Impossible Places Read Online Free PDF Page A

to see the same kind of stuff in a restaurant. There were a couple racks of postcards, film, instant cameras, bare-necessity fishing supplies at outrageous prices, Minnetonka moccasins, rubber tomahawks for the kids, risk-kay joke gifts built around gags older than my Uncle Phil, Indian turquoise jewelry made in the Philippines. That sort of thing.
    Plus the usual assortment of local handicrafts: rocks painted to look like owls, cheap ashtrays that screamed MONO LAKE or LEE VINING, GATEWAY TO YOSEMITE. T-shirts that said the same (no mediums left, plenty of extra large).
    There was also a small selection of better-quality stuff. Some nice watercolors of the lake and its famous tufa formations, one or two little hand-chased bronzes you wouldn’t be ashamed to set out on your coffee table, locally strung necklaces of turquoise and silver, and some wood carvings of Sierra animals. Small, but nicely turned. Looked like ironwood to me. Birds and fish mostly, but also one handsome little bobcat I considered picking up for Elaine. She’d crucify me if I did, though. Two kids in college, a third considering. And tomorrow Slewfoot would be thirsty again.
    The tarnished gold bell over the gift shop entrance tinkled as somebody entered. The owner broke away from his kitchen and walked over to chat. He was a young fellow with a short beard, and he looked tired.
    The woman who’d come in had a small box under one arm that she set gently on the counter. She opened it and started taking out some more of those wood carvings. I reckoned she was the artist. She was dressed for the weather, and I figured she must be a local.
    She left the scarf on her head when she slipped out of her heavy high-collared jacket. I tried to look a little closer. All those white crosses kept my eyes bopping, but I wasn’t as sure about my brain. She was older than I was in any case, even if I’d been so inclined. Sure I looked. It was pitch black out now and starting to snow lightly. Elaine wouldn’t have minded—much. Contented or not, a man’s got to look once in while. It’s just a—what’d they call it?—a biological imperative.
    I guessed her to be in her mid fifties. She could’ve been older, but if anything she looked younger. I tried to get a good look at her eyes. The eyes always tell you the truth. Whatever her age, she was still a damn attractive woman. Besides the scarf and coat she wore jeans and a flannel shirt. That’s like uniform in this kind of country. She wore ’em loose, but you could still see some spectacular countryside. Brown hair, though I thought it might be lighter at the roots. Not gray, either. Not yet.
    I squeezed my eyes shut until they started to hurt and slugged down another swallow of coffee. A man must be beginnin’ to lose it when he starts thinking that way about grandmotherly types.
    Except that this woman wasn’t near being what any man in his right mind would call grandmotherly, her actual age notwithstanding. Oh, she didn’t do nothin’ to enhance it, maybe even tried hiding it under all those clothes. But she couldn’t quite do it. Even now I thought she was pretty enough to be on TV. Like Barbara Stanwyck, but younger and even prettier. Maybe it was all those white crosses makin’ gumbo of my thoughts, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
    The only light outside now came from gas stations and storefronts. Not many of the latter stayed open after dark. A few tourists sped through town, fighting the urge to floor their accelerators. I could imagine ’em cursing small towns like this one that put speed limits in their way just to keep ’em from the crap tables at Reno a little longer.
    I considered the snow. Drifting down easy at the moment, but that could change fast. No way did I need that tonight. I finished the last of my steak and paid up, leaving the usual good tip, and started out to warm up Slewfoot.
    The woman was leaving at the same time, and we sort of ended up at the door together,