A Stranger in the Kingdom Read Online Free

talked like Amos ’n’ Andy, or Rochester on
The Jack Benny Show
, which we sometimes picked up over the car radio in the gore before a Red Sox game.
    â€œCoca-Cola, chum?” the man said. “Wedge of lemon pie?”
    The boy twisted restlessly on his stool, half a turn in each direction. “No,” he said softly.
    â€œNo, what?”
    The boy sighed. “No, thanks,” he said, and continued to pivot back and forth. After being carsick, it made me dizzy to watch him.
    â€œJust the tea, then, if you please,” the man said to the waitress, and got a Socony road map out of his windbreaker pocket and began to study it.
    Abruptly, the boy spun off his stool and slouched over to a squat jukebox by the door. I sipped my ginger ale and looked at the black man in the mirror. He glanced up, caught my eye, and winked. I looked fast at the shatter mark, as though I’d been scrutinizing it the whole time. It occurred to me that my father was probably right about it not being a bullet hole; almost certainly a bullet would have gone completely through the glass. I turned to Dad and started to tell him, then changed my mind. He was staring toward the entrance of the kitchen, his coffee still sitting untouched on the counter in front of him, his long, closely shaved jaw set in a way I understood all too well.
    The boy drifted back to the counter. “Nothing but cowboy stuff. Hank Williams, for cripe’s sake. I counted eight by Hank Williams.”
    The man smiled. “When in Rome, old chap. Why don’t you sit down, have a bite and something to drink?”
    â€œI’ve been sitting all day, and I’m not hungry. Can I go out to the car?”
    â€œMay I go out to the car.”
    â€œAll right, then, may I?”
    â€œGo ahead. And Nathan, it’s only—” It was too late; the boy was already through the door and into the parking lot.
    The black man bought a package of Lucky Strikes from the waitress, lit one with a small silver lighter, and continued to study his map as he smoked. Outside, the boy was throwing at the utility pole again. He had an easy, smooth delivery, and I wanted to go out and join him but I wasn’t sure what to say when I got there. My father was still staring toward the kitchen.
    â€œYou ready?” I said nervously.
    â€œNo.”
    The waitress brought the black man an ashtray from down the counter. “You folks been on the road long?”
    â€œTo my son it seems like a long time. Actually, only since about noon.”
    â€œI know how your boy feels,” the waitress said sympathetically. “I rode clear to Washington once. Washington, D.C.? On a high school trip. We left here before it got light in the morning and didn’t pull in there until way long after dark, and I just about thought my fanny was going to fall off from sitting on it the whole time. The apple blossoms, or maybe it was pears, was supposed to be on, only it was a late spring there too and they wasn’t yet. Not that most of us kids would have seen them if they had been. Mister, we were hot the whole trip. Hot or hungover from getting hot the night before or getting ready to go out and get hot that night. You know, bunch of” country bumpkins from Vermont—‘Ver-mont! What state’s that in?’ folks kept asking us—never been off the farm before, most of us.”
    The man smoked his cigarette and chatted with the waitress about Washington. He had a relaxed manner, as though he was used to making light conversation with strangers. And though he talked in what Kingdom County natives would call an “educated” way, I began to detect a slight regional burr in his speech, which I supposed might be a mild southern accent. His voice was resonant, like my father’s when he was telling a story, and pleasant to listen to like a radio sportscaster’s, making me think the cook might be right; he could be some kind of