Hannah's Dream Read Online Free Page B

arrangement at him and stalked out of the house; a prelude, as it turned out, to leaving them for good. Truman had appealed to her to stay, if only for Winslow’s sake. The boy was then ten years old; he needed hismother. Rhonda had sighed, He’s your son, Truman. He takes after you. You’ll know what to do with him. I’d just lose my temper.
    After she’d brained him with the dried floral wreath and left, he’d been sitting glumly in the living room when Winslow approached to ask why he had bits of dried bachelor buttons in his hair. Truman said a wildflower fairy had swooped in unexpectedly and anointed his brow with blossoms, but Winslow hadn’t bought it. He was, indeed, Truman’s son, the sort of analytical boy who weighed the possibility of being struck by lightning while riding his bike; who wondered if you could create a robot that would dress you from head to toe while you were still in bed. He could sit perfectly still for an hour or more, roaming the galaxy inside his own mind. He kept his room spotless, his socks neatly paired in his designated sock drawer and his closet organized by color. He’d driven Rhonda to frenzy. She used to scream at him, You’re a child! You’re supposed to be messy! To Truman she said, My god, he’s like an accounting savant.
    Rhonda had left them just over a year ago, several weeks after the debacle of the flower arrangement. At no time since then had Winslow commented on her absence except factually and in passing. He did not require heart-to-heart, father-son conversations, nor had Truman heard him weeping when the boy thought he was alone. He didn’t have nightmares or act out either at home or at school. He seemed perfectly satisfied with the way things were, and for that, as much as for anything else, Truman loved him fiercely.
    Neva Wilson arrived at last, forty-two minutes late. She was slight and tensile, red-haired and freckled, with the thin, smart face of a fox. Truman winced as she stepped into the minefield that was Harriet’s office. Neva Wilson was, beyond the shadow of a doubt, screwed.
    “Am I late?” he heard Neva say.
    Dead silence. Harriet would be looking pointedly at her watch.
    “I’m sorry,” he heard Neva say, clearing her throat. “I made a wrong turn, and by the time I figured it out, I was ten miles out of town.”
    “Well,” Harriet said; and then, no doubt having made her point, her voice lightened beneficently. “When did you get to town? Are you all settled in?”
    “Yesterday. And settling in is never a problem. Everything I own fits in my car.”
    Truman quietly approached with a stack of Max L. Biedelman Zoo uniform shirts and paperwork, announcing himself by knocking on the wall outside Harriet’s doorway.
    “Excuse me,” he said. Harriet, sitting at her desk with her hands clasped, nodded that he might approach. He handed the clothes and papers to Neva, whose coloring was livid, and said, “You can fill these out anytime today. Just leave them with me before five. You’ll have a locker at the elephant barn where you can put your uniforms for now. Shall I take you down there? I’m sure you’re anxious to start.”
    “I can find my way.”
    “I don’t mind.” Ignoring a disapproving look from Harriet, he quickly stowed his work as they passed his cubicle. It was nothing more sensitive than employee timesheets—he’d been working up the payroll—but Harriet made a point of sitting at his desk when he was away from it, gathering intelligence. She was not beyond docking an employee fifteen minutes of pay, claiming she saw him or her malingering someplace on the grounds or in one of the outlying zookeeper workrooms.
    “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met,” Neva said, holdingout her hand once they’d emerged into the watery fall sunlight. Truman took it.
    “I was on your interview panel,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
    “God, I’m sorry.” Neva clapped her hand to her