The Unseen World by Liz Moore Read Free Book Online Page B

time the Williams of the world had for people like Ada.
    But since the Christmas party, she had begun to dream up different ways of interacting with the object of her obsession. Sometimesshe sat outside on her front porch with a book and a blanket, despite the cold—this had yielded several William sightings, and, once, a puzzled wave from him as he rode by on his bike. One cold night in January, Ada had begun the routine she was now shamefully conducting. Now when she saw William Liston it was mainly through the large downstairs windows at the back of the Liston house, under the cover of the pine trees that brushed against her shoulders as she walked. From that vantage point she memorized the facets of his eyes and nose, noticed new patterns in the kinetics of his body, the movements of his arms and elbows, the self-aware way he plucked his shirt out from his torso from time to time and let it fall again.
    That night, when she was one backyard away, she heard a voice: Liston’s, probably on her phone. At first Ada heard only murmurs, but as she approached she began to make out words: I told Hayato , said Liston, and had to , and wouldn’t , and bad . Ada stopped in place. She weighed two options carefully. The first, the safer, was to turn back: she was comfortable in the patterns of her daily life. She had no information that would have caused her to question her understanding of her father or his work. Her disposition was sunny: she rose in the morning knowing how each day would go. Ada could imagine proceeding in this fashion for years.
    The second was to venture forth to listen—ironically, it was this option that David would have encouraged her to choose, for he had always pushed Ada toward bravery, had always instilled in her the idea that bravery went hand in hand with the seeking of the truth.
    So she walked forward quietly. As she approached Liston’s yard, Ada saw the downstairs of the house lit up, and one bedroom bright upstairs. A son was inside—the middle son, she thought, Gregory, younger than her—and, in a chaise longue on her back patio, Liston. It was unseasonably warm for March. Liston had a glass of wine in her hand and a portable telephone to her ear. This was new technology: Ada had not seen one before. Liston was quiet now: the personon the other end of the phone was speaking. Ada could see her silhouetted in the ambient light cast out through the windows at the back of the house, but she could not see her face: she only knew it was Liston by her hair, her voice, her posture. In the total darkness at the base of the hill, Ada was sure she could not be seen, but it frightened her still to be so close, just twenty feet away. She breathed as quietly as she could. Her heart beat quickly. Upstairs Gregory walked across his bedroom once again and the movement startled her. She stood next to a sapling tree, a maple, and she hugged its thin trunk tightly.
    Suddenly Liston spoke. “I know,” she said, “but at some point . . .”
    A pause.
    â€œYou have to tell Ada,” said Liston. “My God, David.”
    Ada clutched her tree more tightly.
    â€œI’ll do it if I have to,” said Liston. “It’s not fair.”
    Just then a car door slammed on the other side of the house and Liston said she had to go.
    â€œJust think about it,” she said, and then pressed a button on the phone, and called one name out sternly.
    â€œ William ,” she said, and she stood up ungracefully from her chair. “Don’t go anywhere.”
    She walked around the house toward the front.
    â€œTell me what time it is,” Ada heard her say, before she disappeared from sight. And from the front of the house she heard a boy’s long low complaint, a male voice in protest.
    Ada stood very still until she was certain that no further sightings of William would take place—not through the windows of the kitchen, nor the dining room; not through the