"R" is for Ricochet Read Online Free PDF

chest pains, but he refused to see the doctor. Barry was a fatalist. He believed you check out when your time is up regardless what precautions you take. He compared longevity to an alarm clock that God sets the moment you’re born. None of us knows when the little bell will ring, but he didn’t see the point in trying to second-guess the process. He enjoyed life immensely, I’ll say that about him. Most folks in my family don’t make it to the age of sixty, and they’re miserable every minute, dreading the inevitable.”
    â€œSixty! Is that right? That’s astonishing. Is there a genetic factor in play?”
    â€œI don’t think so. It’s a little bit of everything. Cancer, diabetes, kidney failure, chronic pulmonary disease…”
    William put his hands on his chest. I hadn’t seen him so happy since he’d had the flu. “COPD. Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. The very term brings back memories. I was stricken with a lung condition in my youth—”
    Henry clapped his hands. “Okay, fine. Enough said on that subject. Why don’t we eat?”
    He moved to the refrigerator and took out a clear glass bowl piled with coleslaw, which he plunked on the table with rather more force than was absolutely necessary. The chicken he’d fried was piled on a platter on the counter, probably still warm. He placed that in the center of the table with a pair of serving tongs. The squat little crockery pot now sat on the back of the stove, emitting the fragrance of tender beans and bay leaf. He removed serving utensils from a ceramic jug and then took down four dinner plates, which he handed to William, perhaps in hopes of distracting his attention while he brought the rest of the dinner to the table. William set a plate at each place while he quizzed Mattie at length about her mother’s death from acute bacterial meningitis.
    Over supper Henry steered the conversation into neutral territory. We went through ritual questions about Mattie’s drive down from San Francisco, traffic, road conditions, and matters of that sort, which gave me ample opportunity to observe her. Her eyes were a clear gray and she wore very little makeup. She had strong features, with nose, cheekbones, and jaw as pronounced and well proportioned as a model’s. Her skin showed signs of sun damage, and it lent her complexion a ruddy glow. I pictured her out in the fields for hours with her paint box and easel.
    I could tell William was reflecting on the subject of terminal disease while I was calculating how soon I could make my excuses and depart. I intended to drag William with me so Henry and Mattie could have some time alone. I kept an eye on the clock while I worked my way through the fried chicken, potato salad, coleslaw, baked beans, and cake. The food, of course, was wonderful, and I ate with my usual speed and enthusiasm. At 8:35, just as I was formulating a plausible lie, Mattie folded her napkin and laid it on the table beside her plate.
    â€œWell, I should be on my way. I have some phone calls to make as soon as I get back to the hotel.”
    â€œYou’re leaving?” I said, trying to cover my disappointment.
    â€œShe’s had a long day,” Henry said, getting up to remove her plate. He took it to the sink, where he rinsed it and set it in the dishwasher, talking to her all the while. “I can wrap up some chicken in case you want some later.”
    â€œDon’t tempt me. I’m full but not stuffed, which is just the way I like it. This was wonderful, Henry. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the effort that went into this meal.”
    â€œHappy you enjoyed it. I’ll get your wrap from the other room.” He dried his hands on a kitchen towel and moved off toward the bedroom.
    William folded his napkin and scraped back his chair. “I should probably run along as well. Doctor urged me to adhere to my regimen—eight full