Shoot the Moon Read Online Free PDF Page A

know?”
    “And?”
    “And they need insurance stuff first,” she says. “That’s why I called you. I need the name of the company you work for, and the policy number.”
    Goodman bites his lip. “There is no company, and there is no policy number,” he says. “They canceled my coverage when I got fired.”
    There’s silence on the other end.
    “Let me speak to her, okay?”
    “She’s asleep.”
    “It’s four-thirty in the afternoon.”
    “She was tired. Call back in a couple of hours. I’ll wake her up for supper.” And she hangs up, leaving him holding the phone.
    The thought of supper reminds Goodman that he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. Though he doesn’t feel particularly hungry, he feels guilty about having spent the entire afternoon sleeping in his room. In the bathroom, he brushes his teeth and combs his thinning hair. He cleans the lenses of his glasses, which tend to accumulate fingerprints. He puts on the same clothes he was wearing earlier; they’re all he’s got.
    The Camry’s hot from sitting in the sun, and Goodman turns on the air conditioner. He gives it a few minutes to cool the interior before starting off. He decides he’s glad he made them give him the pink car. Then he remembers the spare tire. For the first time, the notion occurs to him that this car was obviously intended for someone else, who right about now must be pretty upset. He moves the gear selector to D and pulls out into traffic.
    There’s a shopping mall on his right after a quarter of a mile or so, and he pulls in, finds a parking spot. At a JCPenney, he buys a pair of jeans, a couple of short-sleeved shirts, three pairs of undershorts, and a package of socks. He picks out a black nylon duffel bag and gets on line at a checkout register. Then, almost as an afterthought, he goes back and picks out a second duffel bag, identical to the first, but in the largest size they have. He tells himself he’ll be buying more things sooner or later, and it only makes sense to have two bags.
    His purchases come to $89.55. He tenders his Visa card to the cashier and holds his breath while she swipes it through a machine. But there’s apparently no problem with it: He must not have reached his limit yet. He leaves the store, his arms full with his new belongings.
    He loads everything into the trunk of the Camry, on top of the lid to the spare-tire compartment. Then he starts the car again and pulls out onto the highway in the same direction he’s been traveling.
    It’s a particularly ugly stretch of road he’s on, nothing but gas stations, car washes, fast-food places, and U-Haul rentals. He supposes he should eat something, but he still isn’t really hungry. He spies a Taco Bell on the opposite side. He actually likes Taco Bell food, even the meat they use in the tacos, which looks a little like dog food. He makes a U-turn at the next intersection and pulls in.
    It’s cool inside, and almost empty. He orders two seven-ingredient burritos, no sour cream, and a large Coke.
    “Here?” the girl asks him.
    “Huh?”
    “Here, or to go?”
    “Oh. To go.”
    He drives back to the motel, one hand on the steering wheel, the other steadying the Coke container.
    It’s five-thirty by the time he carries his purchases into his room and sets them down. He locates the remote control for the TV, turns it on, and sits against the headboard of the bed, eating one of the burritos and sipping his Coke as he flicks back and forth between the news and an all country-and-western MTV-type channel.
    He enjoys the burritos, is pleased with himself that he remembered to order them without sour cream, which he dislikes. The Coke is a bit watery from the melted ice, but otherwise not bad.
    He tries to imagine the person for whom the drugs in the spare tire were intended, and how upset he must have been when he discovered that the car he was supposed to have been given had already been rented to somebody else. Then he remembers that he’s given