Redhead by the Side of the Road - Anne Tyler Page 0,49

sleek, made of brightly colored patches of vinyl stitched together.

“You know where I live now,” she told him as they stepped out on the stoop.

He glanced toward the house number, puzzled.

“And you have me on your phone,” she said, “if you ever feel like getting together.”

“Oh. Sure thing,” he said. “See you around.”

And he shrugged himself into his parka and set off down the front walk.

* * *

—

The rain was the off-and-on kind where he had to keep adjusting his windshield wipers, and traffic was slow-moving. It took him twice as long to get home as it should have. When he finally arrived, he retrieved his car topper as he got out. Anyone who called from now on would just have to wait till Monday.

In the kitchen, he set the car topper and his carryall on the floor and hung his parka on the doorknob. He opened the fridge and stared into it a moment, but then he shut it again. It was too early for a beer. Too late for another coffee. He didn’t even want anything; he just wished he wanted something. In fact, now he wondered why he’d been so eager to get back home.

He went into the bedroom, where he dropped his wallet and keys into the bowl on the bureau. Without really planning to, he slid open the right-hand top drawer and gazed down into it. Nightgown, hairbrush…

He closed the drawer and thought for a moment. Then he took his phone from his pocket and tapped CASSIA SLADE on his Favorites list.

“Hello?” she said.

The questioning tone seemed a bad sign, since surely she knew who was calling. “Hey,” he said tentatively.

“Well, hi!” she said.

He felt relieved. He said, “Hey,” again, like an idiot.

“How’ve you been?” she asked him.

“I’m okay.” He cleared his throat. He said, “I was thinking I might bring your things over. Things of yours in my bureau.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Is it not a good time?” he asked.

“No, no…”

“I mean, I could just mail them, if you’d rather.”

“No, you can bring them.”

“Okay,” he said. A skipped beat. “Now?” he asked.

“Now is fine.”

“Or would you rather have more notice.”

“Now is fine,” she said, and he thought he detected a note of exasperation.

“Okay,” he said hastily. “So, see you in a few minutes.”

“Right,” she said.

He hung up and glowered at himself in the mirror above the bureau. He dragged his hand down the length of his face, stretching it out of shape. Then he retrieved his wallet and keys from the bowl and went to the kitchen for a paper bag.

* * *

—

Cass’s street was lined with parked cars. All her neighbors must be home for the weekend, staying in out of the rain. But he found himself a space not too far down the block. He folded away his glasses and pulled up the hood of his parka, and then he took the bag from the backseat and headed toward her house, walking briskly, pursing his lips as if he were whistling a tune even though he wasn’t. (You never could tell; she might be watching from her front window.)

The foyer had its usual musty smell from the vase of dried baby’s breath on the side table. The creak of the stairs beneath his feet reminded him of all the times he’d descended them on tiptoe, hoping not to be waylaid by Mrs. Rao in the downstairs apartment; she liked to trap people in conversation. He reached the landing and switched the bag to his left hand so he could knock on Cass’s door.

When she opened it, she was holding a watering can. She was wearing corduroys and a man’s white shirt, her usual weekend outfit. It brought all these weekend images to Micah’s mind—the two of them lounging on the couch among a welter of newspapers, or cooking some dish together, or watching some series on Netflix. But her expression