Cover page

LIVABILITY

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

The Half-Life

Title Page

LIVABILITY

Stories

Jon Raymond

Copyright Page

Copyright © 2009 by Jon Raymond

reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission

from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied

in critical articles or reviews. For information address Bloomsbury

USA, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

Published by Bloomsbury USA, New York

All papers used by Bloomsbury USA are natural, recyclable

products made from wood grown in well-managed forests. The

manufacturing pro cesses conform to the environmental

regulations of the country of origin.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA HAS BEEN APPLIED FOR.

eISBN: 978-1-608-19161-1

First U.S. Edition 2009

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Typeset by Westchester Book Group

Printed in the United States of America by Quebecor World Fairfield

For Emily and Eliza

Table of Contents

CONTENTS

Old Joy

The Wind

The Coast

Benny

The Suckling Pig

Words and Things

Young Bodies

New Shoes

Train Choir

Old Joy

OLD JOY

THE SOUND OF A BELL.

The vibrations moved outward from the wrought cup, dying sweetly at the edges of the room. I listened closely to the braided amplitudes, chiming and singing within themselves, waiting until the final ringing sound had narrowed and disappeared and the waters of my mind had fallen silent. When the vibrations ended, I raised the mallet again.

The sound of a bell. The dilating vibration.

And then the interruption—the shrill sound of the telephone, like a tropical bird in the corner.

I got up from my pillow and crossed the room, navigating the dismembered bicycle parts and piled shoes and ragged cat toys spread over the Persian carpet, then picked up the receiver and flopped onto the corduroy couch.

“Hey, Mark,” Kurt said. “I’m calling you.”

“Hey,” I said. “So you’re here.”

I’d been expecting the call for about a week at that point. Kurt always called me when he got back into town. Usually there were a few sightings beforehand—someone would see him at a party or spot him hopping onto a bus—and within two weeks, the phone would be ringing. It took longer sometimes—I wasn’t that high on his list anymore—but I always knew he’d make contact eventually. There was a time, back before Kurt was set wandering in the world, before he had finally burned too many bridges with his regular breakdowns and tantrums, that we had been very close, and there was still a certain duty from those days that bound us.

“When did you get back?” I asked him. This was always my first question.

“Two weeks ago,” he said. “I’ve been staying with Pete.”

“All right,” I said.