Learning to Swim Read Online Free PDF Page B

it gets publicized until a relative appears or you track them down. Like that kid abandoned in a shopping center out west. Or that little girl in New York found wandering the streets after her mother was killed by her boyfriend. She was in the papers and on TV until she was identified. What’s up, Troy?”
    “Mmm.” There was a lump in my throat. “Just an article I’m working on.” This didn’t have to be a lie—I
could
write an article about missing kids, abandoned kids, kids tossed off ferries. I made noncommittal noises and slid into small talk. Simon told me he had two paintings appearing in a local show; I mentioned an article I’d sold to
Triathlete
magazine.
    I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. Paul was standing in the doorway of the bedroom. I put up a finger—
one minute
—and told Simon goodbye, and as I hung up I thought of something to try.
    I patted the sofa, and Paul climbed up beside me. I pulled a photo album off my bookshelf and opened it. First I showed Paul pictures of me and Tiger, then a photo of Simon.
“C’est mon frère,”
I said, and asked if he had a brother or sister. He shook his head. A dog? Another shake, with a little frown that made me think he had wanted one but hadn’t been allowed.
    I flipped to photos of our parents and the house we grew up in. Paul began to shift uneasily, maybe guessing where I was heading. But instead I asked where he went to school. This he answered.
    “Je ne vais pas à l’école.”
No school.
    Time to ask him where he lived.
“Où habites-tu, Paul?”
I tried to make the question sound casual. He frowned and shrugged.
“Tu habites avec tes parents?”
I asked next. At this he became visibly agitated and shook his head. He either didn’t live with his parents, or didn’t want to answer.
    I looked at him, clownlike in the baggy T-shirt and shorts. Heneeded some regular clothes—and maybe being around other kids would help him relax. And although I would never have admitted it, maybe I needed to talk to someone.
    I picked up my phone and speed-dialed my friend Baker in Saranac Lake.
“C’est mon amie,”
I told Paul. “
Elle a trois jeunes fils
—three sons.” I’d met Baker when she had filled in temporarily at the newspaper during someone’s maternity leave. Her first name was Susan, but she’d been called by her last name ever since working with several women who shared the same first name. Now she remains Baker, despite having acquired a large burly husband, a new last name, and three small sons.
    Her husband answered.
    “Hey, Mike, it’s Troy. Is Baker around?”
    “She’s here somewhere.” He was almost shouting over the background din. “She’s playing Indian chief with the tribe. Hang on a sec.”
    Baker was breathless when she got to the phone. If she thought it odd that I needed to borrow some of her oldest son’s clothes, she didn’t say so. “I suppose you’ll explain this when you get here,” she said dryly.
    “Yup. I’ll be over within the hour. Do you need anything?”
    “Nope, unless you’ve got an Algonquin chief’s outfit. See you.”
    Paul was frowning, looking worried. “We’re going to go visit my friends. To borrow clothes,” I told him.
“Pour emprunter des vêtements.”
He seemed wary, but didn’t protest. I put my driver’s license and cash in my jeans pocket, leaving my still-wet wallet behind. Paul’s sneakers were damp and a bit shrunken, but I pulled them on his bare feet and tied the laces. He and Tiger watched me hang our wet laundry on the line behind the house, and after putting Tiger back in the house we were off.
    It was slow driving along Main Street. Lake Placid hosted the Winter Olympics twice, in 1932 and in 1980, and tourists seem to think this is an Olympic theme park and that the townspeople are part of the scenery. Of course they have no idea most locals don’t go anywhere for vacation because they can’t afford it at North Country rock-bottom wages. Or that