The Safety of Objects: Stories by A. M. Homes Read Free Book Online

hit an eight and not a five. I hung up, put the quarter in, and dialed again. Still busy. I thought of calling the operator or the police. I hung up, dialed again. Randy came out of the store and saw me at the phone. He was carrying the axe in one hand and a package in the other.
    “What are you doing?” he asked.
    “Trying to call my mom.”
    “Any luck?”
    “Line’s busy.”
    He came over to the telephone and just stood there. He didn’t get mad. He didn’t kill me. He just stood there, listening to the phone beep. “Try again,” he said.
    I hung up, put the quarter back in, and dialed again. Busy. “Why is she on the phone?”
    “Talking to someone,” Randy said. He leaned against the wall of the 7-Eleven like he was going to stay there all day. He leaned back like he didn’t care that I was calling home.
    I felt like an idiot with him standing there, not trying to stop me. I felt mentally ill. Randy was telling the truth; my mother wasn’t worried. She was sitting home, talking on the telephone.
    “Let’s go,” I finally said.
    “Go on, give it another try.” I almost put the quarter in again, but then I wondered what I would say. What could I say with Randy right there, telling me to go ahead and call? I put the quarter into my pocket.
    We went home and Randy showed me how to split logs; how to swing the axe with both arms straight, to swing up over my shoulder and then go straight down into the log. He explained about putting in the metal wedges so that with a few whacks the whole piece split open like an English muffin.
    When we were done, Randy showed me how to cook; we made sandwiches and Rice Krispies squares. Then we went into the living room, ate, played poker, and passed a carton of milk back and forth between us. Sometimes when I drank, I’d tilt the carton a little too high and milk spilled out onto my face, ran back behind my ear and down my neck.
    “A kid like you should have more to say,” Randy said. “You should be nonstop, filled with ideas, things you’re going to do, all that stuff.”
    I didn’t look at him.
    “It’s like you’re not all there,” he said.
    I was looking at the dirt in the cracks on the floor. Randy said it was like I wasn’t all there, and I thought about Rayanne and wondered if she had lots of things trapped in her head. I thought about how she didn’t really understand how retarded she was and how she thought I was a genius or something. I thought maybe I was like her, not enough for everyone to notice but enough for a guy like Randy to catch on. I thought it was probably my parents’ fault for not telling me. Maybe that’s why my father left. Maybe my mother, Rayanne, and me were all the same; maybe we were all retarded.
    “Are you sleeping, Johnny?” Randy asked.
    I shook my head.
    “What’s wrong with you?”
    I shrugged and waited for him to hit me. The Krispies pan was on the coffee table with a couple of pieces left in it. The milk carton was right there too. I reached my foot out and with the tip of my sneaker tipped the pan over. I knocked the pan over right in front of Randy.
    He just sat there and looked at me. His face didn’t change. “Feel better now?” he finally asked, sweeping the cards into a pile and then making them into a stack. I shrugged. He stood and I shriveled up. I didn’t mean to, but he was standing over me and that’s just what happened. “Don’t be scared of me, Johnny,” he said. “Be scared of yourself.” He picked up the milk carton and took it into the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door open and close. I heard Randy pull out a chair and sit down. I got up off the sofa and onto my hands and knees. I picked up the pan, took it into the kitchen, and put it down on the counter.
    “’Night, Johnny,” Randy said. He was playing solitaire.
    “’Night.” I walked down the hall to my room.

    * * *
    The next morning Randy was gone. I sat on the living room sofa and waited. I went outside and sat on the