A Stranger Like You by Elizabeth Brundage Read Free Book Online Page A

painted everyone a bit too bright. The waitress was frowning and Hugh could tell that she wasn’t in a good mood even though it was a Friday. Most people were in a good mood on Fridays, that was one of the things he had always liked about work, the way people loosened up on Friday afternoons and let you in a little bit—but not her, and she was not impressed with his patience as he waited for his coffee, the expression on his face passive as an idiot’s. Half way through his meal he broke down and reminded her and her face singed like she’d been burnt. When she poured the coffee, it spilled over the side of the cup onto the saucer, but she was too busy talking with another customer to notice, and when he got up to pay the check she swiped it from his hand as if he’d stolen something.
    Back at the motel, he called Ida Kent, the writer. She sounded happy to hear from him and agreed to meet him later that afternoon in Santa Monica. She suggested a restaurant near the pier, an oyster bar named Sullivan’s.
    In a men’s shop around the corner Hugh bought two pair of trousers and two fresh white shirts. The little man who took care of him had an accent he couldn’t place and while he was pinning up the trousers Hugh saw that he was missing a thumb. The man promised they’d be ready in an hour. Killing time, Hugh walked up the boulevard, across the Walk of Fame, stepping on the stars of famous people. He wondered what it was like to be a person who had a star. A throng of tourists were filing into a bus outside Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Many were snapping pictures. They were like chattering penguins, he thought. Affecting an air of superiority, he walked swiftly past them. Already he felt a rich contempt for them.
    Abruptly, he called his wife. After several rings she answered. “Where are you, Hughie,” she cried, her voice wavering. “Why haven’t you called me? I’ve been worried, I’ve been worried sick.”
    “I know, I’m sorry, I feel terrible.”
    “What are you doing? Where are you?”
    “It’s just I’ve been talking to some people.”
    “What people? Who have you been talking to?”
    “Film people,” his voice lurched. “Producers. Things are looking very promising.”
    “Oh, I see.”
    “I need more time out here.”
    He could hear her sniffling into a tissue and it made his blood race.
    “I’m too boring for you,” she muttered. “I’ve always known it.”
    “Marion.”
    “It’s true.”
    “Don’t make this into something it’s not.”
    She had started to cry.
    “I’ll call you in a few days.” He hung up.
    The little man with the missing thumb had been telling the truth; the pants were hemmed within the hour. Hugh paid and brought the parcel back to the motel, where he changed into the new shirt and trousers and took care to clip his fingernails and comb his hair. His date with Ida wasn’t for several hours; he decided to take a drive. He went down to the parking lot and found his car and drove along the boulevard with the sun in his eyes. Again a helicopter appeared overhead like some mammoth creature. He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror, his nickel-plated guilt, the cold line of his mouth, and tried not to think about what he’d done to Hedda Chase.
    The beach was crowded. In his street clothes he began to sweat. He watched the people. Everyone seemed to be moving. Some were on Roller-blades. Some girls were playing volleyball in their bikinis. The sun was bright. He bought a baseball cap from a vendor who spoke no English; perhaps he was an Arab. The hat had an American flag on it. It was the cheapest one. Hugh put it on and rolled up his pants and walked down to the shore. Two teenaged girls looked at him and laughed—maybe they didn’t like the hat.
    Maybe they thought he was patriotic. Some children were dashing in and out of the waves, laughing. As he approached, they looked at him and he looked away. He had no business looking at small children. You never