The Nobody People Bob Proehl (pocket ebook reader .txt) 📖

They take the 6 downtown. “There’s a burger place Mom likes,” says Emmeline. Kay’s in Wyoming, advising the prosecution in Gillette for the trial of the men who killed the Guthridge family. She and Avi spoke about it on the phone for an hour the other day. They’ve been talking more lately, a fact he tries to avoid giving too much weight to.

“I wish we could get the venue moved to somewhere more civilized,” Kay said. “I’m the only black person in this town.”

“It’s not like it’s a race issue,” said Avi.

“It’s got to play like one,” Kay said. “Half the cases I win are by analogy to race. Once the jury is looking at what these people are, it’s a lost cause.”

“What are they?” Avi asked. Kay didn’t answer, and for a second Avi expected her to hang up. She’s still having trouble with all this. She manages to keep her feelings hidden from Emmeline, which he’s grateful for. Through practice, careful wording, Kay never makes their daughter feel like an alien.

The restaurant is crowded and noisy, tile walls and floors reflecting the conversations of every lunchgoer back into the room, remixing them into a din. It’s the kind of place Kay tended to hate, preferring dark and quiet on the rare occasions they went out. Coming here is part of her “dealing” with Emmeline. Quiet moments carry the potential for revelation. Best to avoid them, hide in noise and crowds. Avi once asked Kay if she knew what Emmeline’s ability was. His tone was ambiguous, leaving open the possibility that he already knew.

“It’s never come up,” Kay said, and changed the subject.

When the waiter comes, Emmeline knows exactly what she wants: the bacon cheddar burger, medium, no mayo, no onions, and a ginger ale. Put on the spot, Avi orders the same and a beer. He immediately regrets the latter, but he’s relieved when it arrives.

“Their fries are really good,” Emmeline says, shouting to be heard. Avi nods and sips his beer. He examines Emmeline’s face for signs that she’s turning into a teenager, but it’s not as easy as it was with her roommate. He thinks of her so often that her appearance is fluid, keeping up with who she is right now. Viola moves through time in jumps, changing drastically between their encounters. Emmeline always looks like Emmeline to him. Someday it won’t be true. He’ll look at her and be unconvinced she ever was his little girl. He’ll look at her, and there will be something about her he doesn’t recognize. It hasn’t happened yet, but he can feel the day coming.

“How are things at school?” he says. “You learning anything?”

Emmeline shrugs. “Usual stuff,” she says. “History and math.”

“That’s it?” asks Avi. “What about stuff with your ability?”

He’s come to understand that she’s not going to tell him what it is she can do. She must know. Every other kid her age at Bishop seems to know exactly what his or her ability is. His hope is that if he talks about it as if he already knows, she’ll let something drop. Kay won’t talk with her about it, and Avi thinks he can give Emmeline the safe space to open up.

Emmeline toys with the bracelet on her right wrist. She’s worn it every time Avi’s seen her for the last year or so. It’s strange-looking, African design maybe. He assumes it was a gift from Kay, although Kay’s never been much for jewelry. Catching him watching, Emmeline puts her hands under the table.

“That stuff, too,” she says. “Mostly it’s regular high school stuff. I like my art class.”

Avi’s not interested in her art classes. His reporter brain overrides his dad brain, needling him to ask Emmeline for details about her ability and how she’s training to use it. He has questions he wants answered about the Hive and how the school has changed since Bishop died. He wants to know if she’s heard about anybody going missing. But she’s looking at him with her pale blue eyes, not an interview subject but his daughter who used to spend hours on the floor of her room drawing, who asked for paints and colored pencils at the ages most girls ask for expensive dolls.

“You should show me some of what you’re working on,” he says.

“I’ve got a lot of it hanging in my room,” Emmeline says. “You should come up and see.” Avi’s face must give away the impossibility of this, and with Emmeline there’s always the question of what she knows even when she can’t possibly know it. “I can send you some pictures. I could even mail you a couple. Are you living back in the old house?”

Avi forgets that Emmeline doesn’t know where he lives. Why would she? Sometimes he feels like he doesn’t know. He’s not sure when he’ll be back there next. The neighbors are on permanent alert to pick up the mail, and there’s someone paid to make sure the lawn doesn’t grow to feral heights.

“Pictures would be good,” he says. The waiter arrives with two towering burgers. Emmeline, eyes saucer-wide, grabs hers with both hands and chomps in, showing none of the caution or reserve of a teenager, only the voracity of a perfectly normal kid.

Warden Pitt’s office is an old trailer that reminds Carrie of the head counselor’s office at the summer camp she and her brother Brian had been forced to attend when they were kids. It has the same faux-wood paneling that makes it look like a ski lodge crossed with a travel agency. It smells like years of stale cigarettes. Warden Pitt personalized the space by using framed posters with the name of a virtue in bold white below an image that embodies it. A marathoner throwing his body across the finish, the word PERSEVERANCE stamped below it. A bear nuzzling a kitten. Emblazoned underneath: TOLERANCE.

“You understand this is a formality, Miss Norris. We’re putting