The Household Spirit by Tod Wodicka Read Free Book Online Page B

Howie’s day, that kind of language certainly would have constituted a low-level emergency, but a call to your next-door neighbor hundreds of miles away? Doubtful.
    Howie sat down and looked into the internet computer.
    On Facebook, Emily Phane was currently in a relationship with a young man named Ethan Caldwell. Ethan Caldwell’s profile was private, but his photograph revealed an Oriental man in a robe. Twenty-six years old and standing on a hilltop with a sword. The male someone Howie heard during the muffled portion of the recorded message did not sound characteristically Oriental, but huh. Really, what did Howie know? The sword was, potentially, a problem.
    It was morning now. Past midnight, anyway. Howie watched the phone and the bossy old clock above the stove. It clicked 12:17. Then, in what seemed like significantly more than sixty seconds, another click. A clunk.
    12:18.
    Howie yawned.
    He had put that clock up there after his wife left. The louder the time, the better. Once, this kitchen had been a place for mornings. That was before his family fled, and long before Marty’s internet computer had installed itself on the round oak table. There between the toaster, microwave, radio, telephone, and the answering machine. Ex-husbandhood meant he could do this, crowd his antique kitchen table with machines. Because why not make toast or reheat Bellaggio’s pizza where you’re going to actually eat Bellaggio’s pizza? The resulting spaghetti of wires extending through the air from the kitchen table to the kitchen counter didn’t bug Howie in the least and, in fact, the limits they imposed upon kitchen mobility were satisfying. There were already too many ways one could do things. Howie rarely thought of his wife preparing breakfast anymore.
    The computer crackled with exertion. He watched a pop-up ad for heartburn relief. Indigestion as poignant blobs of red light. Howie had pulled a night shift yesterday and then, before dawn, on a whim, drove straight from the GE Waste Water Treatment Plant to East Caroga Lake, where he’d spent the majority of the day fishing.
    The phone rang.
    His first reaction was that it was an alarm, and that it was time to wake up, go to work. He reached for it, instinctually, as if to hit snooze.
    The red blobs on the screen yo-yoed from stomach to neck and back again. Caressingly, almost. They looked like something you might enjoy having inside you. Why fight it?
    Howie was exhausted.
    The phone kept ringing, so Howie kept his right hand on the receiver, feeling a ticklish electric purr, holding the receiver down, shhhhhhhhhh, as if there were a genuine possibility of it leaping up and answering itself or Howie’s left hand going rogue and finding out why Emily Phane had been calling all night.
    It stopped ringing.
    Harri, age sixteen, spoke from the table: “My technophobic dad’s not home right now. Or, who knows, actually. He probably totally is. Either way, leave a message after the—”
    BEEEEP!
    Then, Emily: “I’m sorry, Mr. Jeffries, I’m sure you’re at work or out night fishing but…” Howie yanked his hand off the phone as if it had actually become the top of his neighbor’s head. Emily paused then, as if in confused reaction to the removal of Howie’s hand. Like they were both listening for the other now through the static snow of distance. Boston and Route 29. Breathing. Both of them waiting for the other to make a move. Then, “Well, so, I’ve been calling my grandfather since yesterday and he hasn’t picked up. If you’re listening to this, could you look and see if his car’s there? Ifit is, please go and see if he’s OK, Mr. Jeffries. It’s probably nothing. I’m sure it’s nothing. It’s usually nothing. His phone is probably unplugged or the TV’s too loud or something. But please. I’m worried. I’ll try calling again in the morning.”
    BEEEEP!
    From the kitchen window, Howie could see the Phane house. The lights were on downstairs, all of