over. Her eyes were sparkling, though slightly unfocused. Her bare foot tapped the carpet.
She took down a book and opened it sideways, like a laptop, her brow lifting in wonder. She turned the spine so the text was readable, and jabbed the page with her finger. She scowled and jabbed again.
“What’s wrong with this?”
“What do you mean?”
“The links don’t work.”
“There aren’t links. It’s a book.”
She dropped it to the floor.
“What’s that?” she pointed.
“A coffee grinder.”
“And that?”
“A La-Z-Boy.”
“And that?”
“A toaster oven. You don’t have one at your house?”
“No, ours was different. Ours . . .” The word hung on her lips. Her toe stopped tapping. She teetered once and dropped to her knees.
Charlie crouched beside
Similar Books
