Read Lost Boy Lost Girl for Free Online

Philip’s sense of ritual had been satisfied.
    “Sorry. Dumb question.”
    “I guess it was nice of you to come all this way, anyhow. Sit down, rest up. After being in New York, you probably appreciate our famous midwestern peace and quiet.”
    Having been given all the thanks he was likely to get, Tim walked across the living room and placed himself in an upholstered armchair that had come into Philip’s household after Nancy’s arrival. Philip stayed on his feet, watching him like a hotel detective. Philip’s gray suit was too heavy for the weather, and he tugged a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. From overhead came the ongoing rhythmic pulse of an electric bass.
    “There’s a lot of action around the Pforzheimer,” Tim said. “Some big-time director is shooting a movie on Jefferson Street.”
    “Don’t tell Mark. He’ll just want to go.”
    “He’s already been there. I saw him from my window. He and a red-haired kid came out of Cathedral Square and walked down the street to watch them filming a scene. They were right beneath me.”
    “That was Jimbo Monaghan, his best buddy. Hell, his one and only buddy. You see one, the other one’s right behind him. Jimbo’s not a bad kid, for a dodo. Went through junior high at Quincy without any more than a half dozen demerits. Most kids rack up twice that.”
    “Did Mark?”
    “I had to be a little extra hard on Mark. The kids would have made his life hell if I’d shown any favoritism. Do you remember what kids are like? Find a weakness, they home in like sharks. Little bastards are barely human.”
    Philip thought giving his son demerits proved that he was a stern and responsible father, but the truth was that it had given him pleasure.
    “I got Cokes, root beer, ginger ale. You want beer or anything stronger, you can supply it yourself.”
    “Ginger ale, if you’re having something.”
    Philip ducked into the kitchen, and Tim took his usual cursory inspection of the living room. As ever, it contained the same peculiar mixture of furniture Philip had shifted from house to house before settling back in the old neighborhood. All of it seemed a bit more worn than it had been on Tim’s previous visits: the long green corduroy sofa, black recliner, highboy, and octagonal glass coffee table from Mom and Pop sharing space with the blond wooden furniture from some now-bankrupt “Scandinavian” furniture store. Tim could remember Mom sitting in the rocking chair beside Pop’s “davenport,” the fat needle working as she hooked thick, interwoven knots of the rug that covered three-fourths of Philip’s living room floor. Fifty years ago, it had been a lot brighter: now, it was just a rag to keep your shoes from touching the floor.
    Philip came back into the room holding two glasses beaded with condensation. He passed one to Tim and dropped onto the far end of the davenport. His gray suit bunched up around his hips and shoulders.
    “Philip, with apologies for my earlier question, how are you doing these days? How are you handling it?”
    Philip took a long pull at his ginger ale and sagged against the worn cushions. He seemed to be staring at something akin to a large insect moving up the half-wall leading to the dining room and kitchen.
    “With apologies, huh? That’s nice. It should be Nancy who apologizes to me, not you.” He fixed Tim with a cold, brown-eyed glare. The rimless spectacles slightly magnified his eyes. “We’re getting into a strange, strange topic here. It is
truly
strange, this topic. I have to say, it surpasseth comprehension. Do you know what I mean, or do I have to explain it to you?”
    “I think I understand. I read the obituary in today’s
Ledger
. When I saw the words ‘without warning,’ I thought—”
    “You thought?”
    “I thought Nancy probably killed herself.”
    “Is that what you thought? Well, guess what? Big brother rings the bell.”
    “Would you prefer it if I didn’t