Read Online Poison to Purge Melancholy by Elena Santangelo - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elena Santangelo
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black-gloved hand, he adjusted the black-rimmed glasses on his nose, as if he couldn’t quite bring the house into focus. With all that black and his expression, he had the air of someone going to a funeral.
Horse filled the paper cup with water and handed it to me with the bottle of aspirin. “One now, one before bed. We’ll see if you feel better tomorrow.”
“A variation of ‘Take two aspirin and call me in the morning’?” I gulped the orange pill.
Ignoring me, he asked, “How long have you been getting lightheaded after climbing stairs?”
“I wasn’t lightheaded just now. I had a headache, that’s all.” Feeling afraid of nothing wasn’t a symptom of anything but insanity, so I kept that part to myself. “Though I did get a little winded climbing the hill up to the historic area this afternoon. More than I thought I should have.”
“Yeah?” He crossed his arms and gave me that scrutiny-à-la-Beth-Ann again, which I now mentally labeled the “Lee Analytical Gawk.” LAG for short. I could use it as a verb, the way my old boss used to make up verbs out of every noun he came across. I remember him saying “We need to incent our employees,” meaning “to give them incentives.” I pointed out to him that it sounded more like he was going to torch us.
But anyway, with the LAG on me, I imagined myself with all sorts of horrible medical conditions—gangrene, for instance. “Why? What’s causing the pain in my knees?”
“Hard to say without some tests. If it has to do with the ‘poor circulation’ that runs in your family, aspirin ought to help. If it does, I’ll let you know what to tell your doctor so he can send you for the right—”
“What’s wrong with her?” Beth Ann was back, standing in the doorway, her hands shoved into her sweatshirt pockets, and on her lips, an annoyed pout. A show of concern. I was touched.
“Nothing a little exercise won’t cure,” Horse said. “Maybe a change of diet, too.”
But I did exercise, I wanted to say, and my diet was mostly mega-healthy since everything I cooked for Miss Maggie had to be low fat, low cholesterol, and low sodium. He couldn’t expect me to give up chocolate, could he?
I didn’t have a chance to put the question to him because we all heard raised voices out in the street. We crowded the window for a look.
“Uncle Foot’s arguing with the driver,” Beth Ann said, needlessly, because we could see both men standing beside the cab. The driver’s arms were gesturing his outrage. Foot was composed. One gloved hand gripped the handle of a wheeled suitcase—black, of course. The other hand, closest to us, seemed clenched into a fist. Glad stood on the curb, a light cardigan thrown over her shoulders, talking to each man in turn.
Horse interpreted the commotion. “Foot’s come up with a reason not to pay the cabbie. Ma’s begging them not to make a scene in the street. Guess I’d better go fix things.”
He squeezed by me and Beth Ann backed out to let him into the hall. I’d glanced back out the window a moment, then realized Beth Ann had followed him, leaving me alone.
But I didn’t feel alone.
Hitting the light switch on my way out, I hurried down the stairs, putting on extra speed as I passed the panic-attack room. I could swear someone was in there. No, some thing .
“May grateful omens now appear
To make the New a happy year.”
—Carrier verse from the Massachusetts Spy , 1771
December 4, 1783—Mr. Akers in Richmond Road
Upon closer inspection, some small distance from Brennan’s snuffbox, I espied his cloth pouch, still a quarter full of his blend. This I returned to the ground, for as I’ve said, his snuff was of the poorest tobacco, weakened by the addition of mint, and perhaps other herbs, since fine white particles were mingled into this batch. Moreover, the snuff had been ruined by the damp of the grass. The box, however, I pocketed, thinking it might collect a good price.
Perhaps I should
Horse filled the paper cup with water and handed it to me with the bottle of aspirin. “One now, one before bed. We’ll see if you feel better tomorrow.”
“A variation of ‘Take two aspirin and call me in the morning’?” I gulped the orange pill.
Ignoring me, he asked, “How long have you been getting lightheaded after climbing stairs?”
“I wasn’t lightheaded just now. I had a headache, that’s all.” Feeling afraid of nothing wasn’t a symptom of anything but insanity, so I kept that part to myself. “Though I did get a little winded climbing the hill up to the historic area this afternoon. More than I thought I should have.”
“Yeah?” He crossed his arms and gave me that scrutiny-à-la-Beth-Ann again, which I now mentally labeled the “Lee Analytical Gawk.” LAG for short. I could use it as a verb, the way my old boss used to make up verbs out of every noun he came across. I remember him saying “We need to incent our employees,” meaning “to give them incentives.” I pointed out to him that it sounded more like he was going to torch us.
But anyway, with the LAG on me, I imagined myself with all sorts of horrible medical conditions—gangrene, for instance. “Why? What’s causing the pain in my knees?”
“Hard to say without some tests. If it has to do with the ‘poor circulation’ that runs in your family, aspirin ought to help. If it does, I’ll let you know what to tell your doctor so he can send you for the right—”
“What’s wrong with her?” Beth Ann was back, standing in the doorway, her hands shoved into her sweatshirt pockets, and on her lips, an annoyed pout. A show of concern. I was touched.
“Nothing a little exercise won’t cure,” Horse said. “Maybe a change of diet, too.”
But I did exercise, I wanted to say, and my diet was mostly mega-healthy since everything I cooked for Miss Maggie had to be low fat, low cholesterol, and low sodium. He couldn’t expect me to give up chocolate, could he?
I didn’t have a chance to put the question to him because we all heard raised voices out in the street. We crowded the window for a look.
“Uncle Foot’s arguing with the driver,” Beth Ann said, needlessly, because we could see both men standing beside the cab. The driver’s arms were gesturing his outrage. Foot was composed. One gloved hand gripped the handle of a wheeled suitcase—black, of course. The other hand, closest to us, seemed clenched into a fist. Glad stood on the curb, a light cardigan thrown over her shoulders, talking to each man in turn.
Horse interpreted the commotion. “Foot’s come up with a reason not to pay the cabbie. Ma’s begging them not to make a scene in the street. Guess I’d better go fix things.”
He squeezed by me and Beth Ann backed out to let him into the hall. I’d glanced back out the window a moment, then realized Beth Ann had followed him, leaving me alone.
But I didn’t feel alone.
Hitting the light switch on my way out, I hurried down the stairs, putting on extra speed as I passed the panic-attack room. I could swear someone was in there. No, some thing .
“May grateful omens now appear
To make the New a happy year.”
—Carrier verse from the Massachusetts Spy , 1771
December 4, 1783—Mr. Akers in Richmond Road
Upon closer inspection, some small distance from Brennan’s snuffbox, I espied his cloth pouch, still a quarter full of his blend. This I returned to the ground, for as I’ve said, his snuff was of the poorest tobacco, weakened by the addition of mint, and perhaps other herbs, since fine white particles were mingled into this batch. Moreover, the snuff had been ruined by the damp of the grass. The box, however, I pocketed, thinking it might collect a good price.
Perhaps I should
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