Read Online The Monsters of Templeton by Lauren Groff - Free Book Online
Authors: Lauren Groff
Tags: Fiction, Historical, Fantasy, Sagas, Family Life, Large Type Books, Marine Life, Animals, Nature, Single Women, Ghost, Sea monsters, Large tyep books, Women genealogists
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I went by Clarissa's room with my knapsack, ready to leave. I saw her on her bed, reading. Her room was a sty, and there was no evidence of packing. "Clarissa," I said, "when're you taking off?"
She didn't take her eyes off the page. "I'm not," she said. "I'm staying here."
"You can't stay here for Thanksgiving," I said. "That's ridiculous."
"Sure I can," she said. "I like the international foods potluck. Who knew you could have poppadom and lingonberries all at the same time. Delectable."
"Good God, girl," I said. "That's it. You're coming back to Templeton with me."
It took great force, but in the end, she came. As we drove, I could tell that Clarissa was startled at the traces of poverty and decay in upstate New York, the dying barns like whale ribs sticking out of the frosty ground, the trailers hugging the highway, the ghost towns of battered Victorian houses. I could see she had begun to question her choice of coming to Templeton, picturing cat-piss-soaked couches, probably, and shivering all night from a damp draft from the window. If there was one thing that irritated me about Clarissa, it was her skewed concept of money, that she would spend a hundred dollars on highlights for her hair and only eat Belgian chocolate. And so I encouraged her dismay, telling her that my cousin BillyBob (who didn't exist) would want to take us out on his snowmobile; explaining that we called my grandmother (who also didn't exist) Genesee Ginny because she cracked open her first can of beer at nine in the morning and kept up the pace all day, to not worry if she found her passed out somewhere on the floor, just to roll her over so that she's on her side in case she vomits. All of upstate New York was dying, I told Clarissa. I told her what my friends and I called towns up there: Syracuse was Sorry-excuse. Rochester was Rot-and-fester. Albany was All-banal. Oneonta was Oh-I-don't-wanna.
Clarissa was pale and her forehead was creased by the time we rounded the lake, but when we came into Templeton, with its great old mansions and sparkling streets, with its crowds of happy tourists, she brightened. "This," she said, turning to me with wonder in her face, "is like a town in a snow globe. This is a perfect place."
"Well. It's pretty nice," I said.
"No," she said, and her voice was severe. "It's perfect."
That week, Clarissa and my mother got along swimmingly, so much so that Vi often stayed up with us late into the night over cookies and wine, and laughed and laughed, more than I'd ever heard her laugh in my life. It was a prematurely snowy Thanksgiving, and while my mother worked one night, Clarissa and I went to a candlelight festival at the Farmers' Museum, where the snowbanks were carved into cups and held flickering votives, so that the snow was lit from within by golden orbs of light. The upwafting wind smelled of woodsmoke and the fresh snow-smell and wassail cider and even the clean sweat of the Clydesdales who trotted us around from place to place in sleighs. The sounds of their harness bells mixed with the fiddlers in Sherman's Tavern, where there was a dance of sorts going on, and the laughing shrieks of the kids having a snowball fight in the darkening commons.
Clarissa stood with me on the steps of the pharmacist's, looking out at the old-fashioned village in its soft dusk. In the small, close house we had just smelled the mingled smells of a thousand herbs; feverfew and yew and bee balm and willow-bark aspirin; we palpated the phrenological head; we watched the fat black leeches crawl on the glass of their jar. Aristabulus Mudge, moonlighting from his modern pharmacy in town, watched us good-humoredly, cocking his head above his hunchback like a parrot and slipping us free lavender sachets for our sock drawers.
"Here ye are, Willie Temple," he said to me, our little ritual.
"Willie Upton," I said, pretending irritation, as usual.
"Whatever you say," he said, and gave me the same wink as always.
Walking outside,
She didn't take her eyes off the page. "I'm not," she said. "I'm staying here."
"You can't stay here for Thanksgiving," I said. "That's ridiculous."
"Sure I can," she said. "I like the international foods potluck. Who knew you could have poppadom and lingonberries all at the same time. Delectable."
"Good God, girl," I said. "That's it. You're coming back to Templeton with me."
It took great force, but in the end, she came. As we drove, I could tell that Clarissa was startled at the traces of poverty and decay in upstate New York, the dying barns like whale ribs sticking out of the frosty ground, the trailers hugging the highway, the ghost towns of battered Victorian houses. I could see she had begun to question her choice of coming to Templeton, picturing cat-piss-soaked couches, probably, and shivering all night from a damp draft from the window. If there was one thing that irritated me about Clarissa, it was her skewed concept of money, that she would spend a hundred dollars on highlights for her hair and only eat Belgian chocolate. And so I encouraged her dismay, telling her that my cousin BillyBob (who didn't exist) would want to take us out on his snowmobile; explaining that we called my grandmother (who also didn't exist) Genesee Ginny because she cracked open her first can of beer at nine in the morning and kept up the pace all day, to not worry if she found her passed out somewhere on the floor, just to roll her over so that she's on her side in case she vomits. All of upstate New York was dying, I told Clarissa. I told her what my friends and I called towns up there: Syracuse was Sorry-excuse. Rochester was Rot-and-fester. Albany was All-banal. Oneonta was Oh-I-don't-wanna.
Clarissa was pale and her forehead was creased by the time we rounded the lake, but when we came into Templeton, with its great old mansions and sparkling streets, with its crowds of happy tourists, she brightened. "This," she said, turning to me with wonder in her face, "is like a town in a snow globe. This is a perfect place."
"Well. It's pretty nice," I said.
"No," she said, and her voice was severe. "It's perfect."
That week, Clarissa and my mother got along swimmingly, so much so that Vi often stayed up with us late into the night over cookies and wine, and laughed and laughed, more than I'd ever heard her laugh in my life. It was a prematurely snowy Thanksgiving, and while my mother worked one night, Clarissa and I went to a candlelight festival at the Farmers' Museum, where the snowbanks were carved into cups and held flickering votives, so that the snow was lit from within by golden orbs of light. The upwafting wind smelled of woodsmoke and the fresh snow-smell and wassail cider and even the clean sweat of the Clydesdales who trotted us around from place to place in sleighs. The sounds of their harness bells mixed with the fiddlers in Sherman's Tavern, where there was a dance of sorts going on, and the laughing shrieks of the kids having a snowball fight in the darkening commons.
Clarissa stood with me on the steps of the pharmacist's, looking out at the old-fashioned village in its soft dusk. In the small, close house we had just smelled the mingled smells of a thousand herbs; feverfew and yew and bee balm and willow-bark aspirin; we palpated the phrenological head; we watched the fat black leeches crawl on the glass of their jar. Aristabulus Mudge, moonlighting from his modern pharmacy in town, watched us good-humoredly, cocking his head above his hunchback like a parrot and slipping us free lavender sachets for our sock drawers.
"Here ye are, Willie Temple," he said to me, our little ritual.
"Willie Upton," I said, pretending irritation, as usual.
"Whatever you say," he said, and gave me the same wink as always.
Walking outside,
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