back in a blink with the sweet-looking student who'd been at the front desk. I imagined he wanted to review my antics out there with the card, see if maybe she'd give him some handhold on me he had missed. I was wrong.
"This isn't the guy, right?" he asked her.
This office was small and getting crowded, five of us now and most of the space to begin with occupied by Trilby's desk, which was clean but for pictures of his children, all grown, and his wife. There was a U. pennant on the paneled walls and a clock. The girl looked around.
"No, of course not," she said.
"Describe him."
"Well, for one thing he was black."
"Who's that?" I asked.
Dewey gave me a warning look, a minute shake of the head: Don't interrupt. Pigeyes told the girl to go on.
"Late twenties, I'd say. Twenty-seven. Kind of receding hair. Athletic build. Nice-looking," she added, and shrugged, maybe by way of apology for the frank observations of a white girl.
"And how many times have you seen him?"
"Six times. Seven. He's been here a lot."
I spoke up again. "What is this, a show up? What'd I do supposedly, steal this guy's wallet?" I was guessing now, earnest if confused.
"Hey, dude," said Dewey. "I think it's time for you to be quiet."
-You're questioning me, you're talking about someone in my presence. Come on, I want to know who."
"Oh my God, can you believe this guy?" Pigeyes turned away and bit his knuckle.
"Hey, so tell him," said Dewey. He hitched a slight shoulder. What was it to them? Gino eventually caught the drift. A glimmer struck home.
"Here, fine," said Pigeyes, "knock yourself out." He moved his hammy paw toward the girl. "Tell Mr. Malloy here who we been talking about."
The girl did not get any of this. She shrugged, farm-plain, a little thick in her white blouse.
"Mr. Roberts," she said. "Kam Roberts."
"Your pal." Across the room, Pigeyes's hard little eyes glowed like agates. "So now tell us something smart."
Chapter VII. WHERE I LIVE
The house in which Nora Goggins and I made our married life was a little square thing, brick with vinyl siding and black shutters, three bedrooms, in a sort of middle-of-the-middle suburb called Nearing. Nora always said we could afford more, but I didn't want it; we had a summer place out on Lake Fowler and that was plunge enough for me. There were so many extraneous expenses--the Beemer, my suits and hers, the frigging clubs. I suppose, in retrospect, it means something that our home wasn't much. Ivy clings to the bricks, plantings that went in when we bought and now have vines thick as tree branches which are beginning to develop bark and sinister tendrils that have found the cracks in the mortar and are gradually pulling the entire place down. When I got the kid, I got the house. Nora cashed out. Nearing will never be glamorous and Nora knows a thing or two about value anyway.
Nora is a Real Estate Lady, you've seen them before, suburban gals dressed to kill at lunch. She could not stand it at home. She limped to the finish line with Lyle, got him into high school, but I could tell that she had done a calculation on some scratch paper somewhere and figured what percentage of her brain cells were dying every day. Even drunk, I sensed a wild, unhapp y t hing in her that was not going to be tamed. I remember seeing her once; she was in the garden. She had a different homebound passion each year and that summer it was vegetables. All the green things abounded: the cornstalks with their broad leaves like graceful hands, the jungle density of the peas, the ferny tops of asparagus spread like lace. She stood in our tiny suburban back yard with Lyle at her knee and looked toward the distance, a mind full of lonely visions like Columbus, who saw round when everybody else saw flat.
Eventually she tore off into the land of open houses, showings, new on the market, with a ruthless glee, lit up like a rocket--she loved it, being back in the grown-up world. She was like twenty-one again--regrettably
"This isn't the guy, right?" he asked her.
This office was small and getting crowded, five of us now and most of the space to begin with occupied by Trilby's desk, which was clean but for pictures of his children, all grown, and his wife. There was a U. pennant on the paneled walls and a clock. The girl looked around.
"No, of course not," she said.
"Describe him."
"Well, for one thing he was black."
"Who's that?" I asked.
Dewey gave me a warning look, a minute shake of the head: Don't interrupt. Pigeyes told the girl to go on.
"Late twenties, I'd say. Twenty-seven. Kind of receding hair. Athletic build. Nice-looking," she added, and shrugged, maybe by way of apology for the frank observations of a white girl.
"And how many times have you seen him?"
"Six times. Seven. He's been here a lot."
I spoke up again. "What is this, a show up? What'd I do supposedly, steal this guy's wallet?" I was guessing now, earnest if confused.
"Hey, dude," said Dewey. "I think it's time for you to be quiet."
-You're questioning me, you're talking about someone in my presence. Come on, I want to know who."
"Oh my God, can you believe this guy?" Pigeyes turned away and bit his knuckle.
"Hey, so tell him," said Dewey. He hitched a slight shoulder. What was it to them? Gino eventually caught the drift. A glimmer struck home.
"Here, fine," said Pigeyes, "knock yourself out." He moved his hammy paw toward the girl. "Tell Mr. Malloy here who we been talking about."
The girl did not get any of this. She shrugged, farm-plain, a little thick in her white blouse.
"Mr. Roberts," she said. "Kam Roberts."
"Your pal." Across the room, Pigeyes's hard little eyes glowed like agates. "So now tell us something smart."
Chapter VII. WHERE I LIVE
The house in which Nora Goggins and I made our married life was a little square thing, brick with vinyl siding and black shutters, three bedrooms, in a sort of middle-of-the-middle suburb called Nearing. Nora always said we could afford more, but I didn't want it; we had a summer place out on Lake Fowler and that was plunge enough for me. There were so many extraneous expenses--the Beemer, my suits and hers, the frigging clubs. I suppose, in retrospect, it means something that our home wasn't much. Ivy clings to the bricks, plantings that went in when we bought and now have vines thick as tree branches which are beginning to develop bark and sinister tendrils that have found the cracks in the mortar and are gradually pulling the entire place down. When I got the kid, I got the house. Nora cashed out. Nearing will never be glamorous and Nora knows a thing or two about value anyway.
Nora is a Real Estate Lady, you've seen them before, suburban gals dressed to kill at lunch. She could not stand it at home. She limped to the finish line with Lyle, got him into high school, but I could tell that she had done a calculation on some scratch paper somewhere and figured what percentage of her brain cells were dying every day. Even drunk, I sensed a wild, unhapp y t hing in her that was not going to be tamed. I remember seeing her once; she was in the garden. She had a different homebound passion each year and that summer it was vegetables. All the green things abounded: the cornstalks with their broad leaves like graceful hands, the jungle density of the peas, the ferny tops of asparagus spread like lace. She stood in our tiny suburban back yard with Lyle at her knee and looked toward the distance, a mind full of lonely visions like Columbus, who saw round when everybody else saw flat.
Eventually she tore off into the land of open houses, showings, new on the market, with a ruthless glee, lit up like a rocket--she loved it, being back in the grown-up world. She was like twenty-one again--regrettably
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