Read Online The Winslow Incident by Elizabeth Voss - Free Book Online Page B

milk, eggs and ice cream into her
basket. Her grandmother loved dairy, which maybe explained how she’d managed to
get so old without ever breaking a hip.
    After Hazel made her way to the
front of the store, she spotted Aaron Adair and his buddy Tim Hotchkiss. Both
stood staring into the big freezer next to the cash register, paralyzed, it
seemed, by the enormity of the decision at hand. Sundae cup or ice cream
sandwich? Drumstick or Rocket Pop? The wrong choice certain to lead to a
torment of unfulfilled desire. She noticed that Aaron was also holding a
half-eaten glazed donut, which she suspected he’d procured from Sean at the
bakery.
    “Gonna give yourself a bellyache,”
Hazel said, walking up to the boy.
    Aaron glanced at the donut in his
hand as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. Then he announced to no one in
particular: “I’m going home.”
    Timmy tore his eyes away from the
freezer treats. “Why?”
    Alarmed, Hazel took a step closer
to Aaron. “Is something wrong?”
    “I don’t feel so good.” He dropped
the donut to the floor. “I see floaty things.”
    “Okay—hold on a sec.” Hazel
reached for his hand. “I’m going to The Winslow too.”
    But Aaron was already rushing for
the store entrance with Timmy calling after him, “Are we still goin’ fishing
later?”
    Anxious to follow Aaron so that
she could make sure he made it home all right, Hazel hurried her purchases up
to Tiny Clemshaw at the cash register.
    Tiny Clemshaw was a rangy,
middle-aged man with a cotton ball of a face: no distinct features, everything just
melded together in confusing white fuzz. “That it?” he asked.
    No “Good morning,” no “How are you
today, Hazel Winslow,” just “That it?” And she noticed he looked extra pasty
today. But his was the only store in town so there was no avoiding him. “That’s
it,” she said and dug into her pocket for yesterday’s tip money and pulled out
a handful of crumpled singles.
    “Thirteen sixty then,” Tiny said,
tossing her items into a paper sack with uncharacteristic carelessness. Eggs on
bottom, milk on top.
    She noticed then that skinny streams
of sweat were running down from his forehead, tracing the blue veins in his
temples. “Are you all right, Tiny?”
    “Thirteen sixty,” he repeated and
a fat drop of sweat plipped into her grocery sack.
    As she opened her mouth to protest,
Tiny said, “And ask your father to come round next time you see him. Somebody’s
been busting into my cooler and stealing my beer.”
    Oops, Hazel thought. Maybe she’d just forget to mention that to
her dad.
    As it turned out, she never did
get a chance to not mention it.

The Ghosts of Winslow
    T he trouble Aaron was having keeping the
handlebars of his bike straight was only one of his problems. His stomach was
churning and he was determined to make it home before he threw up. When they
were in the first grade, Timmy barfed in Prospect Park after too many spins on
the merry-go-round, and the other kids had never let him live it down: “Look
out—he’s gonna blow!” Aaron didn’t want to be teased like that too.
    Peddling like mad up Fortune Way,
he spotted his Uncle Jim heading into the Buckhorn Tavern. Uncle Jim always
used to let Aaron ride on his shoulders, making the boy feel tall too, and Aaron
was just about to call out to his uncle when he caught himself . . . because
Uncle Jim didn’t belong here anymore.
    Just keep quiet. Aaron broke out in a sweat. Just get home.
    He pedaled faster, panting and sweating
like crazy, trying not to crash his bike; he could barely see straight, let
alone steer. Suddenly Uncle Jim appeared in the middle of the road, gesturing at
Aaron to slow down. Instead, Aaron sped up, swerving at the last moment to
dodge his uncle’s spectral grasp.
    Speeding recklessly, he carved the
street corner and raced up Civic Street. Up ahead, the gurgling lady with the
blood gushing out of her neck was slowly making her way up the walkway to