Chetspeak on Sunday
“Besides that,” Bernie said. “Everything okay at your mom’s place?”
“At home, you mean?” Charlie said.
“Yeah,” said Bernie. Sometimes a little twitch happens in his jaw; like now. “At home.”
“How’s, uh, um, well …”
“It’s a Scottish name.”
“They throw the caber.”
“The Scottish. It’s like a big pole they throw. For sports, Dad. Malcolm told me.”
“Did he throw the thing? Cable, whatever the hell it is?”
“Caber, Dad. Nope. He’s not strong like you. Mom had to open the pickles.”
Bernie grunted, not one of those grunts humans do when they’re changing the oil, or lifting something heavy, or getting hit in the gut; in my job I’ve heard that hit-in-the-gut one plenty of times. No, this was the kind of grunt where whatever’s just been said clears things up. So, if all that – pickles, cabers, other stuff that had zipped right by – cleared things up for Bernie, great. As for me, I felt cleared up already.
– from To Fetch A Thief.
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