F is for Fugitive Read Online Free PDF Page A

to rumble in the bottom of the kettle. She took teabags from a red-and-white tin canister on the counter. The kitchen itself was old-fashioned. The linoleum was a pale gridwork of squares in beige and green, like an aerial view of hay and alfalfa fields. The gas stove was white with chrome trim, unused burnersconcealed by jointed panels that folded back. The sink was shallow, of white porcelain, supported by two stubby legs, the refrigerator small, round-shouldered, and yellowing with age, probably with a freezer compartment the size of a bread box.
    The teakettle began to whistle. Ann turned the burner off and poured boiling water in a white teapot. “What do you take?”
    â€œPlain is fine.”
    I followed her back into the living room, where Ori was struggling to get out of bed. She’d already swung her feet over the side, her gown hitching up to expose the crinkled white of her thighs.
    â€œMother, what are you doing?”
    â€œI have to go sit on the pot again, and you were taking so long I didn’t think I could wait.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you call? You know you’re not supposed to get up without help. Honestly!” Ann set the tray down on a wooden serving cart and moved over to the bed to give her mother a hand. Ori descended ponderously, her wide knees trembling visibly as they took her weight. The two proceeded awkwardly into the other room.
    â€œWhy don’t I go ahead and get my things out of the car?”
    â€œDo that,” she called. “We won’t be long.”
    The breeze off the ocean was chilly, but the sun was out. I shaded my eyes for a moment, peering at the town, where pedestrian traffic was picking up as the noon hour approached. Two young mothers crossedthe street at a languid pace, pushing strollers, while a dog pranced along behind them with a Frisbee in his mouth. This was not the tourist season, and the beach was sparsely populated. Empty playground equipment was rooted in the sand. The only sounds were the constant shushing of the surf and the high, thin whine of a small plane overhead.
    I retrieved my duffel and the typewriter, bumping my way back into the office. By the time I reached the living room, Ann was helping Ori into bed again. I paused, waiting for them to notice me.
    â€œI need my lunch,” Ori was saying querulously to Ann.
    â€œFine, Mother. Let’s go ahead and do a test. We should have done it hours ago, anyway.”
    â€œI don’t want to fool with it! I don’t feel that good.”
    I could see Ann curbing her temper at the tone her mother used. She closed her eyes. “You’re under a lot of stress,” she said evenly. “Dr. Ortego wants you to be very careful till he sees you next.”
    â€œHe didn’t tell
me
that.”
    â€œThat’s because you didn’t talk to him.”
    â€œWell, I don’t like Mexicans.”
    â€œHe’s not Mexican. He’s Spanish.”
    â€œI still can’t understand a word he says. Why can’t I have a real doctor who speaks English?”
    â€œI’ll be right with you, Kinsey,” Ann murmured, catching sight of me. “Let me just get Mother settled first.”
    â€œI can take my bags up if you tell me where they go.”
    There was a brief territorial dispute as the two of them argued about which room to put me in. In the meantime, Ann was taking out cotton balls, alcohol, and some sort of testing strip sealed in a paper packet. I looked on with discomfort, an unwilling witness as she swabbed her mother’s fingertip and pierced it with a lancet. I could feel myself going nearly cross-eyed with distaste. I moved over to the bookcase, feigning interest in the titles on the shelves. Lots of inspirational reading and condensed versions of Leon Uris books. I pulled out a volume at random and leafed through, blocking out the scene behind me.
    I waited a decent interval, tucked the book away, and then turned back