Free Electric City: A Novel by Elizabeth Rosner Page B

Sophie sang along with the radio.
    “Someday this will be a place to get far away from,” Henry said. “Don’t you think? I mean, my family has been in this town forever.”
    “We pretty much just arrived,” Sophie said. Moonlight gleamed on the chrome details of the car. Her hands were folded in her lap, waiting for Henry to reach for them. But he didn’t.
    “I can’t imagine being new,” he said. “Though I like the idea.”
    “We’re sort of opposites that way,” Sophie said, turning toward Henry enough to see that his eyes were closed. We’re different in so many ways , she thought, unsure if this was a good thing or not. Opposites attract; like forces repel —such were the certainties in her father’s world of magnets. “I don’t know the feeling of belonging to a place,” she said. “Instead of just borrowing it.”
    Henry opened his eyes and reached over to place his fingertips on her collarbone. “You belong here as much as anyone,” he said.
    Searchlights swept broadly across their faces just then, and they both flinched from the glare. A voice came at them, amplified by a bullhorn: “This parking lot closed at sunset,” it blared. “That means YOU.”
    Henry leaned close enough to whisper into Sophie’s ear. “I know somewhere else we can go.”

    There were always reasons for things. Being forced away from the lake was a kind of relief, since Henry had been worried about kissing Sophie. Whispering into her ear had brought his lips so close, though. And her hair smelled like apple trees in blossom.
    The cooling night pushed its way around the windshield and behind their shoulders. Pensive during the drive across town, they saw few other cars even when they passed the hospital. Human life seemed to be missing from the scenery. Slowing down on Wendell Avenue, Henry parked near the bottom of a long driveway, and the engine ticked into silence. “Built by my grandfather,” he said, pointing uphill to where the house loomed.
    They both got out of the car to stand for a moment under a streetlight, one of the older style, a throwback to the days of gas lamps. Sophie was trying to make out the shape and size of the half-hidden Van Curler mansion, but Henry was watching the empty lot across the street, a grassy square framed by leafy oaks and maples on three sides.
    “That’s where Charles Steinmetz used to live,” he said. Instead of porcelain sinks and overstuffed armchairs, the organic lushness of nature seemed so inviting. Maybe he could bring Sophie closer by going the long way around; he strode ahead and beckoned to her.
    “I’ve seen pictures of him,” Sophie said, hesitating. Modern Jupiter . She didn’t want to admit to thinking of Martin with his stack of books.
    “Really?”
    “At the library.”
    Henry looked for her expression but couldn’t read its details. She rubbed at her arms, which made him notice goose bumps himself. A cloud of moths rushed past, and cricket song rose as though some volume dial had been turned.
    “The house got torn down,” he said. Toward the back corner of what must have been a foundation wall, there was one low stone ledge surrounded by nothing. Henry used his good hand to sweep debris from its surface.
    “What a loss,” she said, catching up to take a seat beside Henry on the cool granite, their thighs just barely touching. “I would have thought—”
    Henry took her hand and she squeezed his fingers in response. It was amazing to realize that such a small amount of contact could transmit signals like this, enough to cause such a commotion on the inside. “People save the wrong things sometimes,” he said. “Then all of a sudden it’s too late.”
    The arm with the cast felt heavy and muffled in contrast to the hand now holding on to Sophie. He could have asked her to sign the plaster, but that seemed foolish. It was coming off the next day. And he’d rather ask for something more lasting, a photo of her to take back to school with