Big Fish Read Online Free PDF

named Willie. He had been sitting on a bench and stood when Edward walked up, as if he’d been waiting for him. The edges of his lips were dried and cracked. His hair was gray and bristly and his eyes were small and black. He’d lost three of his fingers (two on one hand, one on the other), and he was old. He was so old that he seemed to have gone as far forward in time as a human possibly could, and, as he was still alive, had started the trip backward. He was shrinking. He was becoming small like a baby. He moved slowly, as though he were walking knee-deep through water, and he looked at my father with a grim smile.
    â€œWelcome to our town,” he said to him, in a friendly if somewhat tired way. “Mind if I show you around?”
    â€œI can’t stay,” my father said. “I’m just passing through.”
    â€œThat’s what they all say,” Willie said as he took my father by the arm, and together they began to walk.
    â€œAnyway,” he continued, “what’s your hurry? You should at least have a look at all we have to offer. Here we have a store, a nice little store, and here—over here,” he said, “we have a place to go if you want to shoot the pool. Billiards, you know. You might like that.”
    â€œThank you,” Edward said, because he did not want to anger this Willie, or any of the others who were watching them. Already they had attracted a small crowd of three or four people who were following them through the otherwise empty streets, keeping their distance but leering in a wanting kind of way. “Thank you very much.”
    Willie’s grip grew stronger still as he showed him the pharmacy, and the Christian Bookstore, and then, winking slyly, the house where the whore lived.
    â€œShe’s sweet, too,” Willie said. And then, as if remembering something he hadn’t meant to, said, “Sometimes.”
    The sky was darker now, and a light rain began to fall. Willie looked up and let the water fall into his eyes. My father wiped his face and grimaced.
    â€œWe have our share of rain,” Willie said, “but you get used to it.”
    â€œEverything here seems sort of . . . damp,” my father said.
    Willie cut him a glance.
    â€œYou get used to it,” he said. “That’s what this place is all about, Edward. Getting used to things.”
    â€œIt’s not what I want,” he said.
    â€œThat, too,” he said. “You get used to that, too.”
    They walked on in silence through the fog that gathered around their feet, through the rain that fell softly on their heads and shoulders, through the dusklike morning of this strange town. People gathered on the corners to watch them pass, some of them joining the contingent that followed. Edward caught the gaze of a gaunt man in a ragged black suit, and recognized him. It was Norther Winslow, the poet. He had left Ashland just a few years ago to go to Paris, to write. He stood looking at Edward and almost smiled, but then Edward caught sight of his right hand, which was missing two of its fingers, and Norther’s face turned pallid, and clutching his hand to his chest he disappeared around a corner. People had put a lot of hope in Norther.
    â€œSure,” Willie said, seeing what had just happened. “People like you come through here all the time.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” my father said.
    â€œNormal people,” Willie said, which seemed to leave a bad taste. He spit. “Normal people and their plans. This rain, this dampness—it’s a kind of residue. The residue of a dream. Of a lot of dreams, actually. Mine and his and yours.”
    â€œNot mine,” Edward said.
    â€œNo,” Willie said. “Not yet.”
    And it was then they saw the dog. It moved as an indefinite black shape through the fog until its figure emerged before them. There were spots of white on its chest and brown around its toes, but the