Read Online Girl on the Best Seller List by Vin Packer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vin Packer
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their giggling and blushing in his presence, he felt conspicuous, as though he had cast his lot with them. It made him feel as though he were a war hero for nothing, and there was the slight suspicion that if he had not been a war hero, even those homely wallflowers would not have him.
• • •
Population 12,360
changed all that. When he read Gloria Wealdon’s novel, he saw himself in a new light. He was Will, the husky, somewhat awkward character who did odd jobs around the town. He was Will, and the heroine used to watch him mow her lawn from her window, and wonder what would happen if she called him into the house and showed him her sheerest black negligee. Stanley could almost remember one part word for word:
The sprinkler was turned on the hot, August-parched summer lawn. Will wore no shirt. His back was browned from the sun, and as he pushed the mower along the part behind the sprinkler, tiny blades of grass were caught in the cuffs of his worn levis. Now and then he stopped and flicked them away, or mopped his brow with an old soiled handkerchief he kept in his back trousers pocket. He looked big and perspiring, all down his back perspiring, like some kind of huge work animal who would do almost anything you told him to do. She thought of calling him, of telling him to come inside. She thought of saying: “I want you to do something for me, Will. I want you to pick me up and carry me over to that couch, and then I want you to rip my clothes off me and make me naked.”
Just thinking about it made Stanley’s pulse race.
• • •
He flipped his wrist up so he could see his watch. It was eleven-thirty. He had fifteen minutes more to wait. Near his wrist there was a bandage; he had burned himself while he was making the candy. It was painful, but he thought about it the way he had thought about his battle wounds during the war. It was part of the reward attached to winning; the only difference was that in this case he bore the scars of the battle before the battle was fought. There probably wouldn’t even be a battle, Stanley Secora decided happily. With Gloria Wealdon as his objective, victory was certain. He felt euphoric, and, like any good soldier, not at all brave yet.
Six
Miles was not violent, not about anything. The word violence to him was like ham to an orthodox Jew. Sure, there was such a thing, but he had only heard about it; never had a taste of it, nor any appetite for it…
— FROM
Population 12,360
I N THE DREAM Gloria was dressed like Cinderella.
“I’m leaving you,” she said, “unless you can prove you’re the real Prince, and my literary agent is not. If you are,” she continued, “you’ll be able to wear this shoe.”
She held a space shoe in her hand. It was as big as a bread box.
Then there were the shots, one after the other,
bang, bang, bang! …
• • •
Milo jumped to his feet. He stood in the living room, momentarily dazed. The dream was done. The banging continued.
Then he realized that someone was pulling on the front screen door, which he had locked just after his migraine had started. He had lain on the couch, intending to rest for only a few minutes, but he must have slept for twenty.
The clock on the mantle read eleven-forty. As he started toward the screen door, he could not deny that there was a certain sense of gratification in him, accomplished through the dream. He could not help it; it had started at the dream’s point when he had pulled the trigger on the gun. Only it was not a gun in the dream; it was an arsenate of lead bomb, the kind he had used last April to rid the iris of borers. But it had worked like a gun would; it had shot Gloria. He had awakened as she fell forward, clutching at her stomach.
• • •
Over and over in the past weeks, he had dreamed of killing his wife. The stuff of his dreams was theatrical, as though his unconscious mind were putting forth its whole imaginative effort to stage Gloria’s murder with every bit
• • •
Population 12,360
changed all that. When he read Gloria Wealdon’s novel, he saw himself in a new light. He was Will, the husky, somewhat awkward character who did odd jobs around the town. He was Will, and the heroine used to watch him mow her lawn from her window, and wonder what would happen if she called him into the house and showed him her sheerest black negligee. Stanley could almost remember one part word for word:
The sprinkler was turned on the hot, August-parched summer lawn. Will wore no shirt. His back was browned from the sun, and as he pushed the mower along the part behind the sprinkler, tiny blades of grass were caught in the cuffs of his worn levis. Now and then he stopped and flicked them away, or mopped his brow with an old soiled handkerchief he kept in his back trousers pocket. He looked big and perspiring, all down his back perspiring, like some kind of huge work animal who would do almost anything you told him to do. She thought of calling him, of telling him to come inside. She thought of saying: “I want you to do something for me, Will. I want you to pick me up and carry me over to that couch, and then I want you to rip my clothes off me and make me naked.”
Just thinking about it made Stanley’s pulse race.
• • •
He flipped his wrist up so he could see his watch. It was eleven-thirty. He had fifteen minutes more to wait. Near his wrist there was a bandage; he had burned himself while he was making the candy. It was painful, but he thought about it the way he had thought about his battle wounds during the war. It was part of the reward attached to winning; the only difference was that in this case he bore the scars of the battle before the battle was fought. There probably wouldn’t even be a battle, Stanley Secora decided happily. With Gloria Wealdon as his objective, victory was certain. He felt euphoric, and, like any good soldier, not at all brave yet.
Six
Miles was not violent, not about anything. The word violence to him was like ham to an orthodox Jew. Sure, there was such a thing, but he had only heard about it; never had a taste of it, nor any appetite for it…
— FROM
Population 12,360
I N THE DREAM Gloria was dressed like Cinderella.
“I’m leaving you,” she said, “unless you can prove you’re the real Prince, and my literary agent is not. If you are,” she continued, “you’ll be able to wear this shoe.”
She held a space shoe in her hand. It was as big as a bread box.
Then there were the shots, one after the other,
bang, bang, bang! …
• • •
Milo jumped to his feet. He stood in the living room, momentarily dazed. The dream was done. The banging continued.
Then he realized that someone was pulling on the front screen door, which he had locked just after his migraine had started. He had lain on the couch, intending to rest for only a few minutes, but he must have slept for twenty.
The clock on the mantle read eleven-forty. As he started toward the screen door, he could not deny that there was a certain sense of gratification in him, accomplished through the dream. He could not help it; it had started at the dream’s point when he had pulled the trigger on the gun. Only it was not a gun in the dream; it was an arsenate of lead bomb, the kind he had used last April to rid the iris of borers. But it had worked like a gun would; it had shot Gloria. He had awakened as she fell forward, clutching at her stomach.
• • •
Over and over in the past weeks, he had dreamed of killing his wife. The stuff of his dreams was theatrical, as though his unconscious mind were putting forth its whole imaginative effort to stage Gloria’s murder with every bit
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