Off Season - Jack Ketchum [10]
“Alive?”
“Alive and beat all to hell. You never saw anything like this, George.”
“You want to bet, son?” he said.
He grinned. “I’ll bet.”
“Okay,” said Peters, moving off the bar stool. “If you win, Shearing here owes you a ten. If I win you lay off that girl Lydia down there the rest of the year.”
“You got it,” he said.
Peters opened the door and nodded to Hank the barman and the three of them filed out. Willis paused a moment in the doorway, the bright glow from the street flooding through the pale-yellow gloom of the bar. He turned and waved. “Hi there, Lydia,” he said.
The Pincus brothers scowled. The girl turned briefly and smiled and returned his wave with her long delicate fingers. “Hi sweet,” she said. By the time Willis was out the door the beer was raised to her lips, Hank was drawing her another, and the two brothers sitting beside her were happy again.
5:17 P.M.
Nothing but waste and self-indulgence, Carla thought. It was not very cold out. But she wanted to keep that fire going in the stove. It made her feel lazy and relaxed and vaguely sexy, and she loved the smell. She had let the fire in the living room die out. The dampness had never quite disappeared from that room, even with the fire. The musty odor lingered. She probably wouldn’t be using it much, once her company left. The kitchen was much nicer. She folded up her Press Herald and put the bowl of fruit back in the refrigerator.
It was almost sundown. If she was going to have a fire all night she’d better get in some wood, she thought. She was enough of a city girl to balk at opening the door to a woodshed after dark. Tired as she was, it was better to do it now. She was also starving. The fruit was no help at all. She’d get in the wood and have a shower and then fix an early dinner. She had chicken and fresh vegetables in the refrigerator. There was pretty good produce in Dead River. She hadn’t had a meal since breakfast and that was fine for her figure but rotten for her disposition. As to the house, enough was enough, it was fine now.
She opened the back door and stepped out onto the porch. A wind had come up. Fallen leaves blew about the yard and swirled over the faded gray floorboards beneath her feet. She opened the woodshed and began loading logs into the crook of her arm. The logs were light and dry. She brought in one load and then went out for another. When this load seemed heavier she realized she was really very tired. That shower was going to feel wonderful. She made a third trip for some kindling; and as she closed the woodshed door, she saw him.
Rather, she saw the shirt. It was bright red, the kind of shirt hunters wear to protect themselves from other hunters. She saw it moving way across the field, and only a moment later did she realize it was a man threading his way along the brook at the base of the hill, not a redbird or a patch of leaves. God, she was exhausted! Had he not been wearing red she’d have missed him, but his own eyes were obviously better. He stopped a moment and turned in her direction. At that distance it was impossible to tell what he looked like, but something about the way he moved told her he was young and strong. He waved at her. Sociable, too, she thought. She smiled and waved back. She doubted he could see the smile.
He stood facing her for a second or two and then continued moving along upstream, crouching low as if he were looking for something. Crayfish? The agent had told her there were a lot of them down there. Or maybe it was frogs. Maybe she had a neighbor who was fond of frog’s legs. There was no accounting for taste, she thought. In any case he was soon out of sight, disappearing behind the trees.
She decided it was a good idea to drag the entire box of kindling inside. That way she’d not have to make so many trips. She propped the back door open with a garbage can and went to work. She wondered where the man lived. According to her recollection of what the agent had said, her nearest neighbor was two miles away off the old dump road. She