Ordinary People Read Free Page A

grandfather—yesterday, Cal’s father-in-law had called him at the office: “I’ve got to admit, Cal, that it shocked me. He looked so—” and Cal felt him hunting for the painless adjectives “—tired out. Run down. I would think, for the kind of money you paid, they would have at least seen to it that he ate properly, and got enough sleep. And he was so quiet. Just not like his old self at all.”
    And who was that? The kid who got straight A’s all through grade school and junior high? Who rode his two-wheeler sixteen times around the block on his sixth birthday, because somebody bet him he couldn’t? Who took four firsts in the hundred-meter free style last year? Last year. No, he is not much like that kid. Whoever he was.
    He says his piece about the clothes, and Conrad nods absently. “Okay. I just haven’t thought about it much. I will, though.”
    What, no argument? No raising of the eyebrows, no hint of sarcasm in the reply? What kind of a sign is this? Surely not good. Okay, now is the time. Lean, if you have to.
    “Another thing,” he says. “That doctor in Evanston, what’s his name? Berger? Have you called him yet?”
    An immediate reaction. The look on his face is tight; closed. The chair legs come down. “No. I don’t have time.”
    “I think we ought to stick to the plan—”
    “I can’t. I’m swimming every night until six. He didn’t say I had to call him, Dad.”
    “No, I know.” He waits while Conrad stares at the table. “I think maybe you ought to. Maybe he could see you on the weekends.”
    “I don’t need to see anybody. I feel fine.”
    A strained silence. Conrad pushes the cereal bowl, lightly; left, then right.
    “I want you to call him anyway,” he says. “Call him today.”
    “I don’t finish practice until dinner—”
    “Call him at school. On your lunch hour.”
    An obedient boy. Polite. Obedient. Well mannered. Even in the hospital, with his fingernails bitten to bloody half-moons, the dark circles, bloody bruises under his eyes; always, always his behavior was proper, full of respect.
    “Thanks for coming.” Each time he would say that, as Cal readied himself to leave. The shirt he is wearing today—the way his shoulder blades shove out beneath the soft skin of jersey—it is a shirt he used to wear in the hospital. Growing up is a serious business. He, Cal, would not be young again, not for anything. And not without sponsors: a mother and father, good fortune, God.

3
    He sits on the front porch steps, waiting for Lazenby. The air is crisp and cool, and he rubs his hands together, shivering in the thin denim jacket. He should go back inside; get a heavier one, but he doesn’t want to risk it. Not that she will care, or say anything. But the hurdle has been jumped once today. Enough. He glances again at his watch. Almost eight-thirty. Lazenby has forgotten. He hopes for a moment that he has; then, prays he hasn’t. She would have to drive him. She has a golf game; it will make her late. The wrong direction, across town the two of them alone in the car and he not wanting to screw up and say the wrong thing. Haul ass Lazenby crissake don’t make me stand here until she comes out.
    Abruptly he jumps up, walks to the end of the circular drive. Another thought nags at him, threatening to surface. He shrugs it off. Something unpleasant. Facing the house, he stares up at his bedroom window. In the early morning, the room is his enemy; there is danger in just being awake. Here, looking up, it is a refuge. He imagines himself safely inside; in bed, with the covers pulled up. Asleep. Unconscious.
    The thought surfaces. His father has noticed. Whatever is wrong is now visible. That command: not, “Call the guy,” but, “Call him today. ” Worrying. There is something to worry about, as he has suspected. He did not want to have his suspicions confirmed. In cooler moments, the fear can be shoved back; thought of as overactive imagination, too much hot sauce. Now