Nerve Damage Read Free Page A

three below. And Skippy—like most of the local boys and unlike all the skiers, antiques hunters and second-homers—didn’t dress for the cold. Today he had on jeans, a light jacket, unzipped, and sneakers; no gloves, no hat, a runny nose.
    â€œCome inside,” Roy said.
    â€œYeah?” said Skippy. “Well, okay.”
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    Skippy entered. He looked around. His gaze landed on Delia, and stayed there. “Hey,” he said. “That’s why you wanted all those rads.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œAnd the rotor thing—it’s way up there.” Skippy moved around the base, head tilted way back, one or two teeth rotting already. “How high, anyway?”
    â€œTwenty-four feet, two inches at the top of that bent blade,” Roy said.
    â€œIs this Number Twenty?” Skippy said. “In the Neanderthals ?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDoesn’t look like a Neanderthal, ” Skippy said. “They were cavemen, right?”
    Roy nodded.
    â€œSo what’s the story behind this one?”
    Roy smiled. “Hard to put in words.”
    â€œSorry,” said Skippy. His eyes, even behind that droopy screen of greasy hair, had trouble meeting Roy’s.
    â€œNothing to be sorry about,” Roy said. He touched the nearest column of the arch. “It’s called Delia. ”
    Skippy took another look. “So it’s meant to be, you know, a real person?”
    â€œNot exactly.”
    â€œAn imaginary one?”
    â€œNo. It’s about a real person, I guess you’d say, but not a representation of her.”
    â€œSo there’s a Delia?”
    â€œMy first—my wife,” Roy said. “She died about fifteen years ago.” Fourteen years, eight months, two weeks, to be exact.
    â€œOh.”
    A silence fell over them, not uncomfortable. Thirty seconds went by, maybe more. It felt to Roy like there were three people in the room, getting along fine. “A helicopter crash,” he said. “Off Venezuela.”
    Skippy’s eyes went quickly to those twisted blades up above.
    â€œDelia was trying to get them to grow pineapples,” Roy said. “She had it all worked out—acreage, marketing, irrigation, everything.”
    Skippy said, “Does Uncle Murph, um, know how she…”
    Roy shook his head. “Hadn’t met your uncle at that point.” And Roy didn’t talk much about Delia, in any case; if her death came up, he usually just said plane crash . Which was how Tom Parish, Delia’s boss, had referred to it in that first phone call. I’m afraid I’ve got bad news, Roy . The details—thunderstorm, mechanical failure, helicopter—had come later, along with the body.
    â€œOh,” said Skippy.
    Two bodies, in a way, since Delia had been three months pregnant at the time.
    â€œHow old are you, Skippy?”
    â€œSixteen,” Skippy said. “But I’m reliable—ask Uncle Murph.”
    â€œI don’t doubt it,” said Roy. His gaze was drawn to three pimples on Skippy’s cheek, forming an inflamed little triangle.
    â€œSo,” said Skippy. He cleared his throat, and then again. “Is that a yes?”
    â€œWhat’s the question?”
    Skippy’s face reddened, somehow turning all his pimples white. “Assistant,” he said. “A job. Part-time, lifting heavy stuff, cleaning up, that kind of thing.”
    â€œYou want to be my assistant?” said Roy.
    Skippy nodded.
    â€œWhat about the job with your uncle?”
    â€œThere’s nothing for me to do at Uncle Murph’s. He’s just trying to, you know, take the pressure off of my mom.”
    â€œWhat does she do?”
    â€œCleans condos on the mountain. Plus some waitressing.” There was a long pause. “I’m not bad on the computer,” Skippy said.
    Roy had never had an assistant, didn’t need one. He named a date. “Why don’t you come