I Am the Messenger by Markus Zusak Read Free Book Online

seventeen-year-old dog. We drink coffee together. You’d think we were husband and wife, the way we carry on. But still…
    The old lady did something to my heart.
    When her hands reached out and poured the tea, it was as if she also poured something into me while I sat there sweating in my cab. It was like she held a string and pulled on it just slightly to open me up. She got in, put a piece of herself inside me, and left again.
    In there, somewhere, I still feel it.
     
    I sit here playing cards, and the image of her is splayed across the table. Only I can see it. I see her hands shaking as she brought the spoon up to her mouth. I want to see her laugh or express some kind of happiness or contentment to let me know she’s okay. I soon realize, though, that I have to find out for sure.
    It’s my go.
    “Your go, Ed.”
    It’s my go and I’m not going.
    I’m down to two cards and I have to knock.
    The Three of Clubs and the Nine of Spades.
    The only trouble is, I want more cards tonight. I’m not interested in winning. I think I know what I have to do for the old woman, and I make a bet with myself.
    If I pick up the Ace of Diamonds, I’m right.
    If I don’t, I’m wrong.
    I forget to knock and everyone laughs at me as I go to pick up.
    First card: Queen of Clubs.
    Second card: Four of Hearts.
    Third card: yes.
    Everyone wonders why I could possibly be smiling, except Audrey. Audrey winks at me. She knows without asking that I did it on purpose. The Ace of Diamonds is in my hand.
    This is much better than Edgar Street.
    I’m feeling good.
     
    It’s Tuesday and I’m putting on my white jeans and my nice sandy-colored boots. I pull out a decent shirt. I’ve been to the Cheesecake Shop, having been ably assisted by a girl called Misha.
    (“Don’t I know you?” she asked.
    “Maybe. I can’t quite—”
    “Of course—you’re the guy from the bank. The hero.”
    The fool, more like it, I thought, but I said, “Oh yeah—you’re the girl behind the counter. You work here now?”
    She nodded. “Yeah.” She was a bit embarrassed. “I couldn’t handle the stress in the bank.”
    “The robbery?”
    “Nah, my boss was a total prick.”
    “The acne and the sweat patches?”
    “Yeah, that’s him…. Tried to stick his tongue in my mouth the other day.”
    “Ah well,” I said. “That’s men for you. We’re all a bit that way.”
    “Ain’t that the truth.” But she was friendly from start to finish. When I was outside the shop, she called after me. “Enjoy the cake, Ed!”
    “Thanks, Misha,” I called back, but not loud enough, probably. I don’t like making noise in public.
    And I was gone.)
    I think about it briefly as I open the box and look at half a mud cake. I feel for the girl because it can’t have been too nice having that guy all over her like that, and it was she who quit. The bastard. I’m scared out of my mind before I try to put my tongue in a girl’s mouth. And I don’t have acne or sweat patches. Just shithouse confidence. That’s all.
    Anyway.
    I give the cake a last examination. I smell good. I’m decked out in my nicest clothes, ready to go.
    I step over the Doorman and close the door behind me. The day is silver gray and cool as I walk over to Harrison Avenue. I’m there by six o’clock, and the old lady is attending to the kettle again.
    The grass on her front lawn is gold.
    My feet crunch over it, like the sound of someone biting into toast. My boots seem to leave prints, and I truly feel like I’m walking over a giant piece of toasted bread. The roses are the only things alive, standing resolutely by the driveway.
    Her front porch is cement. Old and cracked, like mine.
    The flyscreen door is torn at the edges. Fraying. I open it and knock on the wood. The sound rhymes with my heartbeat.
    Her footsteps climb to the door. Her feet sound like the ticktock of a clock. Counting time to this moment.
    She stands.
    She looks up at me, and for a moment we both get lost in