Epitaph Road Read Free

face;
    I’d settle for the music of his voice from down the hall —
    a three a.m. cry for his mother’s milk.
    â€” EPITAPH FOR LUKE HONEY (MAY 6, 2067–AUGUST 7, 2067),
    BY MARIA HONEY, HIS MOTHER,
    NOVEMBER 2, 2068
C HAPTER O NE
    J UNE 16, 2097 — T HIRTY Y EARS L ATER
    Glum and restless, I stared out through the living room window as rain ticked sideways against the glass and flowed steadily down. In the late-afternoon murk, the glossy streaks of wet looked like narrow metal bars. This wasn’t a prison, but the nonstop Sunday downpour made it feel like one. Outside, the sprawling carpet of grass drank in the cloudburst. I could practically see the individual blades growing, which meant more work for me. But not today, a bad day for mowing lawns. Or hopping on my bike and heading off to somewhere — anywhere — more exciting.
    Maybe the rainfall was trying to tell me something. Because what I should have been doing was getting ready for my trials. Confined by the weather to this big old house, with most of its other residents in their rooms or otherwise quietly keeping to themselves, I had only one excuse for not studying: Mom had asked me to meet her here. She was going to make time in her busy schedule for a “visit” with me. How could I have refused?
    Anyway, I had a reason — besides just getting a chance to talk to her for a change — to meet with her. I had my own topic to chat about. It was a topic I believed she’d been avoiding.
    I heard the office door open, and a moment later she appeared. The two other women in the room glanced up and went back to their reading. She smiled and plopped down on the couch next to me and for a moment joined me in gazing silently out the window. Her mascara looked clumpier than usual, maybe to mask the fatigue in her eyes. It wasn’t working.
    â€œHow are you, Kellen?” she said finally. She rested her hand on mine. It felt comfortingly familiar but irritating at the same time.
    â€œTerrific,” I said. “Smooth summer so far. We won our game yesterday. I got two doubles.”
    â€œThat’s wonderful.”
    â€œToo bad you weren’t there.”
    â€œI wanted to be.”
    â€œThree,” I said, silhouetting three fingers against the gray daylight.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThree. Games. You’ve been to three. I’ve played eleven.”
    â€œWork keeps getting in the way. We’ve had…complications. But they’re temporary. Things will be back to normal soon.”
    Normal. “Normal” meant she would’ve gotten to four or five games. Her job with PAC — the Population Apportionment Council — was her top priority. I was number two. “It’s okay.” I’d raised a subject. Not my main subject, but a start. I’d made a point, maybe.
    â€œIt’s not okay. I simply don’t have a choice.”
    I shrugged. She had a choice. She had smarts, degrees, experience, other employers sniffing around. She would’ve had no problem finding a different job. But I was done with this topic. I freed my hand from hers and pretended to straighten a sock.
    â€œHow are your studies going?” she asked, getting to what I figured all along was her motive for our “visit.”
    â€œHave you talked to Dad yet?” I said. “About me going to see him?”
    â€œI’ve been so busy. And you need time to prepare for your trials.”
    â€œMy studies are fine. You said you’d get him a message. Or talk to him about it the next time he called.”
    â€œWhat about your history class?” Mom said, not wavering from the topic of my education. “What do you think of Ms. Anderson as an instructor? Is she getting you the essential material? I’ve heard she can be…unconventional.”
    Anderson? She was unconventional , maybe, but in a good way. “She’s doing great. I’m doing great.