Graveland: A Novel Read Online Free Page B

my voice anytime you want, sweetheart, you know that.”
    He swallows. Was that the right thing to say? Lizzie is extremely smart, but she’s hard work sometimes, and you have to know what you’re doing. When she was small, he and Deb had to choose their moments with her. She could be charming, too, of course, and some of the stuff she came out with would blow your socks off. Unfortunately, Lizzie’s teenage years are a bit of a blur to Frank, because after the divorce he burrowed down and didn’t do much else besides work. Then, a year or so before he was laid off, things changed again, and he started making more of an effort to see both her and John. It seemed like a new phase, a new era—college looming, Deb married to someone else, their early lives together as a family in the house in Carroll Gardens receding like a brittle dream. Lizzie hadn’t changed, though, not really, and her renewed presence in his life, her occasional attentions—e-mails, phone calls—sustained him in a way that he hadn’t expected.
    “I know, Dad.”
    Silence.
    Well, at least that’s settled.
    “So,” he says, trying again. “Saturday night. What are you up to?” But why does he want to know that ? Doesn’t he worry enough about her as it is? With nothing at all to go on? Now he’s fishing for ammo ?
    “No plans. Just working. I’ve got a paper due.”
    He’ll settle for that. Moving his empty glass around the table like a chess piece, he proceeds to tell her about his day, the LudeX upgrade, the early torrent of excited geeks, the subsequent stream of disappointed ones. Trying to make it funny. But at a certain point he realizes she’s not laughing, and then guesses she’s probably not even smiling. Which is when he remembers that Lizzie hates hearing about his job. It freaks her out. She thinks of her old man as an architect who works in Manhattan, not as some loser sales guy in a suburban mall. Either that or she’s racked with guilt about what he has to do to keep her and her brother in their good schools.
    Actually, he doesn’t know what she thinks. They’ve never really talked about it. It’s what he imagines she thinks, what he’d think.
    What he thinks .
    “Have you heard from John?” he asks, interrupting himself, changing the subject. John’s at grad school in California doing a master’s in genetics and microbiology and only surfaces every few months for a little air.
    “Yeah, I spoke to him last week. He’s good. Still seems to be with that German girl, Claudia, is it? They’ll be getting married before you know it and moving to Frankfurt or Berlin or someplace. You up for some German-speaking grandkids?”
    This is news to Frank, though it makes sense. John was always the quiet one, straight as an arrow. “Sure. Why not? Though it’s a pity he didn’t hook up with someone Spanish or Italian. Better food and weather.” Stupid joke. He pauses. “There’s the Bauhaus stuff, I suppose. Mies van der Rohe and Walter Gropius, and Le Corbusier, although I think Le Corbusier was Swiss.” He’s rambling here. He stops. In the silence that follows there’s a strange—
    “Lizzie?”
    Nothing for a second, and then, “Yep.” But it’s more of a gulp.
    She’s crying .
    “Lizzie? What is it?”
    Out of the corner of his eye, Frank sees the waitress approaching with a tray. He doesn’t look at her directly but holds up a hand, to wave her away.
    “Lizzie? Sweetheart. What is it?”
    He holds his breath, to hear better.
    “Oh, it’s nothing … I’m just…” She snuffles loudly and clears her throat. “You know.”
    Does he? He looks at his watch. He could be up there in two hours. “Are you okay?”
    “I’m fine, just a stupid hormonal bitch.” More recovery noises. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
    “Oh, Lizzie, don’t …”
    Even though she’s not there—in front of him, physically—Frank’s need to reach out for her right now and hold her is overwhelming. It even makes him feel a little