Free Amateurs by Dylan Hicks Page B

out clarifying or grammatically necessary words not found in the Hebrew or Greek.
    On their respective housing applications, John and Archer had reported an interest in music, French, and late but quiet hours, presenting themselves as more placid and artsy than they would prove to be, and in fact John’s interest in music didn’t run much deeper than Archer’s commitment to French. Funny how they’d been matched so impeccably through misrepresentation, though the Freshman Dean’s Office would have had other interests, class mingling maybechief among them. John, though never a dynamo, grew less retiring than he’d been at home, partly owing to the boost of Archer’s quick acceptance, the unbelievable fact that someone like Archer enjoyed his company. Their suite’s third resident, an intimidatingly focused mathematician, may even have seen Archer and John as out-and-out partiers, though that was wide of the truth.
    Back at his apartment, John took off his tie by undoing the knot rather than brutally pulling and stretching the thing, inserted cedar shoe trees into his bench-made wingtips, and brushed his suit while a kitchen timer rattled for three minutes. Based on past experience, Archer would eventually call to make good on the proposed jog, but it would take a while. Better, sometimes, to remind him. He wrote CALL A on his wall calendar, then inserted an arrow to move the call date ahead a few days, lest an exact two weeks seem too planned.
    May 2011

    â€œThat you, Ania?”
    Sara took the stone path from the driveway to the patio, rounding her shoulders apologetically as she entered George’s field of vision. “No, Grandpa, it’s Sara.”
    â€œOf course it is,” he said, perhaps guessing her visit was forgotten rather than unexpected.
    â€œSorry to just turn up on your doorstep like a foundling,” she said. Her father, Chick, had insisted on the surprise element. “I had some business in Chicago; then my phone died.”
    â€œThese phones!”
    She sat down on the chaise longue. The Japanese garden had fallen into somewhat embarrassed circumstances, but the patio was in good shape, the nearby hedges trimmed, the grass mowed. “Beautiful day,” she said loudly.
    â€œI can hear you.”
    Only planning to stay for a few days, she needed to gather as much info on George’s lucidity as she could without getting full-on interrogational. “Isn’t Ania dead, Grandpa?”
    â€œYes, that’s right.” A brief hush. “I suppose I’ve taken to calling her daughter by that name.”
    â€œWould it help to write down—”
    â€œShe doesn’t correct me but sometimes flinches.” He took a sip of what looked to be bourbon. He was wearing an open cardigan over a gas-blotted guayabera, formerly his yard-work shirt. “Fix you anything?”
    â€œNo, thank you, I’m fine.”
    â€œMarion loved Dr. Pepper. She’d add rum and think we didn’t notice.”
    â€œThat sounds like her,” Sara said, not sure if it did. “Feeling all right since your fall?”
    â€œFine, fine.”
    Squirrels shook an oak branch.
    â€œThese chairs look good,” she said. She patted the meshed vinyl between her legs.
    â€œJohn refurbished them.”
    â€œAh.”
    â€œIt took several years.”
    â€œWhere is he, anyway?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œAt his other job?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd what do you make of—”
    â€œWell.” George put his hands on his knees and stood up. “Nap time.” Gesturing toward the trees, he added, “Though with these damn birds you can’t get a lick of sleep.” He made his hand into a beak.
    â€œI might catch a few winks myself. Think I’m coming down with something.”
    â€œMi casa . . .”
    This was the second time in five years that Sara had been asked to run reconnaissance on her