Redhead by the Side of the Road - Anne Tyler Page 0,20

sleep his hair retained its perfect shape, but his left cheek was creased from the pillowcase.

“Your mother,” Micah said. “Call her.”

“What for?”

“Tell her you’re okay.”

“Mmph,” was all Brink said.

Micah waited till Brink had swung his feet to the floor and was sitting on the edge of the daybed, blinking, before he left the room.

In the kitchen, he started a fresh pot of coffee and put two slices of bread in the toaster. Brink emerged from the office and trudged toward the bathroom, wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt. In less than a minute he reappeared and shuffled back to the office, rummaging through his hair with one hand. The door slammed behind him.

Micah set the table, ostentatiously clattering dishes so he wouldn’t seem to be eavesdropping. Not that there was anything to hear. If Brink was actually calling, he was deliberately keeping his voice down. Or else—a new thought—he had chosen to send a text. Or he was ignoring Micah’s directive completely; that was always a possibility. In any case, after a while he came back out, mostly dressed now. His shirt had more wrinkles than yesterday and it wasn’t tucked in, but the collar still stood up painstakingly in back. He pulled out a chair and sank down on it like a sack of potatoes. He set an elbow on the table so he could support his head with one hand.

Micah could barely remember being that young, and that shattered by a night’s sleep.

“Did you call her?” he asked as he filled Brink’s cup.

“Yep,” Brink said. He lifted his head and reached for the sugar.

“You talked to her?”

“Yep.”

Micah set the two slices of toast on Brink’s plate. He slid the jam closer to him. Breakfast was going to be toast and coffee, period, because to tell the truth, this hospitality business was getting kind of old.

It should have been enough for him to know Lorna could rest easy now, but somehow it wasn’t. What had Brink said to her, exactly? Had he mentioned Micah? And if he had, what had she said? Had she asked how Micah was doing? No, she couldn’t have; the call hadn’t lasted long enough. And why would she care, anyway, after all these years?

Brink piled so much jam on his toast that he had to lift his upper lip as he took his first bite so as not to get a jam mustache. This gave him a snarling, doglike appearance. Micah, lounging against the kitchen counter, averted his gaze.

A ringing sound came from one of Brink’s pockets. It was that jingly, old-timey, landline kind of ring, an odd choice for a kid. Brink went on chewing his toast. The phone went on ringing. “Don’t you want to answer that?” Micah asked finally.

“Nah,” Brink said.

He reached for his coffee and took a sip. He kept his eyes completely lowered. His lashes were short and stubby but thick, like an artist’s paintbrush.

Come to think of it, a kid might choose that ring for calls from the grown-ups in his life.

Micah said, “You did get in touch with her, right?”

“Yes, I said. What! Don’t you trust me?”

Micah straightened up from the counter.

“You didn’t,” he said.

Brink sighed loudly and sent a gaze toward the ceiling.

“Listen,” Micah told him. “I’m not sure what’s going on here, but clearly she’s worried about you. It’s not going to kill you just to tell her you’re safe, is it?”

“What do you know about it?” Brink said. The sudden flash of anger in his voice took Micah by surprise. “I’m sick of being in the wrong all the time! I’ve had it! I thought you, at least, would see my side of it, but oh, no—right off the bat you’re on their side, just like everyone else.”

“I don’t even know what your side is,” Micah said. “You haven’t told me a damn thing.”

“Well, did you ask?”

“Okay, I’m asking now. Okay?”

Brink didn’t