smelled something like a cross between cinnamon and cayenne pepper.
“No,” Jim shook his head. “Not really.” He picked up the books and nodded to both of them.
Linda looked up from the computer, her eyes ventured over his face a moment, and for a split second he thought he saw some longing there—not the kind of longing that belonged on a married woman’s face. “You come on back sometime.”
“Yeah, we got more stuff.” Bram moved behind his wife and set a sandpapery hand on her shoulder.
“I might.” Jim said, not sure what he was saying until he said it.
Linda looked at him and smiled slyly, as if they shared a secret, and then gave a wink as she looked back down at the computer. For some reason he noticed those large, looping eyelashes that again, looked like something out of a magazine.
Jim hardly remembered walking up the driveway.
III
THE NEXT couple of weeks flew by surprisingly fast. The days moved as fast as Jim was flipping pages at the end of the Lovecraft collection, grazing over a couple of ads for other titles published by the same publishing house. Some of them he had read, some he hadn’t and thought that they seemed interesting at least.
The days had faded by plenty fast, but he was still trying to fight that one image of Linda in his head, smiling at him, winking.
He had gone home and sat there for hours staring at nothing with the image stamped on his mind, and try as he might it didn’t go away.
He knew that it wasn’t right, not in the least—and he tried as hard as he could to be rid of it, but it ate away at him like a rat gnawing on the wires, those little teeth chomping away until one day they hit the wrong spot—or the right spot, depending on how you look at it—and then it was all over. It would be the same with him if he didn’t get it under control; he knew that, it wasn’t going to end well.
He glanced at the Bible that sat on his desk, the one that he read every morning, and couldn’t believe that he was struggling so hard with something so obvious. He had never been tempted like that before in his entire life. All of the women he had been around, all of them that he had seen, not a one had grabbed his attention like Linda Cain. Maybe it was her perfection, maybe that was it, something about the way her face was set as she looked at his face longingly…
He just wanted to forget it, the sooner that he was able to get victory over it the better. He had gone to church and prayed about it plenty, but it was still a nagging fact at the back of his mind that every now and then whispered to make sure he remembered that it was there.
Jim had thought about going back to the sale for weeks. The day after he had thought about going back, but he knew that would be a bad idea—it was better to avoid the whole situation until he had himself under control.
He set the book down on the table next to him, his big easy chair propped right by his bookcase in his office, the shelves lined with dozens of shining titles, most of which he had read, but a few here and there that were on his “to read” list. He looked down at the book, and wondered why he had the urge to go and buy more books. He had more than enough as it was--the last thing he needed to do was go and get more, but he felt that itch in the back of his mind for a new book.
He really had to focus more on his writing; his agent would be breathing down his neck if he didn’t get a rough draft to him in the next couple of months.
Jim gave a casual glance at the computer and smiled. How long would he sit at the keyboard with the cursor blinking on and off like a demented, electronic metronome and nothing would come out…not even a short story?
All he did was read and think—and try not to think about Linda Cain—for hours. It was about all that he could do. He looked down at his rug and figured that it needed a vacuuming, but he didn’t really feel like doing it. He felt like buying a book.
He knew where he was going to buy it.
His shoes were right by the door, he was already dressed in some jeans and a T-shirt; ready to go on down the road to get another book. He just wasn’t sure that he should. He wanted to, but was it in his best interest?
Jim looked down at the paperback on the table again. Looked at the computer that hadn’t been turned on the whole day, and leaned back into his chair one last time.
Why not, just a book. Nothing else.
He climbed out of the chair, the wooden frame of it creaked in protest as he removed his weight from it and moved across the room, snatching his keys, wallet and knife off of the desk and started to slip them into the different pockets.
Just a book.
He walked slowly out into the very undecorated hallway and began to work his way toward the front door, glancing into each room as he went. He had developed habit of checking rooms as he left, making sure that he hadn’t left any unnecessary lights on since he had seen the obscene power bill that they had sent him the month before.
He crouched for just a moment over his Nikes before they were fastened to his feet and he was standing, unlocking the door, hesitation for just a moment, part of him pulling back, the other part pulling onward. He had to go back and face it down, he just wanted a book, and a temptation was not going to get the best of him.
He slipped out the door, pulling it closed with a scraping whisper. The sun outside was bright, just like before, but the line of clouds could be seen sneaking across the horizon, tiptoeing over rooftops toward the bright light that was bearing down on the street Jim was aiming for. The sun was reflecting brightly on the smooth lines surrounded by sloping, deep road.
He glanced at the shoulder on the other side of the road and saw a couple of kids goofing around in the ditch. One of them, drenched thoroughly with mud, held a stick, as if it were a sword of some kind. The other one held a trashcan lid, obviously a shield, and the little girl was behind both of them, watching. She couldn’t have been more than four, and looked somewhat bored with what was going on.
Those kids had to live pretty close, how close he didn’t know, but he imagined it couldn’t be but only a few houses down. He had to have seen them before. The little girl looked familiar, and her brother—sans mud—looked like one Jim had seen before. He couldn’t quite place their faces, though.
As soon as the kid’s voices faded into the background, the rest of the walk was extremely silent, as if someone had shushed the entire world around him.
It was strange. Eerie.
He looked around the houses on the sides and saw nobody there. It was like everyone had suddenly decided to take an extended vacation to some undisclosed location. The only activity on the street was directly ahead of him, a group of cars parked on the side of the street, right where a towering white fence stood, and a sign out front that called them forward to wade through all of the junk that had been collected for your buying pleasure.
When he got there, he saw a woman with a box under her arm, she was decked out denim, her hair was pulled back, and her eyes were glued to the ground. She moved around him carefully, as if she were afraid he was contagious, looking somewhat ashamed—like she had just walked out of a drug deal.
He continued up to the fence, and saw a lot more customers than he expected. There had to be at least twenty people digging through the stuff, going from bin to bin, glancing, sometimes picking up and object, scanning over it, and either setting it down carefully or throwing it back in like it bit them.
There were a fair amount of diverse people there, he didn’t know where they had all come from. It looked like a bit of everyone had come out to find something. Come one, come all, they sell anything—yes, anything—that you might desire, come on down.
Jim found himself nearly lost as he stared at the customers surveying the junk. They seemed so caught, so hypnotized, by the stuff that he was nearly drawn into it himself—that bitter desire to start searching the stuff for something—anything—that he could take home.
Just a book, I’m only here for a book.
Still that pull was there, he wasn
’t sure where it came from, but he knew that it was holding onto him like wet shirt. He looked over at the books, and felt a pull, like a strong vacuum, sucking—a pulsing throb.
Jim pulled his gaze away from the box, and the corners of his vision started to feel fuzzy, like he was about to pass out, and he closed them for just a second, trying to pull himself back together.
What in the world is the matter with me? He wondered. I’ve haven’t ever felt this way.
When he opened his eyes he saw Linda Cain standing with a customer, the sleeves around her waist tied a long sleeved shirt to her like a belt and she was wearing a white T-shirt that looked to be a size too small for her.
Was that on purpose? He suspected it was, and a sick feeling washed over him again. Was this a trap of some kind?
Her fresh stained-wood hair was waterfalling over her shoulders, the sides tucked back by small hairpins. On her wrist was a peculiar pink neon bracelet. She was smiling at the customer, a man in his mid-twenties or so. Her blinks were a little slower, and she bumped him with her shoulder flirtatiously. She was flat-out flirting with the man.
For a moment heat rose in Jim’s ears, and he scanned her face.
That longing was there. It was very present. The kind of longing that didn’t belong on a married woman’s face, the kind that got attention, the kind that was addicting—the kind he had been fighting against.