“Yes, that’s a safe conclusion to make.”
He laughed again. I could see that he really enjoyed talking to me. It was like sparring with words.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Oh, somewhere out there,” he replied, waving his right hand over his shoulder. “We’ve lived in so many different places that the U.S. Postal Service has declared us undesirables. They’re still trying to deliver mail sent to us ten years ago.”
“Very funny, but you had to be born somewhere, right?”
“I think it was on a jet crossing the Indian Ocean,” he replied. “Luckily, we were in first class. I’m a sea baby, or more of an air baby. Yes, that’s it. I’m from the international air above the Taj Mahal.”
“Sure. Your parents are Americans, aren’t they?” I asked, not so sure.
“Yes.”
“Then you’re an American.”
“Very constitutional of you.” He looked at my window again. “My bedroom faces yours, you know. Yours is about six inches higher but diametrically opposite.”
“Thanks for the warning, now that I know you’re a Peeping Tom.”
He laughed.
“I wasn’t peeping, really, as much as I was wondering if you would see me.”
“I’d have to be either blind or terribly oblivious.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re not either.”
“Why was it so important to test me about that?”
He looked stymied for an answer. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It was juvenile and not the best way to make a new friend.” He looked afraid that I would end the conversation or continue to take him to task.
“Apology accepted,” I said.
“Whew.” He wiped his forehead. I couldn’t help but smile at his exaggerated action.
“Okay, we don’t know where you’re from, but what made your parents decide to move here of all places?”
“Why? Is it that bad here? You make it sound like the last stop on the train or the edge of the world.”
“No, it’s far from bad here. I just wondered. We don’t get that many new families these days.”
“I think my father put a map on the wall, blindfolded himself, and threw a dart. It hit Echo Lake, Oregon.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
He nodded and smiled. “It’s what he tells people. My father has a dry sense of humor.”
> “Brayden,” we heard. It was a woman’s voice, but she sounded very far-off. “Bray . . . den.” In fact, it seemed she was calling from inside a tunnel, and she sounded a little desperate, almost in a panic.
His smile evaporated. “Gotta go,” he said. “It’s been nice talking to you, and I apologize again for being a Gawking Tom.”
“I’ll settle for Peeping Tom. Who’s calling you?”
“My mother. We’re still moving in. Lots to do. Help with unpacking, setting things up, rearranging and cleaning up the furniture that was there, and organizing the kitchen,” he listed quickly. He leaned toward me to whisper, “My dad’s not too handy around the house.” He pointed to his temple. “Intellectual type, you know. Thinks a screwdriver is only a glass of orange juice and vodka.”
“I’m sure he’s not that bad. What does he do?”