Angel of the Underground. David Andreas

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СКАЧАТЬ that found me home?”

      “They’ll be back from work around seven.” He stands and pats my head. “Let me show you out back. The sooner you let those boys warm up to you the better.”

      I put my glass down on the tray and follow Nathan into a kitchen that’s carpeted beneath a corner table but tiled everywhere else. He opens a wooden door that leads out to a garage, where gardening and lawn equipment are strewn near a back wall. A workbench is littered with tools, pipes, and multicolored wires. Two BMX bikes lie on the oil spotted concrete.

      A screened storm door on our right leads to the backyard, where I can hear the sounds of a baseball slapping into separate gloves. I think to get mine, but don’t want to make Nathan wait on my account. Not with his tight schedule and all.

      I step outside onto a concrete patio that holds a picnic table, matching benches, and a charcoal grill. To my far right is an above ground pool coupled with an unpainted wooden deck. The surrounding lawn has more crabgrass than regular grass, widespread brown patches, and a ton of anthills. Further back, beyond a long two-post fence, the boys are throwing a baseball back and forth. One boy stands in front of a wire-enclosed garden, the other a homemade swing set where four wooden benches hang on heavy chains.

      I march through the damp heat, passing a white aluminum shed with crooked green doors, and make eye contact with the boy in front of the garden. He’s bony and has dark circles beneath his eyes. I smile at him, but he rolls his eyes away and seems to snarl. I alter my direction toward the other boy, who looks slightly older and has a fuller figure. After catching a fastball that pops into his glove, he notices me and offers a thin smile, though his eyes remain cheerless. I can’t tell if he’s nervous to meet me or agitated that I’m interrupting them, but when I stop at the fence he says in a friendly tone, “Robin, right?”

      “That’s me,” I reply. “Sorry, but I forgot your names.”

      “I’m Dennis. That’s Jeremy.”

      “Pleased to meet you,” Jeremy says, “now go back inside and fuck yourself! This isn’t a good month to be seen with any of you zealots from that death trap!”

      Though I’ve had plenty of practice in school dealing with kids not wanting anything to do with me, thanks to my religious background and outdated dresses, Jeremy’s words and their heated tone anger me to the core. The Granthams are supposed to offer compassionate safety, not mindless banter from bullies.

      Dennis taps his mitt on my shoulder. “Don’t listen to a word he says. He doesn’t like anybody who isn’t him.”

      “I brought my own glove,” I say. “Can I play?”

      “Are you any good?”

      I hold out my hand for the ball. Dennis drops it into my palm. I crawl through the fence posts and, after a quick windup, throw heat at Jeremy. In trying too hard to show off my speed, the ball sinks and hits the dirt. Jeremy could have taken a step forward to keep me from looking like a fool, but he lets the ball skip past him and roll against the garden. He issues a demeaning snort and says, “Who taught you how to throw? An altar boy with a sore bunghole?”

      “Her velocity’s up there,” Dennis says.

      “Big deal! She could have queefed with better location.”

      Nobody on ESPN ever used such a term to describe a pitch, but since it came from Jeremy, I figure it’s best to ignore what he means.

      Dennis steps in front of me, as if to purposely block my view of his adoptive brother. “Did you see your room yet? Barry made me paint it. Not that I minded.”

      “Not yet,” I reply.

      He takes off his glove, looks back at Jeremy who’s facing us in a pitching stance, and tells him, “I’m showing her to her room. If that ball comes near us, you’ll eat it.”

      Jeremy readjusts himself and darts the ball directly into the garden, snapping a wooden post that had been supporting green tomatoes. Unfazed, Dennis heads toward the house as though he’s seen this type of behavior before.

      I follow Dennis through the kitchen and into the dining room, where my suitcase is leaning against the door with the warning sign. Nathan, who’s snoring in his chair, must have placed it there before conking out. Though I was expecting Dennis to show me to a room upstairs, once he opens the door and flips on a light switch, I curiously follow him down a flight of twelve wooden steps. At the bottom is a finished basement where circular lights are embedded in a ceiling of sheet rock. The floor has light blue carpeting, the walls are paneled, and the odor is a blend of fresh paint, stale air, and mildew.

      Across the hall from two closed doors is an open room that Dennis presents to me with open hands. I peek inside with gratification. The area is small but perfectly suitable for a short stay. The furnishings are white, the walls pink, and the carpet matches the hallway. There’s nothing in the way of décor, but I don’t mind because I don’t plan on staying long enough to embellish the space.

      “If you need anything,” Dennis says, “I’m not far.”

      “Thank you,” I reply. “The paint looks great, by the way.” He turns red while going to his room.

      I set my suitcase on the bed and retrieve my crucifix; a foot long, wooden cross that supports a silver Jesus. I kneel before a rectangular window that has no curtain, and recite three “Our Fathers” for the orphans who perished and would no longer face new experiences, no matter how uncomfortable or uncertain they might be.

      While putting away what little clothes I have in a closet with a mirrored inner door, I find a blue bikini hanging on a plastic hanger with the price tag still attached. I hold it up to myself while facing my reflection, and though I’m not sure if I could ever wear something so skimpy in front of two boys, I’m happy to have been given a welcome present. Any calm I feel is cut short when someone pounds on my door in rapid succession, causing my heart to leap into my throat. I spin around and find Jeremy showing me his middle fingers. “I heard you prissy religious freaks like Slayer,” he says. “Well, today’s your lucky day!”

      After he slams his bedroom door shut, a radio goes on full blast. What he plays sounds like an orchestration from Hell. The fury of squealing guitars and rapid drumbeats are only outmatched by a despondent singer who ultimately shouts, “GOD HATES US ALL!” I close my door, which cuts out everything but the pummeling bass.

      With nobody familiar to keep me company, and exhausted from hardly sleeping last night, I lie on the bed and try taking a nap. Between the sun reflecting off the window’s white lacquer surface, and a mind that won’t stop reminding me that the killer has not been apprehended, I can’t come close to falling under. To pass time, I read through my Bible for stories of patience, of which there are plenty. Abraham was made to wait years before God would grant him a promised child; Joseph waited a lengthy amount of time for God to make him leader of his people; and Simeon was not allowed to die until he witnessed the birth of the Messiah. By comparison, catching the murderer is something I shouldn’t expect the police to do anytime soon.

      Around six o’clock, a loud knock sounds on my door. Before I can invite anyone in, Barry opens it up and leans inside. He’s wearing black slacks, a white dress shirt, and a navy blue vest with a King Kullen name tag. In a voice loud enough to compete with Jeremy’s still-blaring music he says, “If this noise becomes a problem, you let me know!”

      As irritating as I find Jeremy’s musical taste, I СКАЧАТЬ