Free The Wonder Bread Summer by Jessica Anya Blau Page B

without touching it to Roger’s face.
    Bud and Kathy turned to each other and talked with their faces only inches apart. At first, Kathy was wearing her stern mother face, as if she was scolding Bud. Then she seemed to relax. Allie wondered if love was one of those things, like drugs, that made you behave in ways you wouldn’t normally. She decided to make the best of the situation and turned to Roger.
    “So,” Allie said. “How do you know Bud?”
    Roger spent a good twenty minutes tapping out that he’d just met Bud. Bud was defending him in a case that was a matter of mixed information and not any wrongdoing on his, Roger’s, part.
    “What do the cops think you did?” Allie asked. She fed Roger another sip of beer before he could answer. The waiter returned for their order.
    “I’m going to order for you, Roger,” Bud said. “Enchilada platter all right?”
    Allie jerked the beer back so Roger could slam down on the YES or NO. He chose YES.
    “Me, too,” Allie said, and she turned back to Roger, whom she was finding far more interesting than lovey-dovey Bud and spoony Kathy. “I’m dying to know,” Allie said, as she fed Roger more beer, “what were you accused of doing that you needed a lawyer?”
    Allie pulled the beer back and Roger tapped down on the letter I . Then the letter M .
    “I’m—” Allie started. Roger emitted a howly yowl and dropped his head from side to side. Then he tapped down on NO.
    “Not you.” Allie sipped some beer. She liked beer but it made her so full she always felt the need to unbutton her pants when she drank it, which before tonight had been only a few times with Marc.
    Roger plopped down on the NO again.
    “Okay,” Allie said. “Let’s start over.”
    Roger tapped on the letter I , then pulled himself up and swayed from side to side.
    “I,” Allie said. “Just I , right?” Roger squalled like a kazoo and Allie laughed. She liked this. It was like doing the word jumble in the paper, or the crossword puzzle.
    By the time the enchiladas had arrived, Roger had tapped out that he made movies for a living.
    “Right! You’re a producer!” Allie said, and Roger tapped YES, YES, YES.
    Allie fed Roger a bite of his enchilada before each of her own bites. She forked it up just the way she liked it, with a bit of rice and lots of the sauce smeared in. Every now and then Roger’s head would jerk just as she was reaching his mouth, and enchilada sauce would smear across his mustache or on his chin. Allie wiped him up, the red enchilada sauce staining his face and facial hair, and carried on.
    Eventually, Kathy and Bud made an effort to include Allie and Roger in their conversation. Allie was sorry about this, as whenever Bud spoke he made sure not to ask any questions or leave any open-ended ideas that might inspire Roger to try to tap out an answer. The one time he did put forth a question, he caught himself immediately and said, “Well of course you think The Godfather is the best movie made in the past ten years—or I guess I should say eleven years since it came out in ’72, right, Roger? Yes, that’s definitely right, it was ’72.”
    “So, Roger was telling me about his case,” Allie said, as the waiter was clearing their plates. Two more pitchers of beer had arrived moments earlier. Allie had that swimmy feeling in her head that came when she drank too much. Her eyes felt like they’d been weighted with tiny silver beads. She imagined using toothpicks to prop her eyelids open, like Bugs Bunny or the Road Runner.
    “It’s open and shut!” Bud said. He was shouting slightly. Allie wondered if he were drunk, too.
    “What’s the case?” Allie asked. She felt her tongue slipping up on the letter S . Normally she’d stop drinking at this point, or even far before this point, but this day had wound her nerves so tightly she needed the unraveling brought on by alcohol.
    Roger squealed and rocked back against his chair. The wheels slipped a little and