Page 293 - What They Did to the Kid

What They Did to the Kid 281

on the plastic sounded like a martyr’s flesh tearing. She loved plastic.
On the lampshades. On the footstool. “If I didn’t rent out a room, I
could uncover this furniture, but I wouldn’t.”
“Save me from studying Victorian lit,” I said. “You want to watch
the late show tonight?”
“What’s on?” she asked. “Not another one of those gladiator
movies.”
“Never on Sunday,” I said.
“Already on the late show? I should have gotten more beer. Never
on Sunday is not very old.” She was feeling fully Queenie enthroned
on the couch, a mystery woman, a woman of mystery, revealing
everything, revealing nothing, an object lesson in something. Her
feet rested up on the coffee table. “Sit down,” she said. She made
busy, buttoning her housecoat to her throat, but over her breast the
cloth hung loose and apart, a dark tunnel lit by the alternating light
and shadow from the TV screen. One pendulous sag was visible and
moving, blanched white by Channel Five. She reached for her beer
and the movement of her arm lifted, then closed, the view. We sat
watching the news. Never on Sunday never showed up.
“Maybe the soundtrack was going to be on the radio,” I said.
“I thought it was too new for TV.” She tilted the beer can all
the way back. “Guess I won’t stay up. Too good a night for sleeping
anyway.”
“Every night’s a good night for sleeping.”
“Even that gets hard on the back,” she said.
“I never have any trouble,” I lied.
“Six-thirty comes early,” she said. She shuffled towards her
room, then turned. “So you got a regular job like a regular guy,” she
grinned.
“I’m a worker.”
“Well, well.”

April 28, 1964

The brewery sprawled huge across three industrial blocks. It was red
brick, like Misery, but taller, and workers were free to come and go.
At the entrance gate to the yard, the amber smell of cooking grains

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS BOOK