Free The Burgess Boys by Elizabeth Strout Page B

and glistening, stood in their room demonstrating to Helen why his golf game had been a success. “It’s all in the wrist, see.” He bent his knees slightly, crooked his elbows, swung an invisible golf club. “See that, Hellie? See what I just did with my wrist?”
    She said that she did.
    “It was great. Even the dickwad doctor with us had to agree. He was from Texas. Short disgusting little prick. Didn’t even know what Texas Tea was. So I told him.” Jim pointed his finger toward Helen. “I said it’s what you guys use to kill people now that you’ve stopped frying them faster than potato chips. Sodium thiopental, pancuronium bromide, potassium chloride. He didn’t say a thing. Dickwad. Just got a little smile on his face.” Jim wiped a hand across his brow, then settled into position for another make-believe swing. Behind him the glass door to the patio was partly open and Helen walked past her husband and the bowl of lemons on the table to close it. “See that? Nice! I told the putz,” Jim continued, wiping his face with his golf shirt, “if you guys believe in the death penalty, a prima facie indicator that civilized society’s become corrupted by inhumanity, why don’t you at least train your Neanderthal executioners to administer Texas Tea properly? Instead of jabbing muscles and making that last poor fuck they executed just lie there— You know what kind of doctor he was? A dermatologist. Face-lifts. Butt-tucks. I’m going to get in the shower.”
    “Jim, Bob called.”
    Jim stopped walking toward the bathroom, turned around.
    “Zach’s back at work. He got two hundred dollars bail. And Susan was at work too. Zach doesn’t get arraigned for a few weeks and Bob said Charlie Tibbetts could do that with a ticket. I think. I didn’t understand that part, I’m sorry.” Helen started to open the bureau drawer to show Jim the little gifts she had bought to send the children.
    “It’s how they do it up there,” Jim said. “An arraignment calendar. Does Zach have to make an appearance?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
    “How did Bob sound?”
    “Like Bob.”
    “What does that mean, ‘Like Bob’?”
    At the tone of his voice, Helen closed the bureau drawer and turned to face him. “What do you mean what does that mean? You asked how he sounded. Like Bob. He sounded like Bob.”
    “Sweetheart, you’re making me a little crazy here. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on in that hellhole, and to say he sounded like Bob isn’t helpful. What do you mean when you say he sounded like Bob? Did he sound upbeat? Did he sound serious?”
    “Please don’t cross-examine me. You’re the one who was off enjoying yourself on the golf course. I was stuck with grumpy old Dorothy, who forced me to read about refugee camps in Kenya and that is not fun, like playing golf. And then my cell phone rings—you know, Beethoven’s Fifth that the kids fixed on my phone for Bob—so I knew it was Bob calling, and I had to sit there and talk to him like I was your secretary because he knew enough not to bother you.”
    Jim sat down on the bed and stared at the rug. Helen recognized this look. They had been married for many years. Jim very seldom got angry with Helen and she appreciated that, because she always took it as a sign of respect. But when he looked as though he was trying to be reasonable in the face of her silly behavior, it was hard for her to take.
    She tried being funny now. “Okay, strike that. Not responsive.” Her voice did not sound humorous. “Irrelevant,” she added.
    Jim kept looking at the rug. Finally he said, “Did he, or did he not, ask me to call him back?”
    “He did not.”
    Jim turned his face to her. “That’s all I needed to know.” He stood up and walked toward the bathroom. “I’m going to shower, and I’m sorry you had to be with grumpy Dorothy. I’ve never liked Dorothy.”
    Helen said, “Are you kidding? Then why are we here with