broken nails: filthy nails, black underneath.
A faint scent of ripe fish clung around her, but of course that was from the garbage; the smell made her gag.
She was not in the habit of being filthy. She must look like a tramp. She could work in the garden all day and not get dirty. She prided herself on her neatness, on her clear skin and her well-cut, simple clothes, on the sleek trim of her blond hair. Now when she touched her neat, pale bob it was tangled into a mess.
Her jeans were stained with what looked like rust, and quantities of damp sand clung to them. The long sleeves of her cream silk shirt were smeared with rust, too, and with black mud. She felt so hot and sticky. She never let herself get like this. Never. Even her toenails were black with grime; and her lips were dry and chapped.
Her last memory was of home. Of feeling cleanand well groomed, comfortable. She had been working in the kitchen, canning applesauce in her sunny, pale yellow kitchen, listening to old Dorsey tunes which had been reissued on CDâmusic recorded long before she was born, but music she loved. The cooking apples had smelled so good, laced with sugar and cinnamon. Their bubbling aroma, and the steam from the sterilizer had filled the kitchen like a warm, delicious fog. It was perhaps an old-fashioned thing to do, to put up applesauce. She and Jimmie had bought a bushel of winesaps up in Santa Cruz, coming back from a weekend in the city. She loved San Francisco. They always had a good time, but sheâd been glad to be home again, tending to the simple chore of canning. It made her feel productive and useful, and the domestic endeavor always pleased Jimmie.
She could not remember sealing the lids or setting the jars to cool. She didnât remember anything after standing at the stove stirring the warm, cinnamon-scented apples.
She felt in her pocket for her house key, but found nothing, not even a tissue. She wouldnât have come out without her key even if she left the house unlockedâshe had locked herself out too many times. She could not remember leaving the house. Why would she leave, when she was canning?
Somewhere, at the very back of her mind beyond what she could reachâor was willing to reachâa terrifying shadow waited to make itself known. She could feel the thrust of some chilling, unwanted knowledge. Something so shocking she didnât dareto know. She pushed the presence away, stood frightened and shivering and alone, staring at the dirty brick wall.
Something she dare not remember waited crouched and silent, at the very edge of conscious knowledge.
She studied the building more closely. In a way, it looked familiar. There was a dark brick building like this south of the village, near the old mission, a bit of ugliness left over from Molena Pointâs less affluent days. The space was rented, she thought, for small business offices. And probably there would be cheap apartments above.
She thought it was called the Davidson Building, but she had never been in it, certainly had never been behind it; she had no reason to come to such a place.
She was not in the habit of wandering into this part of the village. There was nothing down here but the mission, where she and Jimmie took their tourist friends, but it could be reached more easily by using Highway One. Besides the mission there was only a scattering of the uglier establishments necessary to a small town but kept apart, welding or the dry cleaning plant, various repair shops, warehouses, truck storage. The bus station was down here, and the train station. She did not frequent those places. Jimmie would be the first to tell her she had no business in that part of town.
I am Kate Osborne. I am the wife of Jimmie Osborne. Jimmie is the Beckwhite Agency manager and its top salesman. My husband is very wellrespected in Molena Point. He is a member of the city council and he has been with Beckwhiteâs for ten years. We have been married
A faint scent of ripe fish clung around her, but of course that was from the garbage; the smell made her gag.
She was not in the habit of being filthy. She must look like a tramp. She could work in the garden all day and not get dirty. She prided herself on her neatness, on her clear skin and her well-cut, simple clothes, on the sleek trim of her blond hair. Now when she touched her neat, pale bob it was tangled into a mess.
Her jeans were stained with what looked like rust, and quantities of damp sand clung to them. The long sleeves of her cream silk shirt were smeared with rust, too, and with black mud. She felt so hot and sticky. She never let herself get like this. Never. Even her toenails were black with grime; and her lips were dry and chapped.
Her last memory was of home. Of feeling cleanand well groomed, comfortable. She had been working in the kitchen, canning applesauce in her sunny, pale yellow kitchen, listening to old Dorsey tunes which had been reissued on CDâmusic recorded long before she was born, but music she loved. The cooking apples had smelled so good, laced with sugar and cinnamon. Their bubbling aroma, and the steam from the sterilizer had filled the kitchen like a warm, delicious fog. It was perhaps an old-fashioned thing to do, to put up applesauce. She and Jimmie had bought a bushel of winesaps up in Santa Cruz, coming back from a weekend in the city. She loved San Francisco. They always had a good time, but sheâd been glad to be home again, tending to the simple chore of canning. It made her feel productive and useful, and the domestic endeavor always pleased Jimmie.
She could not remember sealing the lids or setting the jars to cool. She didnât remember anything after standing at the stove stirring the warm, cinnamon-scented apples.
She felt in her pocket for her house key, but found nothing, not even a tissue. She wouldnât have come out without her key even if she left the house unlockedâshe had locked herself out too many times. She could not remember leaving the house. Why would she leave, when she was canning?
Somewhere, at the very back of her mind beyond what she could reachâor was willing to reachâa terrifying shadow waited to make itself known. She could feel the thrust of some chilling, unwanted knowledge. Something so shocking she didnât dareto know. She pushed the presence away, stood frightened and shivering and alone, staring at the dirty brick wall.
Something she dare not remember waited crouched and silent, at the very edge of conscious knowledge.
She studied the building more closely. In a way, it looked familiar. There was a dark brick building like this south of the village, near the old mission, a bit of ugliness left over from Molena Pointâs less affluent days. The space was rented, she thought, for small business offices. And probably there would be cheap apartments above.
She thought it was called the Davidson Building, but she had never been in it, certainly had never been behind it; she had no reason to come to such a place.
She was not in the habit of wandering into this part of the village. There was nothing down here but the mission, where she and Jimmie took their tourist friends, but it could be reached more easily by using Highway One. Besides the mission there was only a scattering of the uglier establishments necessary to a small town but kept apart, welding or the dry cleaning plant, various repair shops, warehouses, truck storage. The bus station was down here, and the train station. She did not frequent those places. Jimmie would be the first to tell her she had no business in that part of town.
I am Kate Osborne. I am the wife of Jimmie Osborne. Jimmie is the Beckwhite Agency manager and its top salesman. My husband is very wellrespected in Molena Point. He is a member of the city council and he has been with Beckwhiteâs for ten years. We have been married
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