Angel of the Underground. David Andreas

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      CHAPTER II

      Worried no one is eager to meet me, I ring the doorbell a second time. As I gear up to knock, a storm door opens. An old man in brown slacks and a blue checkered shirt glances outside. His eyes repeatedly blink as though he just woke up. When he finds me I pay him an apologetic smile.

      The old man opens the screen door outward while saying, “Oh, good, you’re here! Come in out of that heat!” I step inside to the cool air, but Clara follows no closer than the second step. The old man says to her, “Would you like to come in for some lemonade?”

      “Thanks, but no,” Clara replies, and hands him a manila envelope. “Call the numbers provided if you have any problems or questions about her.” Without saying so much as a goodbye or good luck to me, she walks away, adjusting her tight skirt. The old man closes both doors, shutting out everything I’m familiar with.

      I set my suitcase down beside a sofa and clasp my hands over my stomach. My frenzied butterflies are disrupting my bladder. I don’t want to ruin the old man’s first impression of me by having to go to the bathroom, so I try to will the nerves down by taking deep breaths through my nose.

      The old man smiles at me with perfectly white teeth, while his face crinkles upward toward a scalp full of brown spots. “Would you like a glass of lemonade?” he asks. “I’d hate to see it go to waste on a day like this.”

      Running dry, I say, “I’d love some.”

      “Great! Have a seat right over there and I’ll go get us some.” While he shuffles into a kitchen on bowed legs, I approach a wooden chair that’s resting near a green recliner. A small television tucked in a wooden entertainment center is showing a black-and-white documentary about a war. The volume is muted. On a shelf above the TV are an assortment of remote controls, framed pictures of strangers, and the receiver to a child’s monitor. The red light is glowing, but the speaker emits no sounds.

      I sit on the edge of the chair facing a dining room. Beneath a frosted chandelier is a shiny oak table surrounded by five upholstered chairs. A matching hutch with glass doors is filled with china plates, crystal glasses, and wedding trinkets. A door at the far right of the room has a handwritten sign that reads, BEWARE!

      The old man carries in a green plastic tray with a clear pitcher of iced lemonade on one side, and two stacked glasses on the other. His tongue worms out from his mouth as though leading the way. He places the tray on an end table while sliding back a lamp with a flowery shade. After separating the glasses, he lifts the pitcher with a considerable amount of strain and pours them both full. He hands me the first glass with a wobbly hand, and sits down in the recliner with the other glass. Upon landing, one of his hips pops and causes him to groan. He smiles through the pain, and when it’s clear he’s not injured I say, “This is a very nice house, sir.”

      “Please, call me Nathan.” He toasts his glass to me and takes a delicate sip. I down three big swallows, which soothe my parched throat. Nathan watches me with gratification. “Looks like the weather has gotten to you.”

      “Among other things.”

      “Did you know we have a pool?”

      Sister Alice had mentioned as much. She also brought up the two boys who were adopted into the family, and said their ages were close to mine. “Will the other kids mind sharing with me?”

      He leans forward and sternly says, “If those two give you any problems, you come see me.”

      I pat a hand over my crucifix charm to show him I’m protected and say, “I guarantee they won’t bring me down.”

      Nathan laughs so abruptly his upper teeth shift off their brackets and project from his mouth. To pretend I don’t notice, I look over the wall décor, which mainly consists of a large painting of geese flying over a wooded stream at dawn. Strangely, there isn’t a single mark of religion anywhere. I don’t expect every house to live up to the group home’s standards, but most places I’ve visited at least have a cross here or there.

      “You’re pretty secretive in your spiritual beliefs.”

      Nathan bites his dentures back into place, hisses up drool, and says, “I’m afraid those days are long gone. We got rid of God years ago.” My stomach bursts into flames, incinerating my lemonade-coated butterflies. “I’m surprised no one told you.”

      “A lot was left out in the rush.” I had assumed I would go from one Catholic house to another, but understood the importance of leaving an active crime scene regardless of anyone’s association with the Almighty. I loosen my grip on the lemonade glass, so I don’t end up with a handful of wet shards, and force a contented smile.

      “You’ve nothing to worry about. We won’t get in the way of your practices, no matter how purposeless they may be.” Nathan reaches over to the end table for an orange pill box shaped like a seashell, and extracts a white capsule from inside. “As much as I hate to cut our conversation short, the doc’s got me on a tight schedule with these little ditties, and they tend to knock me out cold.” He takes the pill with his lemonade, rubs his larynx with an index finger СКАЧАТЬ