Horace Afoot by Frederick Reuss Page A

see. “And I have rice. Long-grain basmati rice!”
    A clerk sweeps by us and begins to restack the fallen boxes. The woman begins babbling at him. I go stand in the checkout line.
    “Can I offer you a lift?”
    Mohr has lined up behind me, holding his giant metal cage before him like a battering ram. “That would be great,” I tell him, emptying the items from my basket onto the conveyer belt. I follow them up toward the waiting cashier. Mohr pushes in behind me, lifts the items from his cart,62 assembles them neatly on the conveyor belt, laying down a plastic rod to separate his things from mine.
    The cashier drags my purchases across the scanner, and I put them into my pack.
    “Soon we’ll have this stuff too.” Mohr is talking to me. “Scanning technology. The state is promising it by the end of the year. The information superhighway.” He fishes in his billfold as he talks. “Of course, all the technology in the world won’t get people to read books. Or return them on time.” He pays the cashier, who drops the bag containing his groceries into his shopping cart. “Or stop stealing.”
    I follow him out the door and offer to carry his bag, but he waves me off with a wobbly gesture, saying he can manage. The arc-lit lot hums with electricity and idling cars and the strains of Muzak piped outside through speakers recessed into the store’s awning. Mohr walks slowly. I try to imagine which car is his and am surprised when he stops beside an enormous old station wagon, the kind with fake wooden panels.
    Mohr’s facility with the outsized vehicle amazes me. We whip out of the lot and into the flow of traffic. He drives with exaggerated ease, the way some older people do, as though the automobile were a giant prosthetic device. The back of the car is filled with boxes that, I assume, must contain books.
    “Where do you live?”
    “West Street.”
    He thinks for a minute. “I don’t think I know where that is.”
    I explain that I’m not sure of the best route and point out the general direction. “I’ve always walked,” I tell him.
    “I see,” he says. “That’s a long walk with that weight on your back.”
    “I’m used to it.”
    “You would have to be.”
    We drive in silence for the rest of the way. As he turns onto West Street, Mohr begins to cough, a few light hacks that, by the time we pull up to my house, become a fit.
    “Are you all right?” I ask before getting out.
    Mohr holds onto the wheel with one hand and with the other holds a handkerchief to his mouth, coughing blindly into it. “Just … a …63 …” The tendons on his neck strain beneath his collar, his wig askew, face deep red.
    “Come inside,” I tell him. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”
    Mohr nods, holds the handkerchief to his mouth, and tries to clear his throat. “Just need. A minute,” he manages to say.
    “You want me to bring it to you?”
    He shakes his head, gets out of the car, and follows me up the walkway toward the house.
    The back door slams, stopping me in my tracks. “Wait here.” I peel the pack from my shoulders and drop it on the ground, sprint around the house. It is too dark to see, but as I round the corner I hear the sound of someone crashing through the underbrush in the woods behind the house. I halt, squint into the darkness. As my eyes adjust I begin to walk across the open yard toward the wall of trees at the bottom of the yard. Without a moon it is impossible to make out anything but indistinct shapes. In the woods a flashlight beam slices through the darkness, then shuts off. I plunge toward it but stumble in the thicket. The beam flashes on again, this time farther away. I cup my hands to my mouth. “I know it’s you! You little fucker!” I stand and wait. The beam flicks on again, then off. He has reached the rail line and will follow it out of the woods.
    I hear Mohr coughing as I make my way back across the yard to the house. He is sitting on the porch steps when I return.