Read Online The Green Man by Michael Bedard - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Bedard
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calm herself.
Then she began to hear the noises again. They sounded like footsteps, moving stealthily around on the deck outside her room. She thought of the fire escape snaking up the side of the building and wondered if someone had stolen up it. She had the terrifying feeling that if she went to the window and threw back the curtain, she would find someone staring at her through the glass.
She lay awake for ages, too afraid to go and see if there actually was someone there, too afraid to fall asleep in case there was. Finally she got up and carried the boxes that had come with the room over in front of the door to the deck, stacking them six high and two deep. No one would be coming through there now without her knowing.
It was nearly four in the morning before she calmed down enough to close her eyes. Immediately she dropped into a dead sleep.
So when O stumbled downstairs that morning, she hadn’t been in the best of moods. Which explained the blowup at the breakfast table when Emily went to light her cigarette.
A few hours and several cups of coffee later, she was still feeling that the world was not quite solid underfoot, that a heavy thump of her foot on the floor of the shop would shatter the brittle shell and send her hurtling into the dark.
The bell above the door tinkled periodically as people drifted in. Not that all of them were customers. Some were regulars, friends of Emily who dropped by for a chat. Others were browsers, who came in, took a turn or two around the shop, and left empty-handed.
Some people were drawn in by the display of books in the window, others by the books in the dollar bins outside, where Emily banished all books she didn’t want. Some were students, some were businesspeople, some were residents of the neighborhood. Whoever they were, not enough of them were buying books.
In her brief time there, it had become clear to O that the shop was in dire trouble. It was a miracle Emily was able to make ends meet.
Some things were beyond their control. The neighborhood had changed. People’s interests had changed. Not as many people were buying secondhand books. In fact, there were more people wanting to get rid of their book collections than there were people buying books. Hence the boxes of books Emily kept buying rather than see them thrown out.
There was nothing much that could be done about all that. But about other things, there was. Earlier that day, while O had been up the ladder shelving books, a young woman in her late twenties had wandered into the shop. Sunglasses perched on top of her head, expensive haircut, classy linen skirt, designer sandals. Obviously one of the café crowd, looking for a little something to read while sipping her latte on a patio in the sun.
The woman didn’t venture far into the shop. Her invisible antennae had already alerted her to the fact that she was in alien territory. She gravitated to PAPERBACK LITERATURE – front room, rack nearest door, alphabetical by Author. It was like dipping your toe in the water at the beach without actually going in.
She scanned the outermost books on the rack, picked up one, and fanned through it. A puff of dust rose from the book, visible even to O atop the ladder. The woman ran her hand over the cover of the book, then looked at her fingers. She peered down into the dingy displaywindow, up at O on her perch, then quietly returned the book to the rack and made her way out the door. The bell rang with an unmistakable finality behind her.
At that moment Emily, oblivious to the entire incident, called out to say there was another pile of books to shelve.
As O shelved the books, already moving with more confidence through the collection, she found herself feeling a strange mixture of emotions. She felt embarrassed by the condition of the shop, embarrassed that she had been dismissed in the same breath as it had been. At the same time, she felt angry – angry at the woman for being so shallow; angry at herself for
Then she began to hear the noises again. They sounded like footsteps, moving stealthily around on the deck outside her room. She thought of the fire escape snaking up the side of the building and wondered if someone had stolen up it. She had the terrifying feeling that if she went to the window and threw back the curtain, she would find someone staring at her through the glass.
She lay awake for ages, too afraid to go and see if there actually was someone there, too afraid to fall asleep in case there was. Finally she got up and carried the boxes that had come with the room over in front of the door to the deck, stacking them six high and two deep. No one would be coming through there now without her knowing.
It was nearly four in the morning before she calmed down enough to close her eyes. Immediately she dropped into a dead sleep.
So when O stumbled downstairs that morning, she hadn’t been in the best of moods. Which explained the blowup at the breakfast table when Emily went to light her cigarette.
A few hours and several cups of coffee later, she was still feeling that the world was not quite solid underfoot, that a heavy thump of her foot on the floor of the shop would shatter the brittle shell and send her hurtling into the dark.
The bell above the door tinkled periodically as people drifted in. Not that all of them were customers. Some were regulars, friends of Emily who dropped by for a chat. Others were browsers, who came in, took a turn or two around the shop, and left empty-handed.
Some people were drawn in by the display of books in the window, others by the books in the dollar bins outside, where Emily banished all books she didn’t want. Some were students, some were businesspeople, some were residents of the neighborhood. Whoever they were, not enough of them were buying books.
In her brief time there, it had become clear to O that the shop was in dire trouble. It was a miracle Emily was able to make ends meet.
Some things were beyond their control. The neighborhood had changed. People’s interests had changed. Not as many people were buying secondhand books. In fact, there were more people wanting to get rid of their book collections than there were people buying books. Hence the boxes of books Emily kept buying rather than see them thrown out.
There was nothing much that could be done about all that. But about other things, there was. Earlier that day, while O had been up the ladder shelving books, a young woman in her late twenties had wandered into the shop. Sunglasses perched on top of her head, expensive haircut, classy linen skirt, designer sandals. Obviously one of the café crowd, looking for a little something to read while sipping her latte on a patio in the sun.
The woman didn’t venture far into the shop. Her invisible antennae had already alerted her to the fact that she was in alien territory. She gravitated to PAPERBACK LITERATURE – front room, rack nearest door, alphabetical by Author. It was like dipping your toe in the water at the beach without actually going in.
She scanned the outermost books on the rack, picked up one, and fanned through it. A puff of dust rose from the book, visible even to O atop the ladder. The woman ran her hand over the cover of the book, then looked at her fingers. She peered down into the dingy displaywindow, up at O on her perch, then quietly returned the book to the rack and made her way out the door. The bell rang with an unmistakable finality behind her.
At that moment Emily, oblivious to the entire incident, called out to say there was another pile of books to shelve.
As O shelved the books, already moving with more confidence through the collection, she found herself feeling a strange mixture of emotions. She felt embarrassed by the condition of the shop, embarrassed that she had been dismissed in the same breath as it had been. At the same time, she felt angry – angry at the woman for being so shallow; angry at herself for
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