Sea Glass_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [14]
He comes to a slight hill and a fork, the road pulling away from the beach. He takes the left fork down to a wharf and a tiny village with a sprinkling of houses and shacks, a fish house near the end of the road. There’s a stiff breeze from the east, blowing a flag straight out. Across the street, against a storefront, an old man is sitting in a rocking chair. There are signs in the window: Nehi and Za-Rex and Old Golds.
Sexton’s coat, when he gets out of the car, billows out behind him. He crosses the street, holding his coat closed and his hat to his head. When he reaches the steps of the porch, the wind stops abruptly, as if someone had shut a door. He lights a Lucky Strike and crumples the empty pack.
“Hello,” he says to the man.
The old geezer is dressed in summer garb, a light suit, his legs spread wide, the trousers riding high over his ample belly. He has on a bow tie and a straw boater, and a medal is pinned to his lapel. Sexton can see the loop of the chain of his pocket watch but not the watch itself. Without the wind, Sexton realizes, it’s pleasantly warm on the porch. He tosses the empty cigarette pack over the railing.
“‘Lo,” the old man says. The one syllable without inflection. Welcoming or not, it is hard to say.
“Not a bad day,” Sexton says.
“Not ‘tall.” The old man’s hands, one holding a cane, the other a handkerchief, are dense with liver spots and moles. Sexton takes a deep pull on his cigarette. “East wind today,” the old man says.
“Nice on the porch, though,” Sexton says.
“That your car?”
“It’s a Buick.”
“A twenty-seven?”
“A twenty-six.”
“How many miles on it?”
“About four thousand.”
“Hope you got yourself a bargain.” The New Hampshire accent, a deadpan lilt, is thick on the man’s tongue.
“I think I did,” Sexton says.
“What are you doing in these parts?”
“My wife and I have been asked to look after a house,” Sexton says, the words my wife giving him a pleasant jolt.
“What house would that be?”
“It’s at the end of the beach. Three stories high. White with black shutters. In pretty bad shape.”
“That would be the old convent.”
“Convent?” Sexton asks.
“Thirty-five, forty years ago now,” the old man says. “The house used to be a convent. That salt air, it’ll age a house before its time.”
“The house is empty. We didn’t expect that.”
“Don’t know why not. Been empty four years now.”
“Guess I got some bad information,” Sexton says.
“Guess you did.” The old man starts to rise.
“Don’t get up,” Sexton says. “I’ll just go inside and look around. Is the owner in there?”
“You’re looking at him.”
Sexton watches the tortuous unfolding of the old man’s limbs.
“Name’s Hess. Jack Hess.”
“Sexton Beecher.” The man’s hand in his own is all bones — fragile bones, like those of a bird.
“Don’t have much in the way of furniture,” the old man says. “But if it’s hardware you’re looking for, I reckon I can help you some. We got staples and whatnot too.”
Sexton holds the screen door while Jack Hess pulls himself into the store with a hand hooked around the doorjamb. His walk is stooped, and just looking at him makes Sexton want to arch his back.
It takes a moment for Sexton’s eyes to adjust to the gloom after the bright light coming off the water. The store is a marvel of bins and boxes and tin trays and hooks holding all manner of hardware and food. Lightbulbs, brooms, doorknobs, boat winches, birdcages, enameled pots, fans, axes, knives, brushes of all kinds, paints and varnishes and oils, spools of string, cheese graters, meat grinders, jelly glasses, toilet plungers, ice skates (ice skates!), and even a wire chair held upside down on a hook. Despite the clutter, the store appears to be spotless, the wood floor varnished to a high sheen, the mahogany counter with its jars of screws and hinges and buttons seemingly clean enough to lick. Behind the register are tins of food. Raisins and flour and cereal. Coffee beans beside a grinder.
“Guess I’m set,” Sexton says.
“Don’t have it in here you probably don’t need it.”
“No, I probably don’t.”
“I got the one chair