The Sudden Star Read Online Free Page A

Kozlowski's slim hips.
    She blushed. "Sure."
    "All right," he said. Yola stared at the rooftop under her feet, and then looked around nervously. Simon felt tired. He looked at Yola and felt unexcited by the pretty, awkward young woman. She stood with her shoulders hunched forward and her stomach thrust out; he imagined that she would be awkward in bed. It was still better than an evening with Jeanne Steinman.
    He heard the sound of the approaching helicopter and looked up. "Well, it's finally here," Yola said, looking relieved. He took her arm and they ran quickly toward the landing vehicle.
     
    Yola had decided to prepare the steaks herself. As she broiled them in Simon's small oven, she talked of her family in Chicago, her shyness dissipated by the gin Simon had served. He lay on his bed, head propped up by a pillow, listening with slight interest and trying to appear attentive while ignoring the loud voices of those passing in the hallway.
    Yola Kozlowski was the daughter of a member of Chicago's militia, who had trained in aeronautics only to see his dreams smashed with the demise of the space program. Her mother had become wealthy managing a successful beauty salon, located at the top of one of Chicago's tall buildings. "We even had a toilet that you could close off from the other rooms. At least we didn't have to avert our eyes every time someone took a piss, or share a bathroom with everyone on the whole floor." She giggled and turned around, her face flushed. She looked unsteady.
    "Nice to be rich," Simon muttered.
    "I don't know," Yola said, looking solemn. "I had a rough time when I was doing my two years of service, because I'd been so sheltered, and yet I felt as though I should have reenlisted anyway. So I rationalized by saying I wouldn't have had much of a chance to use my psychiatric training there. Oh, well, even poor people are better off in cities than in the country, I guess. I've heard it's pretty grim out there."
    Simon sipped his gin. "I've heard that too, but I don't know if I believe it. It's easy to get into New York, but you can't get out without a pass. Maybe they're hiding something."
    "I don't know. At least you can get ahead in a city."
    "I'm sure everyone on the food lines thinks so." Simon gestured toward the oven. "They're probably done." Yola removed the steaks, put them on two small plates, and handed one to Simon. She remained on her seat near the oven.
    "You know, Simon," she said, motioning with her glass of gin, "I've thought of setting up a practice among the poor, living with them, treating them, even if it is practically hopeless."
    He chuckled. "You wouldn't live an hour. My parents had six kids. I'm the only one still alive. They shot my father during a food riot."
    Yola grew pale. "How did you get into med school?"
    "I was lucky, I got through high school just before the city closed the public schools. And I had an uncle in the militia, who put the screws to a couple of men who owed him a favor. So I got a scholarship to college and med school."
    "He must have been close to you. I guess it proves you can get ahead if people care about you and love you."
    Simon sighed, feeling he would have to explain the obvious. "You're wrong, Yola. He looked around at the family and decided to give his help to someone who had the brains to get ahead. What's the point of helping somebody who'll never get ahead and be able to pay you back? He helped me, I gave some money to my cousin, so she could get into food distribution, we both paid my uncle back, and all of us forgot about the rest."
    "The rest of who?"
    "The family."
    Yola was quiet. Simon looked at her and thought of a redheaded adolescent at a rooftop party. He remembered how he and Toby Montalvo had stood in a street staring upward, speculating about the lives of the people who flew among buildings as if they were gods. He had always supposed they were happy people.
    "Have another drink, Yola." She held out her glass.
     
    Yola Kozlowski