The Judas Glass by Michael Cadnum Read Free Book Online Page B

was an additional masculine murmur, the voice of reason, compassion.
    â€œIf there’s anything I can do, Simon,” I said. “For you. For any of you. Please call me.” I gave him my number, and I could hear the faint squeak of a felt-tipped pen on paper. “And please tell your parents I called.”
    Simon thanked me, and sounded like Rebecca, his voice warm, full of feeling, so that I did not want to hang up the phone, even while I watched my hand complete the act, settling the receiver into its cradle.
    Connie was late. She was usually home by now. It was dusk, and she always called if she was running behind schedule.
    I know a lot of people. Solitude had always been a style that looked better on other people. I enjoyed company, someone else watching the television in the shifting light. Surprised by grief, what was I to do but accept the condolences of my friends?
    Dr. Opal called, asking how they had treated me at Alta Bates Hospital. “You deserve the best treatment there is,” he said.
    The sound of his voice brought back memories, good ones, a sense that the world was an ordered place, rational and loving. Dr. Opal had long been a father figure to me, warm-hearted during my teenage years, when my father was distracted and driven to lose his frustrations in a staggering work schedule. Since my father’s death, Dr. Opal was a link with the sunnier aspects of my childhood. “Sometimes emergency rooms are a zoo,” he said.
    â€œYou don’t like zoos?” I said.
    He chuckled. Dr. Opal had gone sailing with my father in the old days, when my father owned one of the first all-fiberglass hulls in San Francisco Bay. Dr. Opal rarely practiced hands-on medicine anymore, always flying off to sit on a commission or give a lecture. His manner, however, was healing, his voice, his touch, always reassuring. “If you need to talk about your loss, Richard, I want to help you,” he said.
    â€œDo you ever have the feeling that life isn’t anything like what you thought it was?” I said.
    â€œAll too often,” said Dr. Opal. He hesitated, perhaps not wanting to offer unwanted advice. “Drop by and see me. I still make that chili you used to like. Or stop by the office. It’s been a thousand years since I played tennis. It would do me good.” He was lonely after the death of his wife. I realized this as I stood there, hearing in his voice the rasp of incipient old age. Sometimes grief makes us more sensitive to the feelings of others, and makes us realize that we have, without meaning any harm, neglected someone close to us.
    When the doorbell rang I was on the phone with Stella. I assumed it was a friend dropping by for a cup of coffee or a drink. But when I opened the door, telephone to my ear, no one was there.
    There was the lawn, the street, the sycamores. Like many people who prefer the telephone and the computer to the concrete world, I felt myself once again baffled at how a house manages to exist, walls, floors, the door swinging on hinges that never squeak, despite the fact that I had never once oiled them.
    I stepped out onto the porch, Stella talking all the while. “If this isn’t the moment, Richard, I can call tomorrow.” A large, flat package leaned beside my front doorframe.
    â€œI can tell you have news for me,” I said.
    It was almost as tall as I was, wrapped in brown paper. Connie often had imported items delivered here, especially after hours or on weekends. I dragged the package into the room awkwardly with one hand, and leaned it against the wall beside the cello.
    â€œEBMUD wants to be held blameless,” Stella said. “No admission of liability. They don’t know why the water was blue.”
    â€œThey like unsolved mysteries?” I asked.
    â€œAre you sure you want to talk about this? I don’t want to bother you with stupid stuff like this—”
    â€œI’m listening,” I