The Passenger (The Passenger, #1)(34)

I know.

You keep odd hours.

I’m an odd girl.

Up all night scribbling calculations on your yellowpad. Maybe you should try counting sheep. Or in your case maybe logging sheep. For the numerically enhanced.

I’ll keep it in mind.

Or you just sit staring into space. I guess that’s part of the modus. How do you know it’s not all gibberish?

You dont. That’s what you’re trying to find out.

When is Bobby Shafto coming?

My brother will be here in two weeks.

And then what?

What do you mean then what?

What are your intentions is what I mean by then what.

My intentions?

Yes.

He’s my brother.

Like you havent set your cap for him. To phrase it chastely.

You dont know what you’re talking about. Anyway, it’s none of your business.

Well. You know me.

No I dont. I dont know you.

Yeah? The little weird one just yammers on and on, dont he? We seem to have a fly in the ointment here. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed and she’s got an eye for her brother. Boy oh boy. You ever think you might try going out on a regular date?

With who? Or what? And I’m not sixteen.

Maybe just make an effort.

An effort.

At being normal. What was wrong with going out for cheerleader? As you were asked to do. Like your mom.

Would that have gotten rid of you?

You never know.

I think I know. Is that an animal of some sort?

Maybe. Things show up from time to time that appear to be one-offs. All the worse for the bio-folks. Anyway, we need to work on the lighting in here.

If you were talking in the next room could I hear you?

Jesus. What next room? You’re in the attic.

Any next room. Some dankenroom of my choosing.

Where are we going with this?

Why cant you answer the question?

Okay. You can only hear what you’re listening to. If you’re listening to a conversation in a room and you stop and start listening to a different conversation you dont know how you do that you just do it. It’s all in your head. It’s not like moving your eyeballs. Your ears stay put.

So?

So what.

I’m thinking.

Yeah? Let me know when you’re done.

I’m still having trouble with the bus business.

Weeping Jesus.

You sit in the seats.

The seat.

You sit in the seat.

Yeah. Unless they’re all spoken for. Which can happen. I try to avoid that. As a straphanger my feet terminate about a foot shy of the floor.

Has anyone ever tried to sit on you?

Where is this going, Gretchen?

Have they?

Sure. You got to be on your toes. The shadow of some colossal fundament hoving. Blotting out the sun. You’re sitting there reading your paper and the light dims. You cant take anything for granted. Of course I’m nothing if not nimble as you may have noticed.

So you’re on the bus.

Can we get off the fucking bus?

You’re on the bus. You and your fellow cohorts.

Mind your grammar, Sweetness. Co means fellow.

You and your cohorts. And you talk.

Sometimes. Maybe. Sure.

Can they hear you?

The copassengers.

Yes.

Dunno. See paragraph C above. It’s all the same question. As in maybe they could if they listened. Whatever it is that they might be alerted to listen to. And by whom.

Can they hear you yes or no.

Like do they butt in with an opinion?

No. Not like. Let me ask you a different question.

Ask away.

Are you taking dictation?

Am I what?

Taking dictation. Are you listening to someone. Is someone advising you?

Holy shit. I only wish. You?

No. I dont know. I wouldnt know how to make sense of such a thing.

Yeah. Me either. What else?

What else?

Yeah.

I dont know what else.

Yeah, maybe. All right. So they wouldnt let you live in the woods so now you’re up here in the attic.

Yes.

Why is that?

Because my uncle Royal who’s half deaf watches the television half the night and yells at it.

He yells at it?

Yells.

What about you sawing on your fiddle till all hours?

Okay. That too.

So darlin Bobby Twoshoes on his Christmas vacation comes home and floors the place and runs a one-ten up from below to activate a lamp or two plus the stereo. Shutters on the windows. Never know when somebody might be passing through the yard in the dead of night on tenfoot stilts. Of course she still has to trip down a narrow stairwell to brush her teeth etcetera. And of course it’s damnably drafty up here in spite of the bats of fiberglass insulation he’s put in. The only heat is what seeps up from below. Maybe he could put some plastic over the windows what do you think?

I like it this way.

Yeah, well. It keeps the drinks cool on the windowsill I suppose. You could probably even hang a few hams from the rafters.

You forgot to mention the closet.

And of course he put in a closet. Where did he learn carpentry?

He taught it to himself. He can do anything.

Yeah? Well that remains to be seen.

What is that supposed to mean?