left her nipples more gorged with excited blood than ever; it seemed impossible for Wilbur not to notice their swelling against the material of the fine, black dress. She returned her gaze to the arch-backed, intent figure at the desk...
Ever the more now, this man, Wilbur Whateley, was striking her as one of uttermost fascination.
“Must be quite a letter writer,” she said from her place on the cot. “All them neat little slots is mostly full.”
He replied without addressing her. “Been sendin’ and gettin’ lots of letters over the yeers. But this heer’s just my keepin’ a journal fer myself. If ye’d took a glance at it, you’d see it be writ in a secret way. A cipher ‘tis called. My grandsire teached me, so’s I could read what he left. Guess that’s what I’m doin’ too, leavin’ a record’a such stuff as pertains to family business, suthin’ that not jess anyone could read.”
This Sary hardly understood, either. But her eyes held fast on the high desk. “Ain’t never seen a desk so big’n interestin’.”
Wilbur nodded, his fountain pen scribbling. “‘Tis nice, all right. I used ta use that old bureau over thar for my desk, but then one time I were in Osborn’s general store tew buy me a valise to hold papers”—without removing his eyes from the sheet, his long, stout finger indicated said valise in the corner—“ta take with me to Miskatonic that fust time I went. But out front, I spied Zech Whateley’s wagon a-settin’ thar with this desk in it’n a For Sale sign. So’s I bought it off him. Naow, he charged me a peck, for sure, but that’s ‘cos he knowed we got money. Same man used ta sell us cattle, and the bugger always upcharged my grandfather.”
Sary found it curious: the reference to money. She’d believed the country offshoots of the Whateleys to be as poor as her own family.
“Never thought much’a Zech; dun’t matter he’s blood. Lotta the Whateleys en’t no good, ‘specially’s after the way they treat my grandfather. Thiefs, liars, the bunch of ‘em. But when I espied me that thar desk, I took a fancy to it, so’s I say what the hey, I buyed it.” Wilbur frowned in a half-smiling way. “Wun’t surprised when Zech charge me extra fer takin’ it to the tool-haouse in his wagon.”
Zech? Sary wondered. “Oh, you mean Zechariah,” and instantly Sary’s spirits darkened. “I dun’t think mutch’a him neither, nor his son Curtis. One time...,” but then her revelation dwindled. Why tell Wilbur something so unpleasant? The fact was, Zechariah and Curtis had once paid her a dime each to partake in intercourse with her near the old collapsed Hoadley house, but when their semen had been drained, they’d then seen fit to drain their bladders as well, all over her till she was sopping. Many customers, in fact, had felt obliged to urinate on her in her professional past, an impulse she never understood. “They’s talk mean ta me fer no reason,” she said instead, “so I say ta Hades with ‘em.”
Wilbur nodded in approval.
“‘N fact,” she carried on, “I dun’t think much’a any of thems that lounge about Obsborn’s store. Can tell jess by the way they look in their face they ain’t nice folk.”
“Naw, most of ‘em en’t, I’se afraid.” The ciphered scribbling continued. “Suthin’ ‘baout this whole area seem ta be all growed up with bad folk same way a field’s growed up with weeds.”
Sary rambled on, as she was wont to do when in the midst of someone she liked (which was woefully infrequent). “I went in thar onct ta buy me some rock candy, which be my favorite, but t’was a penny short, and that awful Joe Osborn say he won’t give me none unless I fuck ‘em all. Over a dang penny. ”
Wilbur paused again, but looked at her this time in a quelled distress.
“I didn’t, a’course,” Sary added with some haste. “Gawd. I know I got me some pride... Then I tried to buy some another time when that old man
Ever the more now, this man, Wilbur Whateley, was striking her as one of uttermost fascination.
“Must be quite a letter writer,” she said from her place on the cot. “All them neat little slots is mostly full.”
He replied without addressing her. “Been sendin’ and gettin’ lots of letters over the yeers. But this heer’s just my keepin’ a journal fer myself. If ye’d took a glance at it, you’d see it be writ in a secret way. A cipher ‘tis called. My grandsire teached me, so’s I could read what he left. Guess that’s what I’m doin’ too, leavin’ a record’a such stuff as pertains to family business, suthin’ that not jess anyone could read.”
This Sary hardly understood, either. But her eyes held fast on the high desk. “Ain’t never seen a desk so big’n interestin’.”
Wilbur nodded, his fountain pen scribbling. “‘Tis nice, all right. I used ta use that old bureau over thar for my desk, but then one time I were in Osborn’s general store tew buy me a valise to hold papers”—without removing his eyes from the sheet, his long, stout finger indicated said valise in the corner—“ta take with me to Miskatonic that fust time I went. But out front, I spied Zech Whateley’s wagon a-settin’ thar with this desk in it’n a For Sale sign. So’s I bought it off him. Naow, he charged me a peck, for sure, but that’s ‘cos he knowed we got money. Same man used ta sell us cattle, and the bugger always upcharged my grandfather.”
Sary found it curious: the reference to money. She’d believed the country offshoots of the Whateleys to be as poor as her own family.
“Never thought much’a Zech; dun’t matter he’s blood. Lotta the Whateleys en’t no good, ‘specially’s after the way they treat my grandfather. Thiefs, liars, the bunch of ‘em. But when I espied me that thar desk, I took a fancy to it, so’s I say what the hey, I buyed it.” Wilbur frowned in a half-smiling way. “Wun’t surprised when Zech charge me extra fer takin’ it to the tool-haouse in his wagon.”
Zech? Sary wondered. “Oh, you mean Zechariah,” and instantly Sary’s spirits darkened. “I dun’t think mutch’a him neither, nor his son Curtis. One time...,” but then her revelation dwindled. Why tell Wilbur something so unpleasant? The fact was, Zechariah and Curtis had once paid her a dime each to partake in intercourse with her near the old collapsed Hoadley house, but when their semen had been drained, they’d then seen fit to drain their bladders as well, all over her till she was sopping. Many customers, in fact, had felt obliged to urinate on her in her professional past, an impulse she never understood. “They’s talk mean ta me fer no reason,” she said instead, “so I say ta Hades with ‘em.”
Wilbur nodded in approval.
“‘N fact,” she carried on, “I dun’t think much’a any of thems that lounge about Obsborn’s store. Can tell jess by the way they look in their face they ain’t nice folk.”
“Naw, most of ‘em en’t, I’se afraid.” The ciphered scribbling continued. “Suthin’ ‘baout this whole area seem ta be all growed up with bad folk same way a field’s growed up with weeds.”
Sary rambled on, as she was wont to do when in the midst of someone she liked (which was woefully infrequent). “I went in thar onct ta buy me some rock candy, which be my favorite, but t’was a penny short, and that awful Joe Osborn say he won’t give me none unless I fuck ‘em all. Over a dang penny. ”
Wilbur paused again, but looked at her this time in a quelled distress.
“I didn’t, a’course,” Sary added with some haste. “Gawd. I know I got me some pride... Then I tried to buy some another time when that old man
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