Redhead by the Side of the Road - Anne Tyler Page 0,54
had expected, but standing beside the computer leafing through First, Plug It In while two children on TV talked about breakfast cereal. “You wrote this?” Brink asked, holding up the manual.
“Yup.”
“So, do a lot of people buy it?”
“Some.”
Brink closed the manual and studied the cover. “Do you know much about video games?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“You don’t play them, even?”
“I don’t like things swarming all over the screen,” Micah said. “Coming at me out of nowhere. Popping up at random. Disorganized.”
“Really,” Brink said in a thoughtful tone. He sounded like a doctor assessing his patient’s symptoms.
“I did use to enjoy Tetris, once upon a time.”
“Tetris!”
“You know: the one where you sort these bricks into—”
“I know what it is,” Brink said. “It’s just that it’s so old-fashioned. It’s not even what I’d call a video game.”
“Well, one day your hotshot Fortnite and such will be old-fashioned too,” Micah said. “Actually, one day we won’t even have video games. We won’t even have computers. They’ll all have been hacked and we’ll go back to snail mail and bricks-and-mortar shopping, and the world will start running at a manageable speed again.”
Brink said, “That is just crazy talk.”
“So you see why it’s just as well I’m not your real dad,” Micah told him.
“Right. Since my fake dad loves video games.”
“He does?”
“That’s a joke.”
“Ah,” Micah said. He was slightly surprised that Brink was capable of a joke.
He checked his watch. It was 11:20. What time had he placed that call to Lorna? Eleven o’clock? Later?
Time sure was passing slowly.
He sat on the edge of the daybed and looked toward the TV. Brink was using the remote now to cycle through channels. He paused at a car race but then moved on. A black-and-white movie from perhaps the 1940s slid by, a man and woman arguing in effortful, metallic, 1940s voices as if they were speaking from a stage. Brink clicked the TV off and sat down next to Micah. The sudden silence was a blessing.
“So, what did you two talk about?” Brink asked him.
“Pardon?”
“When Mom was here looking for me. Did you-all have a talk about the olden days?”
“Not really,” Micah said.
“I was thinking you would discuss how you should maybe have stayed together.”
“Never came up,” Micah said mildly.
“Who was it who ditched who, anyhow—you or her?”
“I forget.”
Brink slumped in his seat. “I bet it was her,” he said finally. “On account of the way she put it: she thought you were the love of her life ‘at the time.’ Meaning she got disillusioned.”
Micah didn’t respond.
“Although,” Brink added, “someone might also say that if a person had hurt their pride by breaking up with them, I guess.”
“How about some lunch?” Micah asked him.
“Lunch?”
“Are you hungry?”
“I’m starving.”
“All right! Coming right up!” Micah said, jumping to his feet. “Ahm-boo-gare, how about it?”
“Huh?”
“Hamburgers. C’est Frawnsh,” he said. He was feeling more sprightly, now that he had a project.
He headed for the kitchen, with Brink trailing after him. He took the ground beef from the fridge. “Now, for a vegetable…” he muttered to himself, rooting through the crisper.
“You’re not going to doll the burgers up, though, are you?” Brink asked.
“Nev-air,” Micah assured him.
“What’s French about them, then?”
“Me, is what. I like to speak French while I’m cooking.”
Brink looked at him suspiciously.
“Afraid we don’t have any buns,” Micah told him. He had unearthed a few carrots and half a head of romaine, which he set on the counter along with the meat. “I bought the ground beef to make spaghetti, but you probably wouldn’t like my secret recipe.”
“What’s your secret recipe?” Brink asked.