Read Online The Moonlight by Nicholas Guild - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nicholas Guild
Ads: Link
pointed shoes—but after a while he had to put the card in a drawer. He couldn’t bear to look at it.
He went to the refrigerator and got himself a beer, only to discover that his throat was so constricted he could hardly drink it.
At one point he felt an almost irresistible urge to weep. Yet he didn’t dare. If he broke down he was finished.
Why was he being persecuted like this? Some extremely clever maniac must be trying to drive him crazy. Except he didn’t believe that. He didn’t believe there was any maniac.
Phil took the postcard out again and put it in his pocket. He would see about this.
The post office is in a little corner of Brookville, where Dancer Street branches off from the Old River Road. There is an immense parking lot and, at the very back, the Grand Union. On one side you can look over a six-foot-high wooden fence and see the back of the Lobster Pot, and on the other side is the post office. Phil had never been inside, but he passed it every time he went to get groceries.
The walk into town had calmed him down and cleared his mind. As long as he kept his legs moving he could almost believe that the whole thing was just some sort of elaborate practical joke. In the bright sunshine it was impossible to believe in the boogie man.
It was a few minutes after noon, but the post office was not crowded. There was only one person ahead of him at the window and that was a lady who wanted to send a large package to the Netherlands and was debating with the clerk whether she should have it insured. She finally settled for “return receipt requested,” collected her slip and went away looking as if she thought somehow she had been cheated. Phil went up to the window and slid the postcard across the counter toward the clerk.
“Would you know anything about this?” he asked.
The clerk, who was a rather dapper looking black man of about thirty who wore a gold plug in his right earlobe, picked up the card and examined both sides, first the front and then the back and then the front again.
“Pretty girl,” he said finally, as if the matter required a lot of thought. And then he turned the card over and looked at the back again. “You find this in the attic or something? You a collector?”
“No. I’m not a collector.”
“Well, I am.” The man smiled, rather proudly. “Sort of a busman’s holiday, you know? I like the stamp. They ain’t made those since before World War II. Looks brand new. And it ain’t canceled, either.”
“So it didn’t come through here?”
“No. This was never mailed. Tell you what—I’ll give you ten bucks for the stamp.”
Phil didn’t answer. He just scooped up the postcard and walked out.
“Hey, I’ll make it twenty,” the clerk shouted after him.
Outside, in the parking lot, Phil had to keep walking to fight down his rising terror. He felt nauseated, as if he were about to throw up.
If it was a practical joke, it was a hell of an expensive one—the stamp was probably worth fifty dollars if it was worth a dime. Why go to that kind of trouble and expense over a detail your intended victim might not even notice?
Like the calendar up on the third floor. June, 1941. He couldn’t fight off the idea that for whoever was doing all this it really was still June, 1941.
There was a service station around the corner on Old River Road, and Phil stopped there and bought himself a diet 7-up out of the machine, just to rinse the taste of fear out of his mouth. Directly across the street was the hardware store, and over that Beth’s apartment.
In two and a half hours she would go to work, and two and a half hours is all the time in the world. She might even be home. Her roommate might be gone, or still at work, or dead in a ditch somewhere. He couldn’t think of anything in life that would make him feel better than to crawl into bed with Beth and just have her hold him in her arms.
But
He went to the refrigerator and got himself a beer, only to discover that his throat was so constricted he could hardly drink it.
At one point he felt an almost irresistible urge to weep. Yet he didn’t dare. If he broke down he was finished.
Why was he being persecuted like this? Some extremely clever maniac must be trying to drive him crazy. Except he didn’t believe that. He didn’t believe there was any maniac.
Phil took the postcard out again and put it in his pocket. He would see about this.
The post office is in a little corner of Brookville, where Dancer Street branches off from the Old River Road. There is an immense parking lot and, at the very back, the Grand Union. On one side you can look over a six-foot-high wooden fence and see the back of the Lobster Pot, and on the other side is the post office. Phil had never been inside, but he passed it every time he went to get groceries.
The walk into town had calmed him down and cleared his mind. As long as he kept his legs moving he could almost believe that the whole thing was just some sort of elaborate practical joke. In the bright sunshine it was impossible to believe in the boogie man.
It was a few minutes after noon, but the post office was not crowded. There was only one person ahead of him at the window and that was a lady who wanted to send a large package to the Netherlands and was debating with the clerk whether she should have it insured. She finally settled for “return receipt requested,” collected her slip and went away looking as if she thought somehow she had been cheated. Phil went up to the window and slid the postcard across the counter toward the clerk.
“Would you know anything about this?” he asked.
The clerk, who was a rather dapper looking black man of about thirty who wore a gold plug in his right earlobe, picked up the card and examined both sides, first the front and then the back and then the front again.
“Pretty girl,” he said finally, as if the matter required a lot of thought. And then he turned the card over and looked at the back again. “You find this in the attic or something? You a collector?”
“No. I’m not a collector.”
“Well, I am.” The man smiled, rather proudly. “Sort of a busman’s holiday, you know? I like the stamp. They ain’t made those since before World War II. Looks brand new. And it ain’t canceled, either.”
“So it didn’t come through here?”
“No. This was never mailed. Tell you what—I’ll give you ten bucks for the stamp.”
Phil didn’t answer. He just scooped up the postcard and walked out.
“Hey, I’ll make it twenty,” the clerk shouted after him.
Outside, in the parking lot, Phil had to keep walking to fight down his rising terror. He felt nauseated, as if he were about to throw up.
If it was a practical joke, it was a hell of an expensive one—the stamp was probably worth fifty dollars if it was worth a dime. Why go to that kind of trouble and expense over a detail your intended victim might not even notice?
Like the calendar up on the third floor. June, 1941. He couldn’t fight off the idea that for whoever was doing all this it really was still June, 1941.
There was a service station around the corner on Old River Road, and Phil stopped there and bought himself a diet 7-up out of the machine, just to rinse the taste of fear out of his mouth. Directly across the street was the hardware store, and over that Beth’s apartment.
In two and a half hours she would go to work, and two and a half hours is all the time in the world. She might even be home. Her roommate might be gone, or still at work, or dead in a ditch somewhere. He couldn’t think of anything in life that would make him feel better than to crawl into bed with Beth and just have her hold him in her arms.
But
Similar Books
