Read The Diviners for Free Online Page A

dirty-blond hair, in front of the hospital, concealed in dark glasses, as if she might want to spray bullets into the crowd. She flags down the car, though it needs no flagging down. The woman in the gray raincoat and black designer suit climbs in. Slams the door. It rattles on its hinges. Arranges herself on the plush seat of the Lincoln Town Car. The car service driver, of subcontinental extraction, is perplexed in the rearview,
would she slam her own doors?
But she pays no attention, since she is already embarked on instructions: “Rockefeller Center. Here’s how we’re doing it: We’re making a U-turn here and we’re going back to Ninth, where we’re going west until we get to Smith. At Smith, first available left, then we’re going all the way over to Hicks, and then across Atlantic,
not
onto the BQE, along Hicks, using the back entrance to the bridge.” As if he mustn’t understand because he’s an immigrant. He has a child at home, you know, a boy, an American boy, a boy raised in America. He, too, has shouted the words
Away from that socket!
He has an education, which is better than an American education, which is shit. He does not eat every day at a restaurant with a plastic exterior. The woman knows nothing of these things. He nods, imperceptibly, and they are off, into the part of rush hour that is composed of employees who are late.
    The large woman affixes herself immediately to the cellular telephone, or rather to its tiny pendulous headset. As if she’s talking to herself, as if she has just alighted in the car after a stay in the psychiatric wing of the Methodist Hospital. The boundary between telephone call and additional shouted instructions is difficult to pinpoint. “
Off
of Smith Street! You think I’m paying you to park?” As if she wants to ensure that he should listen to the entirety of her conversation.
    He learns many things. He learns about her place of business: “I’m not going to be in time for the meeting. Right. Drilling out in front of the house. They struck a water main. Six feet of water in the street. A union guy got hurt. There’s a liability angle, according to my lawyer. Electricity’s out, too. I don’t care what you tell them. We are in extended discussions with what’s-his-name, right, from the television show. He wants to be attached. Broad audience appeal. Just remind them. Use these words. Broad appeal. Can you remember? I’ll reschedule.”
    The intersection at Atlantic Avenue has been under construction since the Persian Gulf War, which is when he arrived. At night it’s an archaeological dig. The city is in layers below the surface. They are burying a military bunker here, under the subway station, and under the bunker they are burying antiquities stolen from the nations of the Tigris-Euphrates river valley. The men are wearing hazmat coveralls, and sparks are raining from their welding equipment. It’s all a tangle when he tries to get across Atlantic Avenue, even down by the other hospital. This passenger is like one of the cats in the zoo. Big cats before feeding hour. Pacing the cages as if they are going to devour the very walls. His boy loves them. His boy is full of joy, and the displeasure of the cats is a revelation to him. His boy has very little memory, and so every day is full of novelty. A leaf of the newspaper skittering above a sidewalk is a revelation. All smells are beloved of his boy. The smell of refuse delights him.
    “Dr. Weiss?” she’s saying. “Is it a bad time?”
    Saturated with artifice.
    “No, no, no. Of course. Well, something’s going to be done. To ensure stability in the markets. Something has to be done. That’s not what I called about. I had to phone the paramedics to come pick her up. They know her by name now, they’ve been over so many times. They actually call her Rosa. Rosa this, Rosa that. Snickering behind her back. I heard some crashing around. Like a demolition crew had moved into the basement. Which is