Cardinal Numbers: Stories by Hob Broun Read Free Book Online Page B

her head, smile crookedly into the sun, and his hand under her chin, lifting … It will be like nothing he could write.
    Turning onto Route 33 at Wilton, Riley is very tired. His memory reaches doubt: A dozen pages short on CF, out of time. And when Riley asked, okay. She and her niece stripped to their underwear, took to the floor in genre grapple poses, hair-pulling, all of it. He shot three rolls of black-and-white (ASA 200) with a borrowed Minolta. And Moretti said, “Man, great stuff. I mean these girls really hate each other.”
    What had Riley missed?
    He walks the bike now, counting down the even numbers of Beadle Street. Green gutters and trim, the man at the Texaco said. Not a very big town, his mental picture ludicrous against it. No stately spaces here. Everything is shoved down. The daffodils are plastic.
    “Why?” she says, and again, quietly, “why?”
    But she steps back from the door to let him in.
    “I biked all the way.”
    Why had he thought it would sound impressive?
    “It’s all right,” she says, seeing how he peers. “They came from the Center to take him for a ride.”
    Won’t she go change out of her pajamas, or put coffee on? Riley can’t look at her, instead substitutes the painting of JFK and John XXIII against fleecy clouds, Jordan almonds in a shell dish. He smooths his hands together.
    “Honest to God, Riley, you seem right at home. So what’re you doing here?”
    He looks at her, breathing carefully. Did she sleep in all that makeup or just put it on?
    They sit on the porch drinking Cokes. Her long legs are stretched out across the railing. The air is still.
    “Your problem is you look at home anyplace because nothing stands out.” She says this solicitously, as though he might see a doctor about it. “It’s like the day I knew we were going to split was when Nina and me did those wrestling pictures. You remember? I go, ‘Well, he might want to do something after, with both of us.’ Not like I wanted you to, though probably it would’ve been okay. But naturally, you wouldn’t even think of it. No curiosity.”
    “It was an assignment for work.”
    Her eyes are closed; she’s not listening. Riley could shake up the Coke with his thumb over the hole and …
    A man across the street is getting set to clip his hedge. First he goes inside with the long orange cord so he can plug in. Two little girls scream in the spray of a hose, taking turns. Somebody ordered a cab; the driver honks, honks, but no one comes.
    She says: “Go down and get some rye bread, I’ll make sandwiches.” Her eyes are still closed.
    Riley’s legs are so tired that it’s a joy to pedal. The store is cool and empty. He gets a Slurpee, and bubble gum packaged like chewing tobacco. Magazines are every which way in the rack. Hit Paraders and Playgirls and Omnis and Motor Trends and Cavaliers and one sun-faded Global Detective from last June. “Artist Model Drowns in Punchbowl,” one of his favorites. He goes out into the sun and sits on the curb to read.

PHOSPHATES
    C ONLAN BOUNCED IN THE Ford and his fresh cigarette rolled under the pedals. He tried to stamp out the coal and lurched. How could the road be so muddy and still bounce him? Conlan was no scientist, that he’d grant. Breath plumed out of his mouth, made a milky blue patch on the windshield. His tongue was dry. It wanted to taste raspberry.
    “Mutual trust,” Mr. Tunbridge said every September. “That’s what makes the stars come out.”
    And then he gave Conlan something in advance.
    “ MULLED cider, cocoa, herb teas,” the brother said in answer to the question of how he could keep his soda fountain open through the winter.
    Conlan looked up and down the street, which had only two summers ago been paved. “Herb teas,” he repeated. “You’re dreaming.”
    “People need a wholesome place to come,” the brother said. “After the sleigh ride, after the skaters’ party. And the community sing. That’s every