Steplings: A Novel

Chapter 12

Emily had led Jason up several staircases and through a maze of rooms with shelved volumes, so that when they arrived at her secret spot, he had no idea what floor they were on and couldn't have found his way out of the building without asking for directions. The ceiling was low, and the room smelled musty, the air still, the shelves standing like walls in the dimness . Along one side were study cubbies, each with a fluorescent lamp dovecotted so that a bony light misted the marred tops of the desks. She ushered him to a space at the far end of the room opposite the entry door, behind the last free-standing shelf. The linoleum-tiled floor was dusty, the walls a faded institutional-green plaster. "Nobody ever comes up here to study." " I can see why. It's pretty spooky." "\Vell, that's why it's safe!" She left him with their gear and went off, saying, "I'll be right back. When I come in the door, I'll be trying to see if I can hear you or see you back here, so you'll want to pay attention , Jason." Dusty or not, the floor looked inviting, so he stretched supine on it with his head on his bag. Good to be off his feet. Life was very weird. Not only was he unable to drop this kid on her father's doorstep, he was now following her around like a retard. She had taken to giving him orders, and, weirdest of all, he was taking them. Being in charge of yourself is a ' 90 hard enough row to hoe, as Meemaw would say, let alone trying to steer a balky kid about from place to place while having to think about her comfort and safety. He'd never had a sibling to babysit, and these many hours since they left home had given him a bigger dose of caretaking than he'd ever dreamed he'd have to do. Sitting with Meemaw for an hour on a Sunday, as tedious as it seemed, was nothing next to worrying about whether an eleven-year-old would have a place to sleep or something to eat, or whether she'd find her certified genius daddy or get her damned cat back. jesus! Why would anyone want to be a parent? So if Emily wanted to take charge of their lodging, fine. It was quiet as a graveyard up here with all these dead authors, and, though the air was close and it could use a fan, it was cool enough. Somewhere around ten o'clock. Saturday night on Sixth Street, Lisa prowling with pals or on a date-ten was like just getting started. j ason would go up behind her, place his hands over her eyes-Hey, guess who? Oh Jason! Gee, what a swell surprise! Then, later, holding her hand in the dark, in a park, he'd gaze steadily into her eyes, singing, I dOIl't wallt to stand ill your way / I hear what you say / I'll be there ill the wings / while you dance all your stage. ... "Free to grow," she says. When he had told her back in May that he was writing a song for her, he had no idea this would be the theme. He sighed, slumped back against the wall and tried to settle in to relax but couldn't. He hadn't known what shape the song would take. Well, he hadn't known a lot of things about his future, a crap-load of things. "j ason, did you really break that man's collarbone?" Supposedly there'd been some kind of skull fracture, too, or maybe just a concussion. That stupid old fucker! T hat Miata clung to the curves like a squirrel on a limb. He'd eased away from the house thinking he'd take it for a spin and slip it back into the pasture before anybody noticed, but soon as he pulled out onto Barnes Bridge Road and took the first 19 1 hard turn at double the posted twenty-five and the rear tires scrawled a furrow in the shoulder, he'd had a yen to test the car's maneuverability. He'd give Lisa tips about handling it. At Collins and Bobtown Road, he turned north and eventually took the access onto 1-30...