The Emperor of Any Place Read Free Page A

shook his head a second time. “It’s this murder thing. I mean, on one hand, why would I be surprised, right? But, on the other . . . it’s as if, for some reason, I don’t believe it. There’s something wrong with the picture.”
    Evan watched and waited. What picture? But with one last shake of the head, his father seemed to dismiss whatever it was he was thinking about.
    “So,” he said, finding a stash of smiles somewhere and trying one on. But the “so” didn’t lead anywhere. The room was silent. There was just Evan, Clifford,
Axis: Bold as Love,
and the newly reconstituted USS
Constitution.

Evan came up from the rec room. He was in his sweats and a sopping T-shirt. He’d been working out on the rowing machine, listening to “Angry Workout Mix,” not getting anywhere. That was the thing about rowing machines.
    His father sat in the living room listening to jazz. His favorite chair in the sweet spot between two tall electrostatic speakers. He took his listening seriously.
    “Very mellow,” said Evan.
    His dad looked up and smiled. “Miles Davis,” he said.
“Kind of Blue.”
He was drinking a scotch. He sat up a bit straighter, paused the sound. “Sorry for getting all bent out of shape earlier.”
    “No prob, Dad. I love it when you get sentimental about the good ole days.”
    “Like I said, sorry.” He swayed a bit as if the music were still playing. “It’s just that I’ve been thinking about Griff a lot lately.” There was something in his voice that made Evan pull up an ottoman.
    “What’s up?”
    “Ah, it doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you about it sometime. I’m kind of glad you put me in my place earlier.”
    “Dad, I —”
    “No, no. It’s ridiculous —
I’m
ridiculous. I know it.” His face got pinched. “The man still gets to me, even now. Like I’m haunted.” Then he pushed the pause button again, let the music out of its box. It floated up into the room, and the stand-up bass seemed to Evan like a boy with a kite — and the kite was Miles Davis on his muted horn out of sight in the air up there.
    “Maybe you
should
get in touch with him.”
    Clifford seemed for just a moment to consider the idea, but then gently shook his head — or was he just noting the slow rhythm of the song? The window was open. A night breeze stole into the room and was doing a slow dance under the jazz. Evan could feel it on the back of his neck, the sweat on him cooling. He shivered.
    “Dad?” His father looked at Evan. “What’s going on?”
    “Memories,” he said. He leaned forward and patted Evan’s knee, then sank back into his seat. “Just memories.”

Evan looks out the window at the garden in the rain. He’s standing over the kitchen sink eating a casserole that Mrs. Cope from up the street brought over. Rachel Cope is . . . was . . .
    Start again, Ev.
    Rachel Cope
was
his father’s gardening buddy. Dad called her his pusher lady, dropping by with bulbs and cuttings and things in plain brown bags. Evan wondered once whether there was something between them.
    “Nah,” said his dad. “Just bulbs.”
    She’d offered to help Evan out with the flower beds. Was he supposed to phone her about that or would she just come? Looking out the window now, at the drenched greenery, Evan isn’t sure which are flowers and which are weeds. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do about annuals and perennials, except that with perennials, you probably have to do it more often. He isn’t sure what to do about the lawn. Mow it probably. Or get a goat.
    He isn’t sure about this casserole, either. Eating it cold right out of the dish probably isn’t helping. It’s got hamburger in it and a tomato base. That much he can identify. But there are other textures, other flavors — some alien vegetable, strange spices. He stops, stares at it.
    Other people’s food is weird.
    He’s got a freezer full of other people’s food: casseroles, soups, and stews. He’s grateful, but one of these