Black Maps by David Jauss Read Free Book Online Page A

still find myself imagining that old car driving up to our house and Roy stepping out, a sheepish smile on his face, and saying, “Honey, I’m home.” I don’t love him anymore—it isn’t that. If he asked me to marry him again, I’d say no. I just want him to come home, to say he’d been wrong to leave.
    Then I thought about Lenny, sitting home alone all these nights, waiting for me to give him an answer, and I started to feel so trembly I stopped at an empty table near theirs and pretended to straighten the placemats and silverware while I got ahold of myself. I was close enough then to hear what they were saying, and I almost had to laugh, I’d been such a fool. They weren’t talking about his wife, or divorce, at all. They were talking about clay-eaters .
    â€œWhat they do,” the man was saying, “is they mix the clay with tomato soup. They call it river beans.”
    The girl shook her head. “I can’t believe it. I could understand it if they were starving or something, but why would anyone want to eat clay?”
    â€œThey crave it. No one knows why, but they do. If one of them moves away from the river, they crave it so bad their relatives have to mail them packages of it.”
    â€œCare packages full of dirt,” the girl laughed.
    I’d been a perfect fool and I knew it. Still, when I finally went up to their table, I felt my stomach turn over the way it would if I were waiting on Roy and his new wife. “Hello,” I said, my voice wavering a little, and set the menus on the red and white checked tablecloth. “My name is Gloria, and I’ll be serving you this evening.”
    The girl flicked a strand of blond away from her eyes and smiled at me. “Tell me, do you have river beans tonight?” Then she and the man laughed.
    â€œYou’ll have to excuse us,” the man said. “We’ve been talking about a TV special I saw, about these people in Kentucky who eat clay.”
    â€œReal clay,” the girl added, like I didn’t understand.
    â€œThat’s right,” the man went on. “They dig it up out of the banks of the Ohio River and eat it. Not just poor people either: bankers, doctors, you name it.”
    He smiled.
    I can’t explain why, but right then I decided I had to give Lenny his answer. I couldn’t wait another night.
    â€œI’ll be back in a minute to take your orders,” I said, then turned and went back to the kitchen. Edward, our cook, was spreading pepperoni slices on a pizza crust. He took one look at me and said, “Hey, Sunshine, what’s the problem?”
    â€œNothing,” I said.
    â€œSure,” he said. “I can see that.” Then he wiped his hands on his apron like he was going to give me a hug and make everything all right.
    â€œDon’t touch me,” I said. “I’m fine.”
    When Lenny and I first met, I didn’t know what to think of him. He wasn’t anything like Roy. Roy was short, like me, and burly with a coarse black beard, and Lenny’s tall and lanky and he has a dirty brown mustache that he chews whenever he’s nervous, which is almost always. Roy never said what he was thinking much, but Lenny, he’ll say whatever comes into his head. When I sat down in the chair opposite him in Dr. Phelan’s waiting room, he asked me, “What’s wrong with you?” At first I was going to snap back something like “None of your business,” but when I saw his face, so shy and friendly, I couldn’t help but tell him about my varicose veins. “I’m on my feet a lot,” I said. Then he said, “I’m here to find out if I’ve got Agent Orange or just some dumb allergy,” and he opened his top shirt buttons and showed me his red, raw chest. “Horrible, isn’t it?” he said. “I look like a napalmed gook. Isn’t that a joke?” I must have made a face