Free Julian by William Bell

attempting to tear it apart, giving out a stream of gurgles and chirps.
    “What’s his—her—name?” I asked.
    “Roger. He’s two. My wee man, but a handful, I can tell you.”
    “He seems to like the cartoons.”
    “Aye. I hate to plop him in front of the tube like that, but it gives me a bit of a breather.”
    Both of us stared at Roger for a moment, then I said, “Um, I’m supposed to collect your rent. Is that okay?”
    “Aye, I guessed as much. Won’t be a tick.”
    She bustled into the other room and came back with an envelope, which she placed in front of me. She sat down and took a sip of tea.
    “So, Julian, are you working these days?”
    I told her about the convenience store, but not Curtis.
    “Going to school?” she asked. “University? College?”
    “No. I’m done with school, for now anyway.” And glad of it, I thought.
    She raised her eyebrows expectantly, inviting more information, but I said nothing. She smiled.
    “Alright. Understood. Enough said. A man who keeps his counsel, I see. I’m a nurse at East General, up Coxwell there. And as you’ve probably noticed from my comings and goings, I work shifts. I’ve only been there a few years, so my seniority is low and I get pushed about on the roster at times. Roger’s daycare is with a woman down the street. God, I was lucky to find her. She’s a treasure.”
    “Well, I guess I better—”
    “Oh, stop awhile and have another cup of tea,” she cut in, jumping up and filling the kettle before I could put in a word. She chatted on about her job, the doctors and patients and other nurses, and I came to the conclusion shewas lonely. Maybe the job and the kid filled her life. One look at the apartment told me a nurse didn’t make much money. I knew she didn’t have a car. After she wound down a bit I made another try.
    “Well, thanks for the tea,” I said, picking up the envelope with her rent in it. “I better get going.”
    “Not at all, Julian. Drop in any time.”
    The contrast between Fiona’s little apartment and the one on the main floor couldn’t have been more dramatic. Thad Rawlins insisted I call him “Just Rawlins—everybody does” as he shook my hand at his front door. He invited me into a spacious room flooded with evening light from the two bay windows, a room that looked like a cross between a bookshop and a music store. A keyboard flanked by tall loudspeakers stood by one window, an open laptop and other electronic components I couldn’t identify lined up along the headboard above the keys. By the other window an array of instruments—two guitars, a banjo and a mandolin—stood in their stands like benched athletes ready to be sent into the game. Stacks of books and magazines and sheet music hid the top of a wide coffee table in front of a leather couch. And every inch of available wall space was covered with full bookshelves.
    Dressed in denims and a long-sleeved collarless shirt under a leather vest, Rawlins himself was tall and lanky and loose-boned. Everything about him—his face, his limbs, his fingers—was long. His voice was deep and scratchy and resonant.
    “Come on in,” he insisted when I told him my mission. “Take a load off. I’ll go get the tribute.”
    I didn’t know what tribute meant but I didn’t say so.I lowered myself onto the couch. Rawlins came back into the room, his slippers brushing the threadbare rug, a wad of cash in his hand.
    “Good thing you caught me today,” he said. “Had a gig last night and I haven’t had a chance to blow all my coin on used books or fast women.”
    I jammed the money into the envelope Fiona had given me.
    “Sorry about the small bills,” he said, smiling. His teeth were long, too. “That’s what happens when you get paid out of the bar receipts.”
    “That’s okay,” I said.
    Rawlins sat down and crossed his ankles. “So, how do you like it here?” he inquired.
    “It’s okay.”
    A chuckle rumbled. “You’re pretty easy to please,