Family Law by Gin Phillips (phonics reading books .txt) 📕

I knew it was nothing but acting. You caught hold of the rhythm, and after a sentence or two it didn’t even feel untrue.

Mom opened the refrigerator, stared inside, and then closed it again. I got a glimpse of a dish of baked beans, uncovered, rippled like old asphalt.

“You know I’m not going in that pool,” she said.

“I figured.”

“You’re sure he won’t be home? He definitely doesn’t mind?”

“Yep.”

She opened the freezer now, contemplating its innards. She hadn’t even looked at me since I’d mentioned the pool, and it occurred to me that all these recent nights with me tucked away safely in my bedroom had probably left her feeling very secure.

“You should stay out of the deep end,” she said, lifting a box of broccoli. “You could get a cramp, and no one would be around. But if you’re sure you’re all right by yourself, then I suppose for just an hour or so—”

“Thanks,” I said.

II.

That night I left Mom napping on the sofa, and I hopped across the cobblestones and let myself through our gate. I looked into Mr. Cleary’s yard, and he’d done what he said. The Christmas lights were hung along the brick wall of his house—duct tape?—right above the row of flower pots that had nothing but dirt in them. The lights looped from his back door to the last set of shutters, and they flashed blue, red, and green across the surface of the pool.

The two deck chairs on the patio were empty. The door by the patio was dark. I stood there in my spaghetti-strap sundress, which completely covered me from my chest to my ankles, and it wasn’t the right outfit for climbing over a fence. Aside from that, it seemed rude to start swimming without saying hello, so I didn’t have much choice other than to go around to the front door.

The driveway was dark enough that I couldn’t see where my flip-flops were landing. I passed through a square of light under our kitchen window, and a moth brushed against my face. When I reached Mr. Cleary’s door, I took a breath and knocked.

“It’s unlocked,” he called.

I barely gave the door a push, and it swung open. I caught it before it slammed against the wall, and then I was standing in a room that might have been a dining room or a living room. It had a sofa, a long table with chairs, and a bookshelf. Next to me, a floor lamp cast a weak kind of glow.

“I’m in the den,” Mr. Cleary called.

I followed his voice, passing down a hallway and through a kitchen, and all of it was dark, too. A half wall separated the kitchen from the den, where the only light was one lamp, pleated like a fan, that spotlighted Mr. Cleary. He sat at one end of a plaid couch, and he had stacks of paper around him and a notepad in his lap. He held a pen in one hand and a juice glass in the other hand. His feet were propped on a coffee table that was empty except for an ashtray with two ceramic alligators biting each other’s tails.

The house smelled like smoke, but only a little.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

It seemed strange to call him Grant, and yet he’d told me not to call him Mr. Cleary. So I didn’t call him anything. I only stood there as he sipped his drink. It was gold when it caught the light, pretty and alcoholic.

“You want something to drink?” he asked, and he crossed one leg over the other. He was in shorts, and his shirt was unbuttoned—only two buttons, nothing immodest, but the bit of chest hair bothered me. The darkness bothered me and the way his thighs were stretched apart bothered me, and the offer of a drink bothered me more. I took a step backward, my foot nearly catching in my long dress.

“I have some iced tea,” he said. “It might be kind of old. I have orange juice. My son loves orange juice, but no pulp. He hates pulp. Do you have any strong feelings about pulp, pro or con?”

He set his drink on the rounded arm of the couch, then he grabbed for it as it nearly toppled. He grinned, sheepish, and he looked again like a man who didn’t know how to work a garden hose. I almost laughed. I was an idiot, imagining I was in the middle of some HBO show.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I just wanted to let you know I was here. I thought maybe I’d try the pool now?”

“Your mom was a definite no?”

“She’s asleep on the couch already,” I said.

“Then go ahead,” he said, giving his pen a twirl. “I’m going to finish up a few notes first. The water’s a little chilly, but you’ll get used to it.”

“How chilly?” I asked, half turning, scoping out the pool through the glass of the kitchen door.

“Bracing,” he said.

The water looked tropical with the sparkle of lights and the shadows of the trees. When I tugged at the door, it didn’t open.

“Pull harder,” Mr. Cleary said.

I did. The door scraped my toes when I jerked it open. As I closed it behind me, Mr. Cleary was drawing lines on his notepad, either underlining or crossing something out.

I kicked off my sandals and set them in one of the patio chairs. The concrete was rough against my feet, and I thought I smelled magnolia. It only lasted as long as one stroke of the breeze. I glanced back through the windows, where I could see Mr. Cleary still on the couch, and it was not a bad thing to be alone. There was something about the light and the darkness. The sky was star speckled, and the moon was thin and sharp, like a Russian weapon. The Christmas bulbs and the reflections on the pool lit up the space around me, but beyond that everything was dark shapes and flutterings. I