Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
He exhales through his nose. “Sophie’s teacher encouraged him to drive the kids to school instead of sending the driver. She thinks it’ll help if he’s more involved.” His mouth lifts in one corner in a semblance of a smile, but the gesture isn’t friendly. “To appear more normal, I suppose.”
I don’t want to discuss my husband or how abnormal our life is. “What do you want?”
“I heard about the marijuana.”
“Mr. Russo spoke to Johan. It won’t happen again.”
“Here.” He takes a cell phone and a charger from his briefcase. “These are for you.”
My lips part as I look at the items in his hand. “For me?”
“I carried them on me in case I ran into you. I had a feeling you’d show up again.” When I don’t move, he continues, “It’s a burner phone. Safer. More difficult to trace.”
I lift my gaze back to his. “Why?”
“We have our differences, but I can’t let you walk up and down that damn mountain without a phone.”
“How did you know I didn’t have one?”
“It seems you made friends in town. When you didn’t show up in the village for a week, they got worried about you. Knowing I used to work for your husband, they asked me if I had any news.”
“What did you say?”
“That Mr. Russo and I parted on bad terms and that I no longer had contact with him. That’s when the pharmacist told me you didn’t have a phone.”
Bowled over by his consideration, I say, “So you bought me one. I don’t understand. I thought you hated me.”
He thrusts the phone at me. “Just take it.” His expression stays serious—concerned, almost—as he says, “If you need anything, call me.” He motions at the phone. “My number is programmed on there.”
At a loss for words, I can only gape at him.
Taking my hand, he slams the phone and the charger on my palm, and then the turns and stomps away.
He’s already at the corner before I find my voice. “Thank you.”
I don’t expect him to acknowledge my gratitude, but I can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “You’re welcome.”
Chapter
Twelve
Angelo
* * *
Toma and I get out of the car on the dirt road at the top of the hill. The goat herder waits for us. I take a moment to study the scene.
The campsite doesn’t look much different from the first time I visited it except for the tents that are more tattered now. The torn canvas has long since faded to a bleak, colorless white that’s brown from layers of dirt. The strips in front of the openings flap in the icy wind. The cold ashes of a fire lie next to the stream. The shack that’s slapped together with bits and pieces of pressed wood and corrugated iron sits askew on the embankment. The snow has melted, exposing the trampled, muddy mess underneath. Chickens cluck as they waddle up and down the stream, occasionally stopping to bury their beaks in the soil and pull out a wiggling worm that they gobble down greedily.
The goat herder climbs down the slope, his rubber boots sinking into the mud. Toma follows behind while I tail him. My cousin utters a curse as mud splatters his pants.
The herder stops and points at the hill behind the stream. “Over there, sir. That’s where I last saw them goats. The ol’ man ain’t one for letting them run so far. All scattered over the grassland they are.” He spits on the ground. “Ran straight into paid land territory. No man can get his hand on them goats without trespassin’ now. That’s when I knew somethin’ was amiss.”
The herder waits for me to pass. I slide down the slope, slipping in the slush. Even before I reach the shack, I hear the buzzing of flies. The stench is suffocating. It smells of human excretion and decay. Toma pulls the decorative handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and covers his nose.
The rusted hinges protest as I flatten my palm on the chipboard and push the door open. The interior is dark, the cloth in front of the window pulled closed. The wedge of gray daylight that falls through the door cuts a triangle over the gras mat on the ground. In the corner lies a mattress. On it, underneath a threadbare blanket, the emaciated shape of a body is visible. It’s more like a sack of bones than a body. His face is turned to the wall. White tuffs of hair cling to the skull in patches. Bundles of the woolly clots cover the pillow like pincushions of fungus.
Toma retches. He runs to the circle of rocks forming a fire pit, folds double, and empties his stomach on the ground.
I let the door swing shut.
There’s nothing I can do here.
I remain on that spot in the pungent air, dissecting my feelings for a shred of compassion and finding nothing.