F is for Fugitive Read Free Page A

need a change.” He turned back to the paper, leafing through the section on local news.
    I stood there and stared at the back of his head. Apainting by Whistler came immediately to mind. In a flash, I understood what was going on. “Henry, are you mothering me?”
    â€œWhat makes you say that?”
    â€œBeing here feels weird.”
    â€œIn what way?”
    â€œI don’t know. Dinner on the table, stuff like that.”
    â€œI like to eat. Sometimes I eat two, three times a day,” he said placidly. He found the crossword puzzle at the bottom of the funnies and reached for a ballpoint pen. He wasn’t giving this nearly the attention it deserved.
    â€œYou swore you wouldn’t fuss over me if I moved in.”
    â€œI don’t fuss.”
    â€œYou
do
fuss.”
    â€œYou’re the one fussing. I haven’t said a word.”
    â€œWhat about the laundry? You’ve got clothes folded up at the foot of my bed.”
    â€œThrow ’em on the floor if you don’t like ’em there.”
    â€œCome on, Henry. That’s not the point. I said I’d do my own laundry and you agreed.”
    Henry shrugged. “Hey, so I’m a liar. What can I say?”
    â€œWould you quit? I don’t need a mother.”
    â€œYou need a
keeper
. I’ve said so for months. You don’t have a clue how to take care of yourself. You eat junk. Get beat up. Place gets blown to bits. I told you to get a dog, but you refuse. So now you got me, and if you ask me, it serves you right.”
    How irksome. I felt like one of those ducklings inexplicably bonded to a mother cat. My parents had been killed in a car wreck when I was five. In the absence of real family, I’d simply done without. Now, apparently, old dependencies had surfaced. I knew what
that
meant. This man was eighty-two. Who knew how long he’d live? Just about the time I let myself get attached to him, he’d drop dead. Ha, ha, the joke’s on you, again.
    â€œI don’t want a parent. I want you as a friend.”
    â€œI am a friend.”
    â€œWell, then, cut the nonsense. It’s making me nuts.”
    Henry’s smile was benign as he checked his watch. “You’ve got time for a run before dinner if you quit mouthing off.”
    That stopped me. I’d really hoped to get a run in before dark. It was almost four-thirty, and a glance at the kitchen window showed I didn’t have long. I abandoned my complaints and changed into jogging sweats.
    The beach that day was odd. The passing storm-clouds had stained the horizon a sepia shade. The mountains were a drab brown, the sky a poisonous-looking tincture of iodine. Maybe Los Angeles was burning to the ground, sending up this mirage of copper-colored smoke turning umber at the edge. I ran along the bike path that borders the sand.
    The Santa Teresa coastline actually runs east and west. On a map, it looks like the ragged terrain takes a sudden left turn, heading briefly out to sea before thecurrents force it back. The islands were visible, hovering offshore, the channel dotted with oil rigs that sparkled with light. It’s worrisome, but true, that the oil rigs have taken on an eerie beauty of their own, as natural to the eye now as orbiting satellites.
    By the time I made the turnaround a mile and a half down the path, twilight had descended and the streetlights were ablaze. It was getting cold and the air smelled of salt, the surf battering the beach. There were boats anchored beyond the breakers, the poor man’s yacht harbor. The traffic was a comfort, illuminating the grassy strip between the sidewalk and the bike path. I try to run every day, not from passion, but because it’s saved my life more than once. In addition to the jogging, I usually lift weights three times a week, but I’d had to discontinue that temporarily, due to injuries.
    By the time I got home, I was in a better mood. There’s no way to