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

knew what people could say about you. They could say you were looking at them with interest, and that could imply something strange. Stories could build from nothing, he thought. The ocean was choppy and when the waves broke the water sprayed his face. He found himself thinking about the ancient Greeks, their sophistication, their ingenuity. That had been the beginning; this was nearly the end. He couldn’t help feeling shame—the shame of being a stupid American—and now he regretted buying the hat. The beach was not clean. Trash undulated in the sand, just enough to stir up his anger. People didn’t care; not really they didn’t.
    For an hour or two, he lay in the sand and thought. He tried not to think about the producer in that dark trunk. When he could not stand it another minute, he returned to his car and drove out to LAX. He took the airport exit and entered the labyrinth that wound around to long-term parking, taking a ticket at the gate as though he had planned a trip. For a moment he contemplated getting on a plane, going somewhere, Europe perhaps. That would be the smart thing to do, he told himself. The lot was crowded—he had left her car in section H, near the tall fence. The car was still there. He felt a mixture of emotions, both relief and dread. He rolled past its dirty rump, the tidy, German box of the trunk, and thought: She’s in there.
    His heart began to beat very fast as he put his window down. His chest began to hurt. Sweat spread across his back, the tops of his hands. He sat there a moment, listening to the lull of traffic beyond the fence, the expectant quiet of the parking lot, the screaming jets filling the sky, and thought: What if she’s dead?
    He thought: Get out and open the trunk.
    A car beeped behind him. Hugh glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a woman gesturing for him to move, cursing him. The horn had alerted the gate attendant, who was coming toward him. Hugh signaled his apology and pulled away. When he went through the gate, the attendant noted his ticket and said, “Change of plans?”
    Hugh nodded. “Would you believe I forgot my luggage?”
    The attendant needed a shave and wore a strained expression like he was in a little bit of pain, but could do nothing about it. He looked at Hugh doubtfully. “No charge.” The gate opened and Hugh drove through it.
    The restaurant was a seedy place on a side street near the pier. It took him a while to find a parking space and then he had to search for quarters. You could smell the ocean and the late, damp sunlight. The beach was nearly empty. He saw an old couple shuffling through the sand, lugging their beach chairs, their shoulders hunched, their faces preoccupied and complex.
    Ida was waiting at the bar in a sleeveless dress and sandals. Her shoulders were pretty. Her face was like one of those women in the laundry detergent commercials, he thought, a wife who could keep house like nobody’s business. When they kissed hello she smelled lemon-fresh. “Hey.”
    “Hey, yourself,” she said. She stood there looking at him. “I took the liberty of ordering. You like oysters, don’t you?”
    He told her he did and took the leather stool next to hers and ordered a beer. Ida was drinking something pretty.
    “If you’re good I’ll give you the cherry,” she told him.
    “Oh, I’ll be good.”
    “She’s got you well trained.”
    He grunted a laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
    “On second thought, you don’t get the cherry.”
    “We’re separated,” he told her, and it occurred to him how easy it was to say it. “We’re in transition.”
    “Well, good for you. Transition is an interesting place to be.”
    “Speaking from experience?”
    “Oh, yeah. Experience is something I happen to have a lot of. Or, as my mother would say, source material . My mother has a way of looking at things. She tweaks everything. Like my ex-husband. Instead of admitting he was a cheap fucking bastard, she’d say it’s the thought