The Orange Houses Read Online Free Page B
Author: Paul Griffin
he wasnât going back to the house to pick up his VA check before he beat the pill habit. If he could outlast the gnawing another week or so, he could go back fresh and tell the doctors he was done with the drugs, the therapy, the halfway situation. He would insist he was moving on into the Full Now: a good clean job that supported a family he would never let down.
But not yet. He needed time away from all the old routines and places, the sad faces. Some alone time would clear his mind enough to keep him sober. The thought of going back to his part-time janitor gig at that depressing hospital made him queasy.
âSoup,â he said to no one. âGet some heat into you.â
The elevated highway straddled the tracks. Jimmi pushed a rotting 4 x 8 plywood sheet from a cut in the track wall. At the tunnelâs mouth was a wheeled garbage cart nearly filled with supplies, scavenged canned food, plastic tarps, and a car battery mounted with a flashlight. He pushed through the dark, a left here, two rights, another left. He knew the maze by heart. This was his hideout since childhood. He came to what had been the start of a subway station eighty years ago. He got the butane hotplate going, pocked a soup can with his knife and dropped it onto the heat. In the flameâs light he swept sand from a patch of floor with his coat. He chalked the concrete so:
WHY DO ANGELS FLY TOWARD LIGHTNING?
THEY THINK THEYâLL SURVIVE IT?
TRULY FRIGHTENING.
SWOOP IN FAST AND GRAB THE WONDER,
GET OUT FASTER, BEAT THE THUNDER.
THEY LISTEN, GLISTEN, MAGIC EACH DAY,
MAYBE, PLEASE, TO SHOW US THE WAY?
But what those girls could make together. With their gifts, they had a responsibility to do it, to create the beauty that went past paper and pen and sculpture and into the vibe. You canât describe it except to call it something like hope. He prayed Mik and Fatima would hook up until he remembered he was too mad at God to ask for anything.
Now he saw the other girl, the child suicide bomber, legless, bleeding out in front of him on the sandy subway platform. He closed his eyes but still saw her, would always see her. Why didnât he grab her as she skipped past him? Could he have stopped her from detonating that IED? What would have happened if he never signed on for overseas action, if he stayed home to be with his lady? Would he have saved his baby that night? Saved Julyssa?
He stared at his fingers, the ones that had focused a rifle sight, cocked the hammer, snapped the trigger, pulled grenade pins. He wondered if his goddam filthy hands were good for anything but ruin.
He lifted the soup can by its lip from the stove. The metal ring burned his fingers as he set it aside. He didnât care. He kept his hand on that ring until he couldnât tell if the metal was hot anymore. He turned off the stove and trembled himself into a sweaty sleep.
chapter 9
TAMIKA
Mikâs bedroom, Wednesday, twenty-one days before the hanging, 1:30 a.m. . . .
She set aside her sketch and thought If a city sky . . .
She pictured herself soaring over the Bronx, clouds vaporizing, the sky empty but for the bright blue in it. She felt good for a while, then cold as she flew higher. The sky turned cobalt. Pulling her robe around her, she drifted into sleep.
Â
She woke in a panic to stop a dream about a six-winged paper doll catching fire in a bomb-burned sky.
She had fallen asleep at her desk, her face greasy with night sweat. The window was open, the room damp. The only light was a dim red from her clock radio, 4:04 a.m. Her desk lamp had blown out. She was sure something evil was in the room.
She went to Momâs room. Mom was crashed out on the bed facedown, her pants on the floor. Sheâd conked in her Dunkinâ shirt. The room smelled sad, like stale donuts.
Mik wanted to cuddle her, almost did, didnât.
She went to the main room, sank into the couch and clicked the TV to snow for the soft purple light in it. A
But not yet. He needed time away from all the old routines and places, the sad faces. Some alone time would clear his mind enough to keep him sober. The thought of going back to his part-time janitor gig at that depressing hospital made him queasy.
âSoup,â he said to no one. âGet some heat into you.â
The elevated highway straddled the tracks. Jimmi pushed a rotting 4 x 8 plywood sheet from a cut in the track wall. At the tunnelâs mouth was a wheeled garbage cart nearly filled with supplies, scavenged canned food, plastic tarps, and a car battery mounted with a flashlight. He pushed through the dark, a left here, two rights, another left. He knew the maze by heart. This was his hideout since childhood. He came to what had been the start of a subway station eighty years ago. He got the butane hotplate going, pocked a soup can with his knife and dropped it onto the heat. In the flameâs light he swept sand from a patch of floor with his coat. He chalked the concrete so:
WHY DO ANGELS FLY TOWARD LIGHTNING?
THEY THINK THEYâLL SURVIVE IT?
TRULY FRIGHTENING.
SWOOP IN FAST AND GRAB THE WONDER,
GET OUT FASTER, BEAT THE THUNDER.
THEY LISTEN, GLISTEN, MAGIC EACH DAY,
MAYBE, PLEASE, TO SHOW US THE WAY?
But what those girls could make together. With their gifts, they had a responsibility to do it, to create the beauty that went past paper and pen and sculpture and into the vibe. You canât describe it except to call it something like hope. He prayed Mik and Fatima would hook up until he remembered he was too mad at God to ask for anything.
Now he saw the other girl, the child suicide bomber, legless, bleeding out in front of him on the sandy subway platform. He closed his eyes but still saw her, would always see her. Why didnât he grab her as she skipped past him? Could he have stopped her from detonating that IED? What would have happened if he never signed on for overseas action, if he stayed home to be with his lady? Would he have saved his baby that night? Saved Julyssa?
He stared at his fingers, the ones that had focused a rifle sight, cocked the hammer, snapped the trigger, pulled grenade pins. He wondered if his goddam filthy hands were good for anything but ruin.
He lifted the soup can by its lip from the stove. The metal ring burned his fingers as he set it aside. He didnât care. He kept his hand on that ring until he couldnât tell if the metal was hot anymore. He turned off the stove and trembled himself into a sweaty sleep.
chapter 9
TAMIKA
Mikâs bedroom, Wednesday, twenty-one days before the hanging, 1:30 a.m. . . .
She set aside her sketch and thought If a city sky . . .
She pictured herself soaring over the Bronx, clouds vaporizing, the sky empty but for the bright blue in it. She felt good for a while, then cold as she flew higher. The sky turned cobalt. Pulling her robe around her, she drifted into sleep.
Â
She woke in a panic to stop a dream about a six-winged paper doll catching fire in a bomb-burned sky.
She had fallen asleep at her desk, her face greasy with night sweat. The window was open, the room damp. The only light was a dim red from her clock radio, 4:04 a.m. Her desk lamp had blown out. She was sure something evil was in the room.
She went to Momâs room. Mom was crashed out on the bed facedown, her pants on the floor. Sheâd conked in her Dunkinâ shirt. The room smelled sad, like stale donuts.
Mik wanted to cuddle her, almost did, didnât.
She went to the main room, sank into the couch and clicked the TV to snow for the soft purple light in it. A
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