The day was white with overcast and the promise of snow lurked
in its throat. The dunes seemed to foreshadow the winter already,
as Gerald crossed them between the slate-roofed house of her
dominion and the low stone cottage of his. The sea, sullen and
gray, curled on the shingle of beach. Gulls rode the slow swells
like buoys.
He Crossed the top of the last dune and knew she it-as there-her
cane, with its white bicycle handgrip at the base, stood against the
side of the door. Smoke rifted from the toy chimney.
Gerald went up the board steps, kicked sand from his high-topped
shoes to make her aware of his presence, and then went in.
'Hi, Mrs. Leighton!'
But the tiny living room and the kitchen both stood empty. The
ship's clock on the mantle ticked only for itself and for Gerald. Her
gigantic fur coat lay draped over the rocker like Some animal sail.
A small fire had been laid in the fireplace, and it glowed and
crackled busily. The teapot was on the gas range in the kitchen,
and one teacup stood on the counter, still waiting for water. He
peered into the narrow hall which led to the bedroom.
'Mrs. Leighton?'
Hall and bedroom both empty.
He was about to turn back to the kitchen when the mammoth
chuckles began. They were large, helpless shakings of laughter, the
kind that stays hidden for years and ages like wine. (There is also
an Edgar A. Poe story about wine.)
The chuckles evolved into large bellows of laughter. They came
from behind the door to the right of Gerald's bed, the last door in
the cottage. From the tool-shed.
* * *
my balls are crawling like in grammar school the old bitch shes
laughing she found it the old fat shebitch goddam her goddam her
goddam her you old whore youre doing that cause im out here you
old she bitch whore you piece of shit
* * *
He went to the door in one step and pulled it open. She was sitting
next to the small space-heater in the sh ed, her dress pulled up over
oak-stump knees to allow her to sit cross-legged, and his
manuscript was held, dwarfed, in her bloated hands.
Her laughter roared and racketed around him. Gerald Nately saw
bursting colors in front of his eyes. She it-as a slug, a maggot, a
gigantic crawling thing evolved in the cellar of the shadowy house
by the sea. a dark bug that had swaddled itself in grotesque human
form.
In the flat light from the one cobwebbed window her face became
a hanging graveyard moon, pocked by the Sterile craters of her
eyes and the Tagged earthquake rift of her mouth.
'Don't you laugh,' Gerald said stiffly.
'Oh Gerald,' she said, laughing all the same. 'This is such a bad
story. I don't blame you for using a penname. it's-' she wiped tears
of laughter from her eyes'it's abominable!'
