The Man in My Basement Read Online Free PDF Page B

make her laugh. That was until eighth grade. Then, when she got sick, I helped out a lot. Brent said that my mother had to work through it, that being sick was all in her head. He was healthier than she was and still expected to get waited on.
    My chicken was boiling and I was cutting celery into slantwise strips and suddenly it came to me. I dug Anniston Bennet’s card out of my pocket and dialed his Manhattan number. It wasn’t until the fourth ring that I remembered it was Saturday. I thought that at least I could leave a message. He didn’t give me a home phone anyway. His name, in lowercase blue letters, was centered on the white card, and the phone number was in the lower right-hand corner in red.
    “Hello,” a woman’s voice said. I almost answered but the surprisingly natural-sounding recording continued, “You have reached the Tanenbaum and Ross Investment Strategies Group.” Then there was a click and the same woman, in a different mood, said, “Mr. Bennet,” then another click and she was back on track saying, “is not in at the moment but will return your message at the earliest possible time. Please leave your name and number after the signal.” Then there came a complex set of tones that sounded something like a police siren in a foreign film.
    “Mr. Bennet? This is Charles Blakey from out in the Harbor. I guess I’d like to talk to you about what it is you want exactly. I mean, maybe uh, maybe we can come to some kind of arrangement. I don’t know. My number is…” Leaving information on an answering machine always seems useless to me. Most of the messages I’ve left have gone unanswered. I didn’t have much hope that anything would work out. Anyway it was early May and all I had was a pocketful of change. A summer rental wasn’t going to do much for me right then.
    So I called my aunt Peaches. That was her real name. Her mother was Clementine and her father was actually named Apollodorus. My father used to say, when we were going to Clemmie’s for Thanksgiving dinner, “Well let’s go over and visit the mouthful.”
    “Hi, Aunt Peaches. It’s me—Charles.”
    “Yes, Charles?” She wasn’t sounding generous.
    “How’s your family?”
    “Everybody’s fine.”
    “That’s good,” I said and then waited for her to ask after my health.
    She did not.
    “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, Peaches.”
    “Has it?”
    She knew full well that it had been more than three years since I had been by, and I was only allowed in then because her husband was at work. We didn’t live more than two miles apart, but the only time I ever saw her was if we happened to bump into each other in town. That was because of her husband, Floyd. Floyd Richardson was a lawyer who practiced in Long Island City. When I dropped out of college, he hired me—
to make something out of me,
he said.
    Well, I was only twenty-one and not really ready to work that hard. I didn’t like the law or research. I wanted to be a sailor. Floyd and I had a rough time of it. When he finally fired me, he told me that I was a shame to my race. That reminded me of Uncle Brent, who always added, “The human race.”
    After that I wasn’t a welcomed guest in their home. Floyd rarely gave me a nod if we passed in the street. I didn’t mind much. Floyd wanted to act like he was my father, like it was him who did for me. Aunt Peaches was nice, but she was so formal that talking to her was like being read to from a book of etiquette.
    “I needed to ask you something,” I said, having given up any hope that we could be friendly.
    “I really don’t have much time, Charles. Floyd’s coming home soon and I have to get his dinner.”
    “Well, you know I lost my job,” I started.
    “Oh?”
    “I had some money left over from that T-bill Mom left for me when I turned thirty, but that’s all gone.” I paused but Peaches had no consolations to give. “And, well, I kind of borrowed some money on the house. I’m looking