mother walks past them. She sits at the piano and begins to play. âIâve started my lessons again.â
âLetâs hear the Schubert,â Ray says.
Her father proudly shows her more drawings. âIâm taking classes, at the college. Free for seniors.â
It is incredibly civilized and all she can think about is how bad things are with Steve and that she needs to come up with a slogan for adult diapers by Monday.
A little later, she is sitting in the den. As her mother knits, they watch the evening news. Her father is in the bedroom, blasting the radio. Ray is in the kitchen with the pots and pans. The smell of garlic and scallions fills the house.
âYou let him just be in the kitchen? You donât worry what he does to the foodâwhat he puts in it?â
âWhatâs he going to doâpoison us?â her mother says. âIâm tired of cooking. If I never cook again thatâs fine with me.â
She looks at her motherâher mother is a good cook, she is what youâd call a food person.
âDoes Ray have a crush on Dad?â
âDonât be ridiculousâwhat am I, chopped liver?â Her mother inhales. âSmells good doesnât it?â
A noise, an occasional small sound draws her out of the room and down the hall. She moves quietly thinking she will catch him, she will catch Ray doing something he shouldnât.
She finds him on the living room floor, sitting on a cushion. There are small shiny cymbals on his first and third fingers and every now and then he pinches his fingers togetherâ ping .
She goes back into the den.
âHeâs meditating,â her mother says, before she even asks. âTwice a day for forty minutes. He tried to get your father to do it and me too. We donât have the patience. Sometimes we sit with him, we cheat, I read, your father falls asleep.â
Again there is the sound of the cymbalsâ ping .
âIsnât that the nicest sound?â
âDoes he do it at specific intervals?â
âHe does it whenever his mind begins to wander. He goes very deep. Heâs been at it for twenty years.â
âWhere is Ray from? Does he have a family? Does he have a job? Is he part of a cult?â
âWhy are you so suspicious? Did you come all the way home to visit or to investigate us?â
âI came home to talk to you.â
âI donât know that I have anything to say,â her mother says.
âI need adviceâI need you to tell me what to do.â
âI canât. Itâs your life. You do whatâs right for you.â She pauses. âYou said you wanted to come home because you needed to get something, you wanted somethingâwhat was it, something you left in your room?â
âI donât know how to describe it,â she catches herself. âItâs something I never got. Something from you,â she says.
âI donât really have much to give. Call some friends, make plans, live it up. Arenât any of your high school buddies around?â
She is thirty-five and suddenly needs her mother. She is thirty-five and doesnât remember who her high school buddies were.
âWhat does Ray want from you? What does he get?â
âI have no idea. He doesnât ask for anything. Maybe just being here is enough, maybe thatâs all he wants. Everyone doesnât need as much as you.â
There is silence.
âDamn,â her mother says. âI dropped a stitch.â
She leaves the room. She goes downstairs. She wants to see exactly what he is up to.
The door to her brotherâs room is cracked open. She pushes it further. A brown cat is curled up on a pillow; it looks at her. She steps inside. The cat dives under the bed.
The room is clean and neat. Everything is put away. Thereis no sign of life, except for the dent in the pillow where the cat was, and a thin sweater folded over the back of a chair.
C. J. Cherryh
Learning to Kill: Stories
John O'Riley
Brenda Sinclair
Christopher George
Stephen Lloyd Jones
Karl Iagnemma
Celya Bowers
Jill Gregory
Aria Cunningham