âGood-o,â thatâs what Sammy would say.
CHAPTER 5
W inter nights, Crisfield went to bed early. As Dicey drove into town, the houses she passed were black shapes with squares of yellow shining on the second stories, or, in the case of ranch-style houses, at the far ends. The pickup was the only moving thing that winter night in the dark and silent town. Cars were parked along the street, motionless as statuesâif, Dicey thought, you wanted to make statues of cars, if you didnât have anything better than machines to make statues of.
Statues couldnât be like people, she thought, because people were always moving. If she met a person like a statue, she probably wouldnât like him. Or her. Striking a pose, or staying in one fixed position, those were things she didnât like in people.
Not only that, she thought, turning right, pulling into the parking lot behind the shop, turning off the headlights, enjoying the silence and her own thoughts, a boat was a kind of machine, too. You couldnât deny that. An older, simpler one, but still a machine. And a boat was beautiful. So she shouldnât go around criticizing anyone who wanted to make a statue of a car.
She shoved the truck door open with her shoulder. The night was cold, entirely still. The shop stood silent, deserted. No cars moved down the street, not at this hour of a winter night. No wind blew. If she stayed motionless and listened, she could hearthe water moving gently, delicately, in continual motion like Gramâs knitting needles.
Silent, solitary, contentâMaybe that was why she didnât see it right away. When she saw itâthe door to the shop, standing openâshe didnât know why she hadnât noticed it as soon as she drove up. For a millisecond, she kicked herself for carelessness. But she always locked up, last thing; she couldnât remember doing it that afternoon, but she didnât remember not doing it, either, the way you remember you havenât done something you have the habit of doingâ
Dicey ran. Something crunched under her feet. When she got the light turned on, she saw glass all over the cement floor by the door.
She didnât want to look around, so she turned her back on whatever might wait for her, or might not wait. Instead, she studied the door. Someone had punched a hole through the glass, or had hit it with a rock or brick, more likely, because you could cut your hand putting it through glass, even thin glass like the door into the shop. . . . Someone had made that huge hole in the pane and then reached in to twist the little knob that locked the door. Someone had reached in, to open the door. Why would someone do that?
Dicey turned around to answer the question. She felt as if she had only eyes, with no other parts to her body. She felt as if she were two big eyes and nothing else.
The one light cast long shadows. She saw that the two boats in the center of the room had been shoved aside, left askew. But not, she looked carefully, not damaged. The row of paint cans against the far wall, by the door into the bathroom, had been knocked around, spilling white and green blotches onto the plastic sheet she kept under them. The jars in which her paintbrushes soaked had also been knocked over.
Dicey felt like sitting down, in the middle of the floor, to feel bad for a while. Just a little while. She felt like getting angry and stomping around for a while. Why should somebody break in and mess up her shop, what was the point of it? It made her feel sick and it made her angry. But there was picking up to do, so she went to do it; there were paint cans, and the brushesâsheâd just roll up as much of the mess as was entirely ruined in the plastic sheet. Sheâd have to replace it all, which would cost her close to a hundred dollars. When she thought about that, anger began to be the only feeling she had.
Dicey stood looking down at the mess on the
CHAPTER 5
W inter nights, Crisfield went to bed early. As Dicey drove into town, the houses she passed were black shapes with squares of yellow shining on the second stories, or, in the case of ranch-style houses, at the far ends. The pickup was the only moving thing that winter night in the dark and silent town. Cars were parked along the street, motionless as statuesâif, Dicey thought, you wanted to make statues of cars, if you didnât have anything better than machines to make statues of.
Statues couldnât be like people, she thought, because people were always moving. If she met a person like a statue, she probably wouldnât like him. Or her. Striking a pose, or staying in one fixed position, those were things she didnât like in people.
Not only that, she thought, turning right, pulling into the parking lot behind the shop, turning off the headlights, enjoying the silence and her own thoughts, a boat was a kind of machine, too. You couldnât deny that. An older, simpler one, but still a machine. And a boat was beautiful. So she shouldnât go around criticizing anyone who wanted to make a statue of a car.
She shoved the truck door open with her shoulder. The night was cold, entirely still. The shop stood silent, deserted. No cars moved down the street, not at this hour of a winter night. No wind blew. If she stayed motionless and listened, she could hearthe water moving gently, delicately, in continual motion like Gramâs knitting needles.
Silent, solitary, contentâMaybe that was why she didnât see it right away. When she saw itâthe door to the shop, standing openâshe didnât know why she hadnât noticed it as soon as she drove up. For a millisecond, she kicked herself for carelessness. But she always locked up, last thing; she couldnât remember doing it that afternoon, but she didnât remember not doing it, either, the way you remember you havenât done something you have the habit of doingâ
Dicey ran. Something crunched under her feet. When she got the light turned on, she saw glass all over the cement floor by the door.
She didnât want to look around, so she turned her back on whatever might wait for her, or might not wait. Instead, she studied the door. Someone had punched a hole through the glass, or had hit it with a rock or brick, more likely, because you could cut your hand putting it through glass, even thin glass like the door into the shop. . . . Someone had made that huge hole in the pane and then reached in to twist the little knob that locked the door. Someone had reached in, to open the door. Why would someone do that?
Dicey turned around to answer the question. She felt as if she had only eyes, with no other parts to her body. She felt as if she were two big eyes and nothing else.
The one light cast long shadows. She saw that the two boats in the center of the room had been shoved aside, left askew. But not, she looked carefully, not damaged. The row of paint cans against the far wall, by the door into the bathroom, had been knocked around, spilling white and green blotches onto the plastic sheet she kept under them. The jars in which her paintbrushes soaked had also been knocked over.
Dicey felt like sitting down, in the middle of the floor, to feel bad for a while. Just a little while. She felt like getting angry and stomping around for a while. Why should somebody break in and mess up her shop, what was the point of it? It made her feel sick and it made her angry. But there was picking up to do, so she went to do it; there were paint cans, and the brushesâsheâd just roll up as much of the mess as was entirely ruined in the plastic sheet. Sheâd have to replace it all, which would cost her close to a hundred dollars. When she thought about that, anger began to be the only feeling she had.
Dicey stood looking down at the mess on the
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