Nerve Damage Read Online Free PDF Page A

here, boys,” said Mr. King, leading them to the farthest corner of the yard, dark forest just the other side of the barbed-wire perimeter fence, “is where it all begun.”
    They gazed at an old tumbledown building, paint mostly peeled off, windows broken.
    â€œWhere what all begun?” said Bobby.
    â€œKing Machining and Metals, for fuck sake,” said Mr. King. “But my granddad started out in cement. You’re lookin’ at the old warehouse. Thing is, now I need the space, so you boys is gonna knock it down fer me.”
    â€œKnock down the building?” said Roy.
    â€œWhole shootin’ match,” said Mr. King. “Bust it into itty bitty pieces. Dump ’em in the Dumpster.”
    Mr. King’s old cement warehouse was timber-framed, probably not very well built in the first place, now pretty frail. Roy and Bobby busted it into itty bitty pieces, mostly using ten-pound sledgehammers, but sometimes chain saws, and when things got a little crazy, their own bodies as battering rams, testing whether they could actually runthrough walls. Lots of old supplies lay around the warehouse, including rotting bags of this and that. Heavy work to carry all those bags to the Dumpster, so usually the boys just went at them with chain saws. When the bags split, the stuff inside came boiling out, like a blizzard was blowing through what was left of the warehouse, coating them from head to foot, like two snowmen in August. The boys got a kick out of that, plus it saved them work because the white stuff vanished in the next rainstorm, or even in a strong breeze. Mr. King peeled off a twenty-dollar bonus for each of them on their last day.

Four
    Chest sewn back up—only four stitches needed—and still a little groggy, but feeling no pain, Roy waited for the biopsy results, no one else in the outer room. Dr. Honey had lots of old National Geographics . Roy found himself staring at a beautiful photograph of a forest cabin with bright red wildflowers growing by the front door and a fast-running brook in the background. For a while, he could hear the water and almost smell those flowers. The loveliness of nature and how sweet just being alive could be overwhelmed him. Then the grogginess began to dissipate, and the weaknesses of the photograph became apparent: it was like an all-dessert meal, too rich, too superficial, too eager to please. But just before Roy closed the magazine, the picture made a connection with something deep in his mind, hooking onto a bit of residue not yet swept away with the ebbing drugs inside him.
    Roy took out his cell phone, called information for North Grafton, Maine, asked for Bobby Greelish’s number. No listing for a Bobby or Robert Greelish. The only Greelish in the directory was Alma: Bobby’s mother. Roy called her.
    â€œMrs. Greelish?” he said. “Roy Valois.”
    â€œRoy?” An old woman; he didn’t recognize her voice at all. “This is a surprise. How’s your mom these days?”
    â€œFine,” said Roy. His mother had left North Grafton long ago for anapartment he’d bought her in Sarasota. “I’m looking for Bobby, actually.”
    â€œMy Bobby?” said Mrs. Greelish.
    â€œYes,” said Roy. “Bobby.”
    â€œYou mean you never heard?”
    â€œHeard what?”
    â€œBobby…” Her voice thickened. There was a muffled pause, as though Mrs. Greelish had covered the mouthpiece with her hand. Then, her voice under control, she came back on the line and said: “Bobby passed away, two years this Christmas.”
    â€œBobby’s dead?” Roy thought: motorcycle accident . That was his hopeful side piping up.
    â€œPassed,” said Mrs. Greelish. “He caught this horrible rare disease.”
    â€œCalled?”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œThe name,” said Roy. “The name of the disease.”
    â€œOh, sorry, Roy,” said Mrs. Greelish.