Redhead by the Side of the Road - Anne Tyler Page 0,21

answer. He had his fists clenched at either side of his plate.

“All right,” Micah said finally. “I can’t force you to talk. And I can’t force you to call your mom. But I am sure as hell not going to be your accomplice in this. Either you tell her right now where you are, while I am standing here listening, or you leave.”

“Fine; I’ll leave,” Brink said.

But he stayed seated.

“So go, then,” Micah said.

By now, of course, Brink’s phone had stopped ringing. There was a pause, and then Brink slid his chair back and stood up. He turned and went into the office while Micah watched, not knowing what to expect. In no time he reappeared, carrying his blazer over his shoulder by one hooked finger, and he headed for the back door. He opened the door and stepped out. “So…” Micah said, trailing after him. “So where will you go, do you think?”

Brink didn’t answer. The door closed behind him.

Micah came to a halt.

He had handled this all wrong, he realized. But even given a second chance, he wasn’t sure what he’d do differently.

* * *

—

A man in Guilford needed his computer checked for malware. A woman who’d read First, Plug It In wanted to know how much he charged for lessons but then said she would have to talk it over with her husband. Another woman needed help installing her new modem. Comcast had sworn she could easily do it herself, she said, “but you know how that goes,” she added. “Right,” Micah said, and sure enough, even he ended up having to call the support line because they’d sent a reconditioned unit still linked to the previous owner, it appeared. He was kept on hold nearly twenty minutes but he didn’t charge the client for that because it wasn’t her fault. He told her he had checked his email while he was waiting and so it wouldn’t count as billable time.

Then there was a blank spell in which he saw to a few random chores. He dusted his apartment—his regular Wednesday task—and stripped the linens off the daybed and started a load of laundry. He raked the leaves that had collected outside the basement windows. He installed the grab bars in the Carters’ bathroom.

It was unfortunate that the Carters lived on the third floor, because Luella Carter was too weak now to manage stairs. Her world had shrunk to four rooms, pretty much, and Micah hadn’t seen her out of her bathrobe in he didn’t know how long. She wasn’t all that old, either—just in her late fifties or so, a once-heavy woman gone sunken. She didn’t seem to fully realize her situation, though. She tottered into the bathroom to keep him company while he worked, and in between short, effortful breaths of air she gave him a merry description of a recent visit from her knitting group. “We all go way back,” she told him. “There are six of us, and we don’t only knit; we take these outings sometimes. Last spring we toured a pickle factory down on the waterfront, and the manager gave each of us a jar of midget gherkins when we left. They were delicious! Then on Halloween every year we go to this pumpkin farm in Baltimore County and we bring along stuff for a picnic. I cannot wait! We always laugh so hard! Oh, we’re a bunch of kooks, I tell you. This year we’re planning to buy the teeny kind of pumpkins, the baseball-size kind, because my friend Mimi found this recipe for pumpkin soup served inside hollowed-out pumpkin bowls and they looked so cute! Like something from a magazine.”

Micah didn’t see how she could possibly hope to attend a picnic out in the county, let alone fix her own soup, but he said, “You going to bring me some soup, Luella?” and she laughed and said, “Oh, we’ll see. We’ll have to see how you behave yourself.”

Then Micah started his drill up, but that didn’t stop her from talking. When he turned the drill off again she seemed to be discussing herbal teas. “They say chamomile’s the best thing for it,” she said, and at first he thought