They're Calling You Home

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven We’ve been in the hotel room for almost two hours, and Browder is totally engrossed in a movie called Gomorrah, an Italian film about the mob in the south of Italy. The description on the Internet said the writer of the novel the movie was based on had to leave the country for his own protection, afraid of an assassination plot from the neapolitan branch of the Mafia. It sounded like a film I’d like to watch, but since we ordered it on the plasma in the hotel room, I’ve only been able to glance up every now and again, forcing myself to read and take notes, complete the interview schedule, plan things out. Pascal is at my feet, taking deep, syncopated breaths, his hot air soothing my bare soles. I shelled out an extra thirty-five bucks to have him with us. It’s nice to partake in this little out camp before we make it to Smallwood tomorrow. The television ’s turned almost all the way down, and while I asked Browder if he needed me to sit and read the subtitles, he just waved me off, sitting impossibly crosslegged on his bed, back straight. We’ve ordered room service: angus burgers and onion rings, two slices of chocolate cheesecake, and a can of Sprite each, but we’re still waiting. I put my pen down and stretch my back, reading what I’ve written down in bold letters: “Call Ike to get a time to look at the courthouse files!” I pop my back and twist my neck, a movement Pascal thinks means we’re going for a walk, which is something I suppose I should do before it gets much later. “hey,” I say to Browder, who isn’t moving a muscle as the movie plays. his lips are moving though, and his brow is furrowed in intense concentration. It’s a view that touches me, kind of breaks my heart. “Browder,” I say as Pascal yawns and yelps, “I’m gonna take him out, okay? answer the door if the food comes, all right?” he quickly turns toward me, pops a fake smile, and nods, getting back to the movie and its maddening, unending subtitles, his lips instantly moving again. They’re Calling You Home 73 I slip on my shoes and click the leash, leave the room, slowly letting the door shut on its own. I test the handle to make sure it’s locked as Pascal pulls and pants. outside, the smell of spring is damp and cool; a scent of something sweetly floral permeates the side yard where Pascal hikes his leg. The dark sky is clear, pricks of silver stars dotted in the spaces beyond the glare of the hotel lights. a crescent moon hangs lopsided halfway up the blackness. There’s a bench in a little garden area, surrounded by an entrance to a golf course. little topiary lights twinkle, and I sit down, pull out the cell phone, and dial Ike’s house. on the second ring, Susana picks up, and I tentatively say hello. “hey there, gabe,” she says, and I’m taken aback by her chipper tone. “Ike said you were coming up. When is it?” Something also sounds strained in her voice, as if she wants someone to talk to, anyone, even her disloyal brotherin -law, the guy she once said only wanted attention, that he was just pretending to be a writer, and although she pointed her finger at me and said as much outside the courthouse, over the years I’ve heard her in my head a million times and can see where maybe she was right. “oh, I’m actually on my way now. I mean, we’re on our way.” I feel winded, and my face has reddened. If this is any indication of how I’ll do in my hometown of Smallwood, I might as well turn around and head back to the swamp. “good, good,” says my sister-in-law, and I can picture her with a hand on her hip, hair tossed over a shoulder. Back when we still did things as couples, before we all had kids, before Dad was arrested the first time, Susana liked to smoke some pot, and drink a shot or two of Stoli. Pascal lies down at my feet, and the spring air gives me the chills; I try to make sure I’m not chattering into the...