features and a military haircut who was reading the paper in the living room.
“Your lunch is on the table, Louis,” MaryAnn said quietly in the kitchen.
Louis stared at her. How could someone so irrelevant exist? Where was Lauren? Was he going to have to eat lunch with Lauren? He pointed vaguely east. “I need to get to the station,” he said.
“You want me to wrap it up for you? We were about to sit down.”
He felt a hand between his shoulder blades, Mr. Bowles propelling him towards the kitchen table. “You’ve got ten minutes, sit down a minute and prime that engine.”
“Aren’t you off the air this week?” said MaryAnn.
Cut in two diagonally, a caribou sandwich on a plate awaited him. The elder Bowleses attacked their own sandwiches with unusual appetite, ignoring the voices in the living room and the heavy footsteps on the stairs, gnawing at their food with tilted heads like starved and nervous animals driven into one corner of the house by a daughter who, with a loose gait and no apparent selfconsciousness, entered the kitchen just as a tough slab of gamey meat slid into the no man’s land between Louis’s sandwich and his mouth.
“Lauren, this is Louis. Louis, our daughter, Lauren.”
“Mumph,” Louis said.
“Hi nice to meet you,” Lauren said in a monotone. She was nothing like the mess or terror that MaryAnn had led him to expect. Her all-season tan, her turquoise earrings, her Mickey Mouse watch and the lazy way she turned one hip out all marked her as a mainstream good-times disaffected Texas college girl. She had smooth skin, a wide mouth, and permanent-looking bruises the color of iodine beneath her eyes. She’d written something in pen on the back of her hand. She told her parents that she and Emmett were driving to the beach at Galveston for the afternoon. Before she left the room she paused to take in Louis fully—his aviator frames, his thinning curls, his gutted sandwich, his searing blush. Her face became simply empty.
“We have a very open relationship with Lauren,” Mr. Bowles explained when she was gone.
“Emmett’s her fiancé,” Mr. Bowles added.
“We didn’t think she was coming down,” Mr. Bowles explained.
“She’s a wayward sprite,” Mr. Bowles said.
“God! Full of energy. Full of life,” Mr. Bowles reflected.
MaryAnn sank her teeth into her last piece of sandwich.
“I hope Emmett doesn’t let her drive,” Mr. Bowles concluded.
When Louis came home that night, the three Bowleses and Emmett were eating ice cream in the dining room. MaryAnn headed silently for the kitchen to get him dinner. “I’ve eaten,” he said, already on the stairs. At the top of them he stopped long enough to hear Lauren say:
“I guess he studies all the time, huh?”
“He’s a good worker,” Mr. Bowles affirmed.
“Gosh, that’s great,” Lauren said.
This was all he heard. Mouth wide open, eyes staring, he shut his door and dropped to the floor and stretched out on it. He didn’t get tired of being there. In his fever he heard Lauren and Emmett go out to a movie and return at twelve. He heard a Hide-A-Bed being opened for Emmett in Mr. Bowles’s study, and then a fever dream of voices, music, footsteps and opening and closing doors that seemed to last all night and involve dozens of people.
The next morning, at the Soundwaves branch on Main, he was rummaging through the Thelonious Monk LPs on station business when he became aware that Lauren Bowles was standing in the next aisle. She had her back to him. She was wearing a man’s shirt and was faintly pushing her head forward to the drum-machine-driven beat of optimistic British pop on the store stereo. She dropped a pair of CDs in their longboxes among JAZZ ARTISTS —B— , and flipped through Coleman, Coltrane, Corea. Then she leaned into the B’s again. Twice she made a short fierce movement with her shoulder, as if out of his sight she were wringing the necks of small animals, and then already she was
“Your lunch is on the table, Louis,” MaryAnn said quietly in the kitchen.
Louis stared at her. How could someone so irrelevant exist? Where was Lauren? Was he going to have to eat lunch with Lauren? He pointed vaguely east. “I need to get to the station,” he said.
“You want me to wrap it up for you? We were about to sit down.”
He felt a hand between his shoulder blades, Mr. Bowles propelling him towards the kitchen table. “You’ve got ten minutes, sit down a minute and prime that engine.”
“Aren’t you off the air this week?” said MaryAnn.
Cut in two diagonally, a caribou sandwich on a plate awaited him. The elder Bowleses attacked their own sandwiches with unusual appetite, ignoring the voices in the living room and the heavy footsteps on the stairs, gnawing at their food with tilted heads like starved and nervous animals driven into one corner of the house by a daughter who, with a loose gait and no apparent selfconsciousness, entered the kitchen just as a tough slab of gamey meat slid into the no man’s land between Louis’s sandwich and his mouth.
“Lauren, this is Louis. Louis, our daughter, Lauren.”
“Mumph,” Louis said.
“Hi nice to meet you,” Lauren said in a monotone. She was nothing like the mess or terror that MaryAnn had led him to expect. Her all-season tan, her turquoise earrings, her Mickey Mouse watch and the lazy way she turned one hip out all marked her as a mainstream good-times disaffected Texas college girl. She had smooth skin, a wide mouth, and permanent-looking bruises the color of iodine beneath her eyes. She’d written something in pen on the back of her hand. She told her parents that she and Emmett were driving to the beach at Galveston for the afternoon. Before she left the room she paused to take in Louis fully—his aviator frames, his thinning curls, his gutted sandwich, his searing blush. Her face became simply empty.
“We have a very open relationship with Lauren,” Mr. Bowles explained when she was gone.
“Emmett’s her fiancé,” Mr. Bowles added.
“We didn’t think she was coming down,” Mr. Bowles explained.
“She’s a wayward sprite,” Mr. Bowles said.
“God! Full of energy. Full of life,” Mr. Bowles reflected.
MaryAnn sank her teeth into her last piece of sandwich.
“I hope Emmett doesn’t let her drive,” Mr. Bowles concluded.
When Louis came home that night, the three Bowleses and Emmett were eating ice cream in the dining room. MaryAnn headed silently for the kitchen to get him dinner. “I’ve eaten,” he said, already on the stairs. At the top of them he stopped long enough to hear Lauren say:
“I guess he studies all the time, huh?”
“He’s a good worker,” Mr. Bowles affirmed.
“Gosh, that’s great,” Lauren said.
This was all he heard. Mouth wide open, eyes staring, he shut his door and dropped to the floor and stretched out on it. He didn’t get tired of being there. In his fever he heard Lauren and Emmett go out to a movie and return at twelve. He heard a Hide-A-Bed being opened for Emmett in Mr. Bowles’s study, and then a fever dream of voices, music, footsteps and opening and closing doors that seemed to last all night and involve dozens of people.
The next morning, at the Soundwaves branch on Main, he was rummaging through the Thelonious Monk LPs on station business when he became aware that Lauren Bowles was standing in the next aisle. She had her back to him. She was wearing a man’s shirt and was faintly pushing her head forward to the drum-machine-driven beat of optimistic British pop on the store stereo. She dropped a pair of CDs in their longboxes among JAZZ ARTISTS —B— , and flipped through Coleman, Coltrane, Corea. Then she leaned into the B’s again. Twice she made a short fierce movement with her shoulder, as if out of his sight she were wringing the necks of small animals, and then already she was
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