right,” he said.
Fletcher started toward the station. He went among the more fortunate vehicles of the other patrons, past gleaming Winnebagos and Kings of the Road replete with radar screens and television antennas and lawn chairs and bicycles strapped to their roofs. Hepassed an outdoor fruit stand where snow birds dressed for golf clamored for fresh strawberries and the scent of newly picked peaches was heavy on the fall air. It was an uphill walk, and he moved as if on a collision course with an enormous sun before whose face a patchwork of vaporous cloud had already begun to spread. The clouds rose from the coastal range that skirted the freeway to the west. They spilled over the crests of the ridges and sank among the canyons and lent blue shadows to the folds of the hills, where Fletcher took them as some advance column of the storm they had come to track.
4
B etween her seventh and tenth years, Kendra’s father had taken her to seances and there were times when she believed that she had picked up something at one of them. It occurred to her, on the morning in question, that the something was in the room with her. The realization startled her and she woke from an unsound sleep. Upon waking she found it gone. There was only a troubling shadow across one part of the room that she did not care to look at, and not till the shadow had dissipated entirely, she knew from experience, would she feel it safe to get out of bed.
She was still waiting it out when the telephone began to ring. She rose with some trepidation. The shadow retreated before her, gathered itself into a small dark place at that point where the walls and floor all joined, and remained there, a stain upon the morning. Kendra lifted the receiver and placed it to her ear.
“Jesus H. Christ, don’t tell me, you’re sleeping days again.”
Kendra recognized the voice as that of Pam, the cook fromCassady’s. Pam was one of the few people with whom Kendra had become friendly since moving to Sweet Home. Pam was a part-time cook, a part-time bluegrass musician, a dart enthusiast, and a New Age witch.
Kendra looked at her clock. To her dismay she found that it was two o’clock in the afternoon. “Apparently,” she said. In fact, she had spent the night with Travis’s books, with sorcerers and shamans, and retired with the dawn. She could hear the other woman laughing. Kendra stared from the small window above the sink in her kitchen. Beyond it lay the fog, making even the potted plants on the deck difficult to see. Beyond the deck were the trees. But she could not really see the trees. Just a dark place in the fog. The sight of the afternoon displeased her and she looked away.
“Well,” Pam said, “I guess maybe I don’t blame you. I lived in the death coach, I would probably stay up all night and sleep all day too.”
“You’ve already got the stay-up-all-night part down.”
Pam whinnied, then coughed loudly into the phone. “You got that right,” she said.
Kendra said nothing. She looked once more into the fog. Upon reflection, she supposed Pam was calling to tell her about her gig at Bodine’s.
“So,” Pam said. “You going to be at Bodine’s tomorrow? Or are you going to sit up all night and pitch the cork for the cat?”
Kendra tried for a moment to think of something clever to say, but nothing came to mind. In the end she simply said she would be there. “Be there or be square,” Pam told her.
• • •
When Kendra had replaced the phone she went rather unsteadily to the sink. Drawing water for tea, she saw the note Drew had left for her the day before, reminding her to get butane for the trailer. They were already on the last tank and the little red flag at the top indicating the tank was nearly empty had begun to show two days ago. The note was damp and stained and stuck to the drain board, almost lost amid the clutter of soiled dishes.
Above the sink, she saw that Drew had taped one of his weathercharts to a
Fletcher started toward the station. He went among the more fortunate vehicles of the other patrons, past gleaming Winnebagos and Kings of the Road replete with radar screens and television antennas and lawn chairs and bicycles strapped to their roofs. Hepassed an outdoor fruit stand where snow birds dressed for golf clamored for fresh strawberries and the scent of newly picked peaches was heavy on the fall air. It was an uphill walk, and he moved as if on a collision course with an enormous sun before whose face a patchwork of vaporous cloud had already begun to spread. The clouds rose from the coastal range that skirted the freeway to the west. They spilled over the crests of the ridges and sank among the canyons and lent blue shadows to the folds of the hills, where Fletcher took them as some advance column of the storm they had come to track.
4
B etween her seventh and tenth years, Kendra’s father had taken her to seances and there were times when she believed that she had picked up something at one of them. It occurred to her, on the morning in question, that the something was in the room with her. The realization startled her and she woke from an unsound sleep. Upon waking she found it gone. There was only a troubling shadow across one part of the room that she did not care to look at, and not till the shadow had dissipated entirely, she knew from experience, would she feel it safe to get out of bed.
She was still waiting it out when the telephone began to ring. She rose with some trepidation. The shadow retreated before her, gathered itself into a small dark place at that point where the walls and floor all joined, and remained there, a stain upon the morning. Kendra lifted the receiver and placed it to her ear.
“Jesus H. Christ, don’t tell me, you’re sleeping days again.”
Kendra recognized the voice as that of Pam, the cook fromCassady’s. Pam was one of the few people with whom Kendra had become friendly since moving to Sweet Home. Pam was a part-time cook, a part-time bluegrass musician, a dart enthusiast, and a New Age witch.
Kendra looked at her clock. To her dismay she found that it was two o’clock in the afternoon. “Apparently,” she said. In fact, she had spent the night with Travis’s books, with sorcerers and shamans, and retired with the dawn. She could hear the other woman laughing. Kendra stared from the small window above the sink in her kitchen. Beyond it lay the fog, making even the potted plants on the deck difficult to see. Beyond the deck were the trees. But she could not really see the trees. Just a dark place in the fog. The sight of the afternoon displeased her and she looked away.
“Well,” Pam said, “I guess maybe I don’t blame you. I lived in the death coach, I would probably stay up all night and sleep all day too.”
“You’ve already got the stay-up-all-night part down.”
Pam whinnied, then coughed loudly into the phone. “You got that right,” she said.
Kendra said nothing. She looked once more into the fog. Upon reflection, she supposed Pam was calling to tell her about her gig at Bodine’s.
“So,” Pam said. “You going to be at Bodine’s tomorrow? Or are you going to sit up all night and pitch the cork for the cat?”
Kendra tried for a moment to think of something clever to say, but nothing came to mind. In the end she simply said she would be there. “Be there or be square,” Pam told her.
• • •
When Kendra had replaced the phone she went rather unsteadily to the sink. Drawing water for tea, she saw the note Drew had left for her the day before, reminding her to get butane for the trailer. They were already on the last tank and the little red flag at the top indicating the tank was nearly empty had begun to show two days ago. The note was damp and stained and stuck to the drain board, almost lost amid the clutter of soiled dishes.
Above the sink, she saw that Drew had taped one of his weathercharts to a
Similar Books
