The World Beneath (Joe Tesla) by Rebecca Cantrell Read Free Book Online Page A

the news. He’d have to tell Celeste to watch for it. Seagulls were her favorite birds.
    Edison stood and wagged his tail, and Joe followed his gaze. Andres Peterson, a half-Estonian artist, was walking across the lobby toward them. A long woolen coat that looked as if it had been through a mysterious Eastern European war or two flared out behind him. He had light blue eyes and artfully disheveled brown hair. Celeste had recommended him as both an artist and a dog walker. Joe liked the photos he’d seen of his melancholy giant metal sculptures, and Edison adored him.
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Tesla.” Andres took Edison’s head in his hands. “And Edison the Dog.”
    Edison’s eyes shone and his tail wagged furiously. Edison was usually a somber dog, but Andres turned him into a puppy.
    “Today we go to Central Park, bury some bones?” He lifted an eyebrow to ask. A scar bisected the eyebrow, perhaps from a fight or a long-ago piercing. The scar worked as a distinctive identifying mark. With his air of mystery and sexy accent, Andres was more Celeste’s type than Joe had ever been, and Joe wondered again if the two had dated.
    “Central Park sounds good,” Joe said. No point in being jealous of the past. He liked Andres—the man was good-natured, smart, and great at his dog-walking job.
    “One day, you come with us,” Andres said. “Not always working.”
    Joe suspected that Celeste hadn’t told Andres about his condition. If she had, Andres never let on. “Maybe.”
    He handed Andres the leash and watched the pair walk across the lobby on their way outside. For them, it was as simple as that.
    Once they were out of sight, he dialed the number he’d dialed every day since he’d become trapped in New York. He held his breath waiting for an answer. One ring, cyan; two rings, blue; three rings, red.
    “Hey, Joe,” said a weak and breathless voice.
    “Celeste.” Relief flooded through him. She was well enough to talk on the phone.
    “Think me a number,” she said.
    “Seven,” he said. “Slate blue, like your eyes.”
    Only Celeste understood about the numbers. A talented abstract painter, she loved blocks of color. She danced them around in her head as he did numbers.
    “A cheap line,” she whispered. “I’ll take it.”
    “Your eyes are cerulean,” he said. “Blue with a wash of gray, like slate or the sea before a storm—and the number seven.”
    A tiny laugh came down the line, and he laughed with her.
    When they’d been together, she’d painted him a giant canvas using shades of blue and gray, and called it Joe’s #7. It hung on the wall of his house in California. By the time he’d thought to buy it, it had cost a fortune. He made a mental note to get the painting shipped to New York.
    “Is it a strong day?” he asked.
    “Minus one,” she answered.
    Celeste had amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease. It was slowly paralyzing her. Eventually, it would reach her respiratory system, and she would die. Most people who contracted it died within three to five years. He reminded himself every day that Stephen Hawking lived with it for more than fifty years (brown followed by black—a big, reassuring number).
    “Minus one,” he said. “Cyan for one, but pale because it’s negative.”
    “You make me smile,” she said.
    “I made you a present today.”
    “Oh, God,” she said. “Have you taken up knitting or papier-mâché?”
    “Not yet.” He smiled. “Check the news. Look for the seagulls.”
    She laughed, a short wheezy sound. “As soon as I get off the phone, but I wish you were here to show me in person.”
    His stomach clenched. “If I could, I’d get a cab at the curb and see you in ten minutes.”
    “Best you don’t,” she said. “My hair looks awful.”
    “You always say that.” He remembered the last time he’d seen her, how her wavy blond hair had blown into his mouth when she hugged him good-bye at an airport. “And it’s