The Days of Anna Madrigal by Armistead Maupin Page A

plenty of room between him and the telltale truck. He had enjoyed the walk: the blue-shadowed evening, the pendulum swing of the valise (as devil-may-care as Fred Astaire himself), though he refrained from swinging it when anyone was looking. Swinging a valise was probably just as bad as twirling.
    Eight or ten people had gathered on the porch of the hotel. Some of them were waiting to be seated. Others, beer bottles in hand, had abandoned their meals to watch a long, rusty necklace of boxcars clattering through town. It was part of the nightly show at the Martin. Andy recognized several valued customers of the Blue Moon, but he knew from experience not to greet them. Not in town. Not with their wives around. He had learned that lesson—and how—when he was only seven.
    Inside the dining room, the two common tables were riotous with chiming silverware and chatter—gossip about everything and nothing: fly strike, the church supper, Mr. Hoover’s gold speculation in Jungo. Andy stood against the pressed-tin wall, the valise held tight against his leg, waiting for a glimpse of the Basque boy. The servers were both girls tonight: a tall, horsey redhead from Sparks and Lasko’s sister Hegazti, who overcame her crippling name with an uncanny gift for balancing huge platters of food on both slabs of her substantial arms. The all-but-edible aroma of crusty lamb and roast potatoes reminded Andy that an actual supper lay ahead.
    In his fever of preparation he’d almost forgotten about that.
    A shiny cream-painted door swooped open and produced Lasko like a magic trick. He’d obviously been washing dishes, since his shirtsleeves were scootched up, and his swarthy arm still bore flecks of soapsuds, like sea foam on a rock. He acknowledged Andy with a wink and lopsided grin, motioning for him to enter. Andy squeezed through the crowded room, suddenly feeling like a privileged character, even though, of course, he was just being admitted to a kitchen.
    â€œYou sellin’ Bibles or something?” Lasko encircled Andy’s shoulder with his arm, buddy-buddy as can be, like a ballplayer leading another one off the field.
    Andy didn’t understand. “Why?”
    â€œThat,” said Lasko, nodding toward the valise.
    â€œOh . . . that’s the book.”
    â€œWhat book?”
    â€œThe Book of Marvels . The one I showed in class?”
    â€œOh yeah . . . sure thing.”
    â€œYou said you wanted to borrow it.”
    Lasko finally caught his drift. “Yup, sure did. Thanks, Andy.”
    This was a moment both marvelous and confounding. Lasko had spoken Andy’s name for the very first time, and he’d done so as if they’d known each other forever. But now the Halliburton book seemed like little more than a prop, a handy excuse for their meeting. What was going on here? Andy tried not to read anything into it; tried and failed completely. His heart had a way of prancing ahead of him.
    â€œSit down,” said Lasko. “I’ll get us some grub.” He pointed beyond the sink to a scarred green card table and a couple of metal folding chairs. It was already set for dinner. “It’s better there. The old man don’t like company for supper.”
    Andy wasn’t sure what this meant until Lasko’s eyes led him to a larger table, where Lasko’s father sat sucking on a gravy-coated rib. He looked something like Lasko, but thicker of frame and darker-skinned, the only mexicano in this swarming basco beehive. He did not once look up from his glistening pile of bones, even when he muttered “No mas” at his daughter as she staggered through the kitchen with her platter-juggling act. The man struck Andy as sullen, dangerously unhappy.
    â€œHe don’t mind if we’re here,” said Lasko, sensing Andy’s concern.
    â€œYou sure? Cuz I don’t mind if—”
    â€œHe can go to blazes,” Lasko muttered under