was too small, too narrow in its selection. It was possible the store closed and became a Goodwill all those years ago because a lot of people shared my mom’s feelings. But Dad liked to go there. If Mom sent him out on some errand—buy a gallon of milk, buy a loaf of bread—or if he needed something for himself—shaving cream or a newspaper or—
He always looked at the books when we went into IGA. They had a long rack of paperback books and magazines near the front of the store, and we always stopped there before we checked out. And Dad always bought a book. A spy novel, a mystery, and, yes, a western. Did he think about his own writing when he stood in front of that rack? Did he think about what might have been if he hadn’t given the whole thing up for Mom and me? He never showed anything. He always seemed perfectly content, but who knew what was really going on inside of him as he looked at all of those books?
“There’s a parking lot behind here as well, right?” I asked.
“That’s right.”
“And it looks over the lot next door? There’s a fence, and you can see down into the next lot? Right?”
The guy nodded. “That’s right.”
“You used to come here when you were a kid. I used to come with my dad. And you know what? He used to show me the horses back there.”
“Horses?”
“Yes. There was an old, abandoned house next door. Apparently, the neighborhood wasn’t always great. And out back of that house, someone kept a couple of horses. They just wandered around in the yard over there, cropping grass or whatever. Do you remember that?”
The guy ground out his cigarette and shook his head. “I don’t remember any horses.”
“They were there,” I said.
“Could be,” he said and then turned and went back inside.
But I remembered. I remembered it very clearly. Dad and I used to come to the IGA, and when we came out to go the car, he would turn to me and say, “Do you want to look at the horses?”
And I always said yes. I thought it was magic that Dad knew they were there. And how did he know I would want to see them?
Did he contemplate all the western stories he could have written— should have written—as he looked at those horses that seemed so out of place in the middle of that neighborhood? So lonely and forgotten?
I jumped in the car and drove around back. The parking lot looked pathetic, the asphalt cracked and stained. I drove over to the edge of the lot where the rusting and rickety chain-link fence still stood. I climbed out, taking one last look at that box of books. My dad’s legacy. Besides me, the most lasting mark he made on the world.
I climbed out and walked over. I put my hands against the fence, felt the ragged and flaking metal beneath my hands. I searched.
The remains of the house had sunk into the ground. Nothing remained but a pile of boards and a crumbling chimney. And no matter how long or hard I looked, the horses, of course, were long, long gone.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by David Bell
978-1-4804-5622-8
Published in 2013 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.mysteriouspress.com
www.openroadmedia.com
He always looked at the books when we went into IGA. They had a long rack of paperback books and magazines near the front of the store, and we always stopped there before we checked out. And Dad always bought a book. A spy novel, a mystery, and, yes, a western. Did he think about his own writing when he stood in front of that rack? Did he think about what might have been if he hadn’t given the whole thing up for Mom and me? He never showed anything. He always seemed perfectly content, but who knew what was really going on inside of him as he looked at all of those books?
“There’s a parking lot behind here as well, right?” I asked.
“That’s right.”
“And it looks over the lot next door? There’s a fence, and you can see down into the next lot? Right?”
The guy nodded. “That’s right.”
“You used to come here when you were a kid. I used to come with my dad. And you know what? He used to show me the horses back there.”
“Horses?”
“Yes. There was an old, abandoned house next door. Apparently, the neighborhood wasn’t always great. And out back of that house, someone kept a couple of horses. They just wandered around in the yard over there, cropping grass or whatever. Do you remember that?”
The guy ground out his cigarette and shook his head. “I don’t remember any horses.”
“They were there,” I said.
“Could be,” he said and then turned and went back inside.
But I remembered. I remembered it very clearly. Dad and I used to come to the IGA, and when we came out to go the car, he would turn to me and say, “Do you want to look at the horses?”
And I always said yes. I thought it was magic that Dad knew they were there. And how did he know I would want to see them?
Did he contemplate all the western stories he could have written— should have written—as he looked at those horses that seemed so out of place in the middle of that neighborhood? So lonely and forgotten?
I jumped in the car and drove around back. The parking lot looked pathetic, the asphalt cracked and stained. I drove over to the edge of the lot where the rusting and rickety chain-link fence still stood. I climbed out, taking one last look at that box of books. My dad’s legacy. Besides me, the most lasting mark he made on the world.
I climbed out and walked over. I put my hands against the fence, felt the ragged and flaking metal beneath my hands. I searched.
The remains of the house had sunk into the ground. Nothing remained but a pile of boards and a crumbling chimney. And no matter how long or hard I looked, the horses, of course, were long, long gone.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by David Bell
978-1-4804-5622-8
Published in 2013 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.mysteriouspress.com
www.openroadmedia.com
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