Read Online The Black Train by Edward Lee - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Edward Lee
Tags: Fiction
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Butler at the front desk while he helplessly stole glances at her bosom, hips, and plush pelvis.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Collier but I’ve got more folks checkin’ in tonight. It’s a wonderful little restaurant, though, and I doubt that you’ve got anything close to it in California.” Her bosom jiggled a bit; she quickly rose at the sound of people entering the vestibule. “These must be my Philadelphians.”
Collier stepped aside as another tourist couple stepped perkily to the desk. He found himself looking up at the oil portrait of Harwood Gast…
Stereotypical Southern plantation guy, he thought. The stern face had been painted with detail—the eyes seemed to look specifically at Collier with disdain. What’s so evil about this dude? He was still piqued byMrs. Butler’s comments. Just an old racist slave-driving stick in the mud.
Several old-wood bookshelves flanked the large portrait, and between two of them Collier noticed a recess, about a yard wide. He figured it used to be an alcove where one might put a statue, but instead there was an old veneered table there, with an odd arrangement of small drawers and letter slots. A tag read: ORIGINAL MAPLE WRITING TABLE—QUEEN ANNE-STYLE — SAVERY AND SONS —1779. When Collier looked harder, he noted an elaborate webwork of minute carvings. Yet on the side of the alcove hung a small oil painting he hadn’t noticed before. Strange …It almost seemed to be hung in that spot so as not to be noticed. MRS. PENELOPE GAST , a tiny plaque read. Gast’s wife …An attractive woman with eyes that seemed wanton looked off the canvas, standing before a landscape of trees. A bonnet, a great billowy dress, frilly knickers; the plunging neckline offered a creamy bosom. So this was Gast’s version of the American Dream? This woman, and this house… Yesterday’s version of a corporate magnate. I guess they’re all assholes when you get right down to it. He wondered if they’d had kids.
Mrs. Butler’s twang reverberated as she jabbered of the house’s historical wonders. The man asked, “Would it be possible to get one of the second-floor rooms facing the mountain? We’d love that view in the morning.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the old woman informed, “all those rooms are taken. But I’ve got a lovely room for ya on the west wing that opens right on the garden. And you can still see the mountain a bit…”
The oddity struck Collier at once. The room right next to his faced the mountain. He remembered Jiff telling him they didn’t rent that one out. I wonder why…
Another display case showed more relics; one caught his eye immediately. HAND-CHISELED STONE MOLD FOR WOOLING SHEARS , and there was a flat piece of stone with a recess shaped like half a pair of big scissors. Beside it lay anactual pair of shears. THESE SHEARS WERE MADE AT THE GAST IRON FORGE LOCATED IN THE BACKYARD —1859.
That’s some real work, he thought. He couldn’t contemplate how hard things were back then. Even something as simple as a pair of shears took many steps to produce. Smelting ore, skimming slag, pouring molten iron into a mold without burning the living shit out of yourself or becoming brain-damaged from poisonous fumes. More handcrafted items from the family forge lay in the case: nails, hinges, door latches. That stuff must’ve been hard as hell to make.
He overheard the Philadelphia woman whisper: “Oh my God! Is that the Prince of Beer over there?”
Shit! Collier had been made again. He acted like he hadn’t heard them and slipped out the vestibule doors.
The sun was turning orange as it lowered, a blaze on the horizon. Collier gazed across the well-landscaped front court, smelling mint, moss, and wildflowers. The quiet beauty almost stunned him.
Jiff bopped down the porch steps a moment later, wearing the same jeans and work boots but now he’d put on a black button-down shirt. Gussied up, Collier thought, redneck-style.
“Ready when you are, Mr.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Collier but I’ve got more folks checkin’ in tonight. It’s a wonderful little restaurant, though, and I doubt that you’ve got anything close to it in California.” Her bosom jiggled a bit; she quickly rose at the sound of people entering the vestibule. “These must be my Philadelphians.”
Collier stepped aside as another tourist couple stepped perkily to the desk. He found himself looking up at the oil portrait of Harwood Gast…
Stereotypical Southern plantation guy, he thought. The stern face had been painted with detail—the eyes seemed to look specifically at Collier with disdain. What’s so evil about this dude? He was still piqued byMrs. Butler’s comments. Just an old racist slave-driving stick in the mud.
Several old-wood bookshelves flanked the large portrait, and between two of them Collier noticed a recess, about a yard wide. He figured it used to be an alcove where one might put a statue, but instead there was an old veneered table there, with an odd arrangement of small drawers and letter slots. A tag read: ORIGINAL MAPLE WRITING TABLE—QUEEN ANNE-STYLE — SAVERY AND SONS —1779. When Collier looked harder, he noted an elaborate webwork of minute carvings. Yet on the side of the alcove hung a small oil painting he hadn’t noticed before. Strange …It almost seemed to be hung in that spot so as not to be noticed. MRS. PENELOPE GAST , a tiny plaque read. Gast’s wife …An attractive woman with eyes that seemed wanton looked off the canvas, standing before a landscape of trees. A bonnet, a great billowy dress, frilly knickers; the plunging neckline offered a creamy bosom. So this was Gast’s version of the American Dream? This woman, and this house… Yesterday’s version of a corporate magnate. I guess they’re all assholes when you get right down to it. He wondered if they’d had kids.
Mrs. Butler’s twang reverberated as she jabbered of the house’s historical wonders. The man asked, “Would it be possible to get one of the second-floor rooms facing the mountain? We’d love that view in the morning.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the old woman informed, “all those rooms are taken. But I’ve got a lovely room for ya on the west wing that opens right on the garden. And you can still see the mountain a bit…”
The oddity struck Collier at once. The room right next to his faced the mountain. He remembered Jiff telling him they didn’t rent that one out. I wonder why…
Another display case showed more relics; one caught his eye immediately. HAND-CHISELED STONE MOLD FOR WOOLING SHEARS , and there was a flat piece of stone with a recess shaped like half a pair of big scissors. Beside it lay anactual pair of shears. THESE SHEARS WERE MADE AT THE GAST IRON FORGE LOCATED IN THE BACKYARD —1859.
That’s some real work, he thought. He couldn’t contemplate how hard things were back then. Even something as simple as a pair of shears took many steps to produce. Smelting ore, skimming slag, pouring molten iron into a mold without burning the living shit out of yourself or becoming brain-damaged from poisonous fumes. More handcrafted items from the family forge lay in the case: nails, hinges, door latches. That stuff must’ve been hard as hell to make.
He overheard the Philadelphia woman whisper: “Oh my God! Is that the Prince of Beer over there?”
Shit! Collier had been made again. He acted like he hadn’t heard them and slipped out the vestibule doors.
The sun was turning orange as it lowered, a blaze on the horizon. Collier gazed across the well-landscaped front court, smelling mint, moss, and wildflowers. The quiet beauty almost stunned him.
Jiff bopped down the porch steps a moment later, wearing the same jeans and work boots but now he’d put on a black button-down shirt. Gussied up, Collier thought, redneck-style.
“Ready when you are, Mr.
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