Calling Home by Michael Cadnum Read Free Book Online Page A

that?”
    â€œI was calling up Time. You know, that voice that tells you what time it is. I don’t carry a watch.”
    But the truth was—as soon as I had made one of those calls, I tried to forget about it. The few moments in which I became Mead frightened me, and I wanted to deny that they had ever happened.
    Just as I wanted to deny that Mead was dead.
    â€œDo you have to be anywhere by eleven or twelve or anything like that?” Angela asked.
    â€œMy mother’s out on one of her marathon dates. She dates these businessmen. I think she’s hoping to find a rich one. But she never really likes them. She keeps finding a newer, richer one, and then he’s not the right man, and then she finds another one.”
    â€œShe’s fussy.”
    â€œI guess so. I think she still misses my father. Even though she hates him. I also think she resents men, in general. She’s sick of them.”
    â€œI don’t blame her. Men are pretty awful. Especially the people my parents know. Stockbrokers and realtors and people who have parties at the Super Bowl every year. Rich guys in cowboy boots.”
    â€œSometimes I think my mother hates practically everyone.”
    â€œShe sounds like a lot of fun.”
    â€œShe’s very complicated.”
    â€œI thought you didn’t like her.”
    â€œI don’t, usually. But I have some sympathy for her. A lot of it, actually.”
    â€œYou sound tired.”
    â€œI feel terrific.”
    â€œYou sound more than tired. You sound very peculiar.”
    â€œI work at it. Sounding peculiar is one of my major ambitions.”
    â€œYou ought to be very pleased. You’re very successful.”
    â€œYou like me because I’m odd. So I work at it. I don’t want you to be disappointed in me.” I was at least partly right. I’m normal-looking, not all that special to behold, thin and pale, with hair that looks a little bit blond in some lights, but is really plain, cardboard brown most of the time. Angela has the kind of looks that turns heads. You see men look at her as they drive by, their lips parted in mid-speech.
    The view from the hills was enough to silence both of us. An airplane light winked slowly across the glitter. The Bay was a big empty place, and the Bay Bridge glittered over the blackness. Usually a sight like that moved me, calmed me, made me feel that a living, twinkling map—the real world—was at my feet.
    â€œYou aren’t being very friendly tonight,” Angela complained.
    â€œMaybe we should go.”
    â€œThe view isn’t so good tonight, is it? Sort of yellowish.”
    â€œThe view’s all right. Maybe a little yellowish, but not too bad.”
    â€œYou’ve been having problems with your parents. I can tell. I’d have more problems with mine, except that they’re gone so much of the time. I’m lucky.”
    Angela was lucky, I thought. Her life was still a life. She had a future.
    We drove back, listening to the car stereo, the windows rolled up against the scent of the trees.

8
    â€œI don’t particularly care if you learn Latin or not,” said Mr. Lindner. He touched his mustache and sat on the front of his desk. “You must realize that some people are not cut out for Ovid. It happens. Not everyone is intellectually graceful,” he said, rising and stepping around his desk to sit, like he wanted to demonstrate his own mental fitness by moving his body in a tight, efficient manner.
    â€œI know,” I said, shifting my books in my hands.
    â€œBut I do ask that students not come to class high on whatever drugs they choose to use when they recreate on their own time.”
    â€œI’m not using drugs, Mr. Lindner.”
    â€œI ask this because I have pride in myself as a teacher, and because I have standards. No hats. No gum. And,” he glanced at his nails, “no drugs.”
    â€œAll right,” I said, turning to