The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (Alfred Kropp #1)(20)

And I couldn’t take any more. I left him sitting there, his thin lips moving silently, and locked myself in the bedroom. This got my roomies going, a thirteen-year-old greasy-haired thug named Dexter and his ten-year-old brother, Lester, who was also a thug, only not registering as high as Dexter on the thug-o-meter. They pounded on the door and yelled that it was their room too. I just turned the volume up on the news and pretended I didn’t hear them. Then Dexter began to shout he was going to cut me; he was going to cut me bad; and that reminded me of the scar on my thumb, which was an inch long and white as dental floss. Sometimes it ached and sometimes it burned and sometimes it just throbbed and tingled. I developed this nervous habit of running my index finger along it, feeling the little indent in my flesh, especially when I was nervous or thought I was going crazy.

I started skipping school. I didn’t see much point in an education when the world was about to end. I left in the mornings as if I was going to the bus stop, then cut through a side street to Broadway and walked all the way to the Old City, the historic section of downtown Knoxville. I hung out in the coffeehouses and used-book shops or paced up and down Jackson Street, looking at the homeless people or the long-haired college kids lounging in the sidewalk cafés.

Then, late one afternoon, I decided I just couldn’t go back and face the Tuttles, so I ate an early dinner at a place called McCallister’s. It was about five o’clock and the dinner crowd hadn’t arrived yet, so I had the place mostly to myself.

Mostly, but not all. Across the room sat a tall man with long snow-white hair. He ate very slowly, carving his steak into razor-thin slices and chewing real slow. Every once in a while he lifted his eyes toward me. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I had seen him before. His fingers wrapped around his wineglass were long and delicate. He had big hands, like a basketball player or a pianist.

He stood up and that’s when I saw how tall he was. He pulled a white handkerchief from his breast pocket as he sneezed loudly. Then he walked out of the room without looking in my direction, and I wondered why some old guy having dinner was making me so paranoid.

I was feeling guilty at about this point because now it was past six and the Tuttles were probably sitting down to dinner and Horace was probably shouting, “Where is that Kropp? Where is that big-headed palooka?” So I called their house from a pay phone.

Betty answered. “Oh, Alfred, where have you been? Where are you now? We’ve been worried sick! We were about to call the police or 911, though Horace has been telling me we shouldn’t call 911 except in the case of an emergency and he doesn’t feel this qualifies since you’re nearly sixteen and old enough to look after yourself, but I told him you’re just a boy despite your larger-than-normal size, but we have been worried sick.”

“Don’t be worried, Betty,” I said. “I’m okay.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m going to be a while longer. I just wanted to tell you I was okay.”

“Oh, Alfred,” she said. “Alfred, please come home.” She was crying.

“I don’t have a home anymore,” I said, and I hung up.

There was somebody else I wanted to call, but it took me a long time to work up the nerve to do it. I got her number from the operator and almost hung up when a guy who sounded like he might be her dad answered the phone. But I didn’t.

“Is Amy there?” I asked.

After what seemed like a couple of years, I heard her twangy voice.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“Me. Alfred. Alfred Kropp.”

“Who?”

“The guy you’re tutoring in math.”

“Oh! The dead-uncle guy,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “The dead-uncle guy. Look, I just wanted to say—”

“I knew it wasn’t somebody I know,” she said. “Because you called this number. People I know call me on my cell phone.”

“Right,” I said. “Look, the reason I called. I—I don’t think I’ll be at tutoring tomorrow. Or ever. I don’t think I’m coming back.”

There was silence. I said, to break it, “I said I don’t think I’m coming back.”

“I heard you. Look, I know you must be really messed up right now. I know what that’s like. When I was twelve my big brother ran over my dog. I couldn’t get out of bed for a week.”

Why did I think she cared? Why was I thinking anybody cared? My own father hadn’t even cared. I was an accident everybody had to suffer from, like Barry with his sprained wrist.

I said good-bye to Amy Pouchard and started to walk. It was getting dark now, and there were a lot of people about, couples mostly, walking arm in arm, and I watched them as I walked. Something made me turn around at one point and I saw him, the tall guy with the white hair, about half a block down. He was standing by a newspaper rack, pretending to read. I walked to the intersection of Western and Central, turned left, and walked half a block to Ye Olde Coffee House, right next to the old JFG coffee plant.

I went in and ordered a grande with extra cream and sugar, and sat at the long counter against the window, watching the couples pass outside.

Halfway through my grande I saw him sit down at the very end of the bar, next to the bathroom. I picked up my coffee and walked over to sit down next to him.