Read Online The Dunwich Romance by Edward Lee - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edward Lee
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thar?”
Kyler’s head gleamed in the sun. “Mebbe at fust. Thing abaout auguries, like many setch bodements, is they hev a fancy ta change jest as a man’s heart cahn change.”
“I dun’t know what yew’re talkin’ ‘baout,” Sary said, amused. She planned to return to her trek forthwith, but the road-stander hastened to add:
“Mebbe I ought come with ye—”
“Naw, no thanks—”
“—while ye be in thar a-fetchin’ yew’re rock candy. ‘Tis of sorts a devoir’ a mine—a duty, I mean ta say—ta give a jest’n proper warnin’ , so’s a man’s heart hev a chance to change... ”
Sary had already stopped and turned. It was not the mention of a warning which caused her to halt, nor any of what she didn’t understand, but instead...
Haow’d he know I’m goin’ ta buy rock candy?
The question gave her a motive to add credulity to the man’s repute. ‘Sides, he a friend of Wilbur’s. “Wal, sure,” she invited. “Yew can come along if ya want...”
Very few minutes had elapsed before the duo approached Osborn’s. Even with his cane-assisted limp, his pace was difficult for Sary to keep up with. Not once did she catch his eyes straying to her physique, and this was an observation that relieved her.
“Thar it be,” he intoned minutes later, but Sary had scarcely heard him, for the sudden launch of a whippoorwill from a brown, desolate stand of bushes gave her a disruptive start.
“Could be a bad omen, could be good,” Kyler reflected more under his breath.
Sary dismissed the comment, not quite positive what an omen was. Instead, she watched the queer general store seem to grow twice as large with each forward step—queer inasmuch as it occupied the sagging wood-plank shell of the old Congregational Church which she’d heard had been standing for a long time, since before something called the “Revolution” that took place in a time when men wore three-cornered hats. When the building’s looming shadow cloaked them both, even the open air behind them affected an unnaturally darkened hue.
Kyler chuckled waveringly. “Haow’s that fer a omen?” he said, indicating with his eyes the store’s most conspicuous feature: the broken steeple of the House of God this place used to be in days bygone.
Sary twitched at an unanticipated chill but made no reply.
Kyler held the creaking door for her, and they entered
A proverbial cracker barrel sat in the room’s front, though Sary had never dared take a cracker—even when making a purchase—since the first time years ago when she’d tried. Tobias, the dismal stick of an old man who tended the counter, had railed, “Get yew’re dutty whore hand aout’a them crackers! We dun’t care to et nuthin’ that’s ben touched by hands which’s ben corn-fingerin’ fellas and jerkin’ their dutty peters!” and then one of the Langs—God knew which one, for a plethora of them had been born—swatted the back of her head. In fact, Sary braved an entrance to this drear, shelf-crammed place only when an unavoidable necessity arose. Many of the churlish loafers who frequented the store had done business with Sary, and not one of them had ever offered a kind word, while most had talked her price down, knowing full well the extremes of her poverty.
“Wal, jest look what fall off the shit wagon’n roll in my store!” cracked the gaunt, whisker-chinned Tobias.
“Ee-yuh!” the Lang man joined in. “It be the hoo-er!”
“Stew Face!” blurted Henry Wheeler, the fence-post digger whose great belly seemed draped over his belt like a lard-satchel. “And look who be with her! The cripple with the balt head!”
All of the men wore rope belts, hand-stitched boots, and clothes whose blemishes had been constantly corrected by make-shift patches. Stains were rife on these clothes; and had Sary commanded a sense of smell, she might’ve suspected that the denizens’ apparel was washed even less than those who wore it. Amid the cramped room
Kyler’s head gleamed in the sun. “Mebbe at fust. Thing abaout auguries, like many setch bodements, is they hev a fancy ta change jest as a man’s heart cahn change.”
“I dun’t know what yew’re talkin’ ‘baout,” Sary said, amused. She planned to return to her trek forthwith, but the road-stander hastened to add:
“Mebbe I ought come with ye—”
“Naw, no thanks—”
“—while ye be in thar a-fetchin’ yew’re rock candy. ‘Tis of sorts a devoir’ a mine—a duty, I mean ta say—ta give a jest’n proper warnin’ , so’s a man’s heart hev a chance to change... ”
Sary had already stopped and turned. It was not the mention of a warning which caused her to halt, nor any of what she didn’t understand, but instead...
Haow’d he know I’m goin’ ta buy rock candy?
The question gave her a motive to add credulity to the man’s repute. ‘Sides, he a friend of Wilbur’s. “Wal, sure,” she invited. “Yew can come along if ya want...”
Very few minutes had elapsed before the duo approached Osborn’s. Even with his cane-assisted limp, his pace was difficult for Sary to keep up with. Not once did she catch his eyes straying to her physique, and this was an observation that relieved her.
“Thar it be,” he intoned minutes later, but Sary had scarcely heard him, for the sudden launch of a whippoorwill from a brown, desolate stand of bushes gave her a disruptive start.
“Could be a bad omen, could be good,” Kyler reflected more under his breath.
Sary dismissed the comment, not quite positive what an omen was. Instead, she watched the queer general store seem to grow twice as large with each forward step—queer inasmuch as it occupied the sagging wood-plank shell of the old Congregational Church which she’d heard had been standing for a long time, since before something called the “Revolution” that took place in a time when men wore three-cornered hats. When the building’s looming shadow cloaked them both, even the open air behind them affected an unnaturally darkened hue.
Kyler chuckled waveringly. “Haow’s that fer a omen?” he said, indicating with his eyes the store’s most conspicuous feature: the broken steeple of the House of God this place used to be in days bygone.
Sary twitched at an unanticipated chill but made no reply.
Kyler held the creaking door for her, and they entered
A proverbial cracker barrel sat in the room’s front, though Sary had never dared take a cracker—even when making a purchase—since the first time years ago when she’d tried. Tobias, the dismal stick of an old man who tended the counter, had railed, “Get yew’re dutty whore hand aout’a them crackers! We dun’t care to et nuthin’ that’s ben touched by hands which’s ben corn-fingerin’ fellas and jerkin’ their dutty peters!” and then one of the Langs—God knew which one, for a plethora of them had been born—swatted the back of her head. In fact, Sary braved an entrance to this drear, shelf-crammed place only when an unavoidable necessity arose. Many of the churlish loafers who frequented the store had done business with Sary, and not one of them had ever offered a kind word, while most had talked her price down, knowing full well the extremes of her poverty.
“Wal, jest look what fall off the shit wagon’n roll in my store!” cracked the gaunt, whisker-chinned Tobias.
“Ee-yuh!” the Lang man joined in. “It be the hoo-er!”
“Stew Face!” blurted Henry Wheeler, the fence-post digger whose great belly seemed draped over his belt like a lard-satchel. “And look who be with her! The cripple with the balt head!”
All of the men wore rope belts, hand-stitched boots, and clothes whose blemishes had been constantly corrected by make-shift patches. Stains were rife on these clothes; and had Sary commanded a sense of smell, she might’ve suspected that the denizens’ apparel was washed even less than those who wore it. Amid the cramped room
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