Read Online (LB2) Shakespeare's Landlord by Charlaine Harris - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlaine Harris
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passed on by a member of the congregation: the baggy brown pants and loose striped shirt had never been Norvel’s choices.
While I got out the twenty-cup coffeepot, Norvel rallied.
“I’m a member of this church, and you ain’t,” he said, his voice low and mean. “They’ll take my word.”
“I’ll tell you what, Norvel. You go on and tell them what you like. Either they’ll believe you and fire me—in which case, the next woman they hire will be more than glad to tell them about your drinking habits—or they’ll fire you, at the very least keep a closer eye on you. As I see it, Norvel, either way, you lose.” My policy has always been to avoid or ignore Norvel, but today I was set on confronting him. Maybe my restraint with Carlton had worn out my quota of “nice” for the day; maybe this was just one face-to-face encounter too many. I often go for a week without talking to as many people as I’d talked to today.
Norvel struggled with his thought processes while I got the coffee apparatus assembled and perking and found a tray for the white-boxed assortment of bakery cookies that had been left on the counter.
“I’ll get even with you for this, bitch,” Norvel said, his sunken cheeks looking even more concave under the merciless fluorescent lighting.
“No, you won’t,” I said with absolute certainty.
Inspired by the liquor or the devil or both, Norvel made his move. He grabbed his broom with both hands and tried to jab me with it. I grabbed the stretch of handle between his hands, ducked under his arm, twisted the broom, and bent. Norvel’s arm was strained over the handle. It was excruciatingly painful, as I’d learned when Marshall taught me this particular maneuver, and Norvel made a high squeak like a bat’s.
Of course, the Reverend Joel McCorkindale came in the kitchen right then. Before I saw him, I could tell who it was by the scent of his aftershave, for he was fond of smelling sweet. I slid my right foot behind Norvel’s leg, raised it slightly, and kicked him in the back of the knee. He folded into a gasping mess on the clean kitchen floor.
I folded my arms across my chest and turned to face the minister.
Joel McCorkindale never looks like himself on the rare occasions when I see him with his mouth shut. Now his lips were compressed with distaste as he looked down at Norvel and back up at me. I figured that when he was an adolescent, McCorkindale had looked in the mirror and seen a totally forgettable male and then had vowed to become expert in using strength of personality and a remarkable voice to overcome his lack of physical distinction. He is of average height, weight, and unremarkable coloring. His build is average, neither very muscular nor very flabby. But he is an overwhelming man, able to fill a room with his pleasure, or calm, or conviction.
Now he filled it with irritation.
“What’s going on here?” he asked, in the same marvelous voice God could have used from the burning bush—though I hoped God was above sounding peevish.
Norvel whimpered and clutched his arm. I knew he wouldn’t try anything on me with his meal ticket standing there. I turned to the sink to wash my hands so I could return to arranging the cookies.
“Miss Bard!” boomed the voice.
I sighed and turned. Always, always, there was a pay-back time after I enjoyed myself.
People said so much they didn’t need to say.
“What has happened here?” the Reverend McCorkindale asked sternly.
“Norvel got red-blooded, so I cooled him down.”
This would require the least explanation, I figured.
And the minister instantly believed me, which I had figured, too. I’d seen him give me a thorough look once or twice. I’d had a strong hint he wouldn’t find a man making a pass at me unbelievable.
“Norvel, is this true?”
Norvel saw the writing on the wall (so to speak) and nodded. I’d wondered if his shrewdness would overcome his anger.
“Brother Norvel, we’ll have a talk later in
While I got out the twenty-cup coffeepot, Norvel rallied.
“I’m a member of this church, and you ain’t,” he said, his voice low and mean. “They’ll take my word.”
“I’ll tell you what, Norvel. You go on and tell them what you like. Either they’ll believe you and fire me—in which case, the next woman they hire will be more than glad to tell them about your drinking habits—or they’ll fire you, at the very least keep a closer eye on you. As I see it, Norvel, either way, you lose.” My policy has always been to avoid or ignore Norvel, but today I was set on confronting him. Maybe my restraint with Carlton had worn out my quota of “nice” for the day; maybe this was just one face-to-face encounter too many. I often go for a week without talking to as many people as I’d talked to today.
Norvel struggled with his thought processes while I got the coffee apparatus assembled and perking and found a tray for the white-boxed assortment of bakery cookies that had been left on the counter.
“I’ll get even with you for this, bitch,” Norvel said, his sunken cheeks looking even more concave under the merciless fluorescent lighting.
“No, you won’t,” I said with absolute certainty.
Inspired by the liquor or the devil or both, Norvel made his move. He grabbed his broom with both hands and tried to jab me with it. I grabbed the stretch of handle between his hands, ducked under his arm, twisted the broom, and bent. Norvel’s arm was strained over the handle. It was excruciatingly painful, as I’d learned when Marshall taught me this particular maneuver, and Norvel made a high squeak like a bat’s.
Of course, the Reverend Joel McCorkindale came in the kitchen right then. Before I saw him, I could tell who it was by the scent of his aftershave, for he was fond of smelling sweet. I slid my right foot behind Norvel’s leg, raised it slightly, and kicked him in the back of the knee. He folded into a gasping mess on the clean kitchen floor.
I folded my arms across my chest and turned to face the minister.
Joel McCorkindale never looks like himself on the rare occasions when I see him with his mouth shut. Now his lips were compressed with distaste as he looked down at Norvel and back up at me. I figured that when he was an adolescent, McCorkindale had looked in the mirror and seen a totally forgettable male and then had vowed to become expert in using strength of personality and a remarkable voice to overcome his lack of physical distinction. He is of average height, weight, and unremarkable coloring. His build is average, neither very muscular nor very flabby. But he is an overwhelming man, able to fill a room with his pleasure, or calm, or conviction.
Now he filled it with irritation.
“What’s going on here?” he asked, in the same marvelous voice God could have used from the burning bush—though I hoped God was above sounding peevish.
Norvel whimpered and clutched his arm. I knew he wouldn’t try anything on me with his meal ticket standing there. I turned to the sink to wash my hands so I could return to arranging the cookies.
“Miss Bard!” boomed the voice.
I sighed and turned. Always, always, there was a pay-back time after I enjoyed myself.
People said so much they didn’t need to say.
“What has happened here?” the Reverend McCorkindale asked sternly.
“Norvel got red-blooded, so I cooled him down.”
This would require the least explanation, I figured.
And the minister instantly believed me, which I had figured, too. I’d seen him give me a thorough look once or twice. I’d had a strong hint he wouldn’t find a man making a pass at me unbelievable.
“Norvel, is this true?”
Norvel saw the writing on the wall (so to speak) and nodded. I’d wondered if his shrewdness would overcome his anger.
“Brother Norvel, we’ll have a talk later in
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