Volt: Stories Read Online Free Page A

reclamation of his voice, he could simply phone Sadie. But it was very late. He had no phone. I’ll go to town in the morning, he told himself. Can hear Sadie’s voice this very day. I can tell her where I’m at, that I don’t know how I got here. It wouldn’t be a complete lie. He could tell her he wanted to come home. Could say he was lost without her. He’d say as many true things as he could before she hung up.
    “Something nice,” he said, aloud. “Something nice, ” searching for perfect kindness in his tone.
    Then Winslow remembered Lilian’s revolted expression and knew his voice couldn’t mute his appearance. I’ll get a haircut. A shave. I’ll become myself again.
    But then old fears took hold. Sadie won’t want to hear from me. She’s glad I’m gone. She’s glad I ain’t around to remind her of her dead boy. Winslow dropped to the floor. He grunted out sit-ups, counting aloud to dissuade thought, shouting numbers in the cold, dank trailer.
    Bitter wind whipped Winslow’s hair in his eyes. He cowered behind the red-striped pole in the building’s alcove. Then the old barber was there, waving Winslow aside to unlock the door. Winslow trailed the man into the dark shop.
    “Ain’t got a dime to spare to you,” the barber said to him.
    “I got money.”
    The old man nodded, suspicious. Then he threw the lights and put on his white smock. He walked behind a chair and brushed the seat with a whisk. Winslow sat down. The barber secured the cape and stood before Winslow, his eyes wide like a man figuring how to clear a prairie.
    “What’ll it be?”
    Winslow stared at a Christmas wreath hung in the front window. “Used to be a farmer,” he said. “Was a deacon at my church.”
    “All right then,” the barber said. “Deacon it is.”
    The barber clipped the beard at Winslow’s throat. Outside, the sun glared off the snowy road. Three boys passed, each holding a cigarette to his lips. One boy, heavily jowled for his age, glanced in the window. Winslow heard the lather dispenser, felt the cream hot down his neck. The boys stood in the window, smoking, watching.
    “Ain’t there school around here?” Winslow asked.
    The barber turned, straight razor poised. “Not all’s meant for learning,” he said, and leaned over Winslow, squinting as the blade shaved the cream. Winslow felt the air chill his skin, felt the boys’ eyes on his bare throat.
    Bing Crosby singing “Silver Bells” played on the radio in Delsea’s Café. Winslow watched Lilian refill a man’s cup at the end of the counter. She’d refilled his own cup three times, had looked him square in the face, but with his haircut and shave she’d not recognized him. Winslow held a five-dollar bill, stared long at its edges, then raised it high. Lilian walked down, coffeepot in hand. Winslow handed her the money.
    “Change this for quarters?” he asked.
    “Want any bills back?”
    He shook his head. “Got a call to make. Need the coins.”
    Lilian made change at the register, then Winslow pushed out the café door, the quarters jingling in his pocket. He passed an alley, where the boys from the barbershop huddled smoking. He crossed the street. The boys followed him across the road, then through the supermarket parking lot, on to a pay phone just outside the doors.
    Winslow lifted the receiver. He dropped in quarters, trying to ignore the boys behind him. But he couldn’t think with them standing there, couldn’t remember his old phone number. Someone tapped his shoulder. Winslow slammed down the receiver, spun to face them.
    A grin flashed on the boy’s round face. “Ten bucks says I can hurt you with a punch.”
    “This ain’t the time, son.”
    The boy tugged his glove tight to his fist.
    Winslow eyed him. As he turned back to the phone, the boy slugged Winslow’s kidney. A fuse was lit in him. He whirled and punched the boy stiff in the mouth.
    The boy dropped to the walkway. Blood coated his teeth. The market door