Just North of Nowhere Read Online Free PDF

the bulbous and which usually is at the nose’s end. Her bump came from some other place and was in the middle. Some men loose their souls to such a nose. And those nostrils! Well, for the Sons of Norway, that nose of hers gave gravity to every move of her head. They were drawn to it. Others too.
    And she didn't wear make-up! Women don't wear makeup? Well, some people think they're mad at something and the breakfast crowd was wondering what.
    The cop at the counter noticed. He didn’t blink but his attention followed her.
    Cristobel noticed the quiet when she entered. She didn't think too much about it. Strange face, small place , she figured. Besides, her head was occupied in disappointment, anger, pity, magic. A lot of stuff.
    The disappointment was about the bum carburetor, just to get that straight.
    Up at the (Formerly Amoco) Einar had walked a tight circle around the Volvo. His jaw worked like a rat having a quick chew before being chased. A couple minutes of staring, poking, stalking and grumbling and he threw up his hands. “Piece of foreign crap! Fifteen years and falling apart already,” Einar said. “Ain’t been cared of, you know! And who is it done this!?” he pulled back pointing.
    Cristobel looked at the greasy spot Einar’s black finger quivered over. “No idea,” she said. Then, “Oh,” she said, “some person on the road got it started. Last night. A man in the rain by the bridge. He’s the one said I should see you. Is that what he did.”
    “Bunch!” Einar yelled. “Now what’m I supposed to do? I make right Bunch’s mess?”
    Cristobel’s eyes went wide, then they narrowed. “Fix it,” she said. “Make it work and I'll sell it.” Cristobel said. This Einar! He’d made her angry.
    Then she’d almost been sat upon at the café and now she hunched over the steaming essence of tea bag at a table. She looked head-on at the old blind man seated in the booth she had dodged out of. He chewed quietly, listened politely to nothing. He spoke once or twice to no one. Then he got up, shuffled to the door. Left. Did not pay.
    The woman who ran the place, warmed Cristobel's tea pot. “Guess you're wondering. Town pretty much takes care of the old guy,” she said. “Food, room, beer, all that. Don't you want to know why?” Cristobel raised an eyebrow. “Used to kill snakes. All the snakes around here about a hundred years ago.” She smiled. “You wondered that, huh?”
    “Mm.” Cristobel said.
    “That's the story, anyway. I wouldn't know. I was just a kid, then, myself!”
    Cristobel nodded. “I see,” she said.
    The woman laughed.
    Everybody watched as Cristobel paid and left.
    “Hope I'm not looking quite that old!” Esther said to the other diners.
    But they were mostly still looking at Cristobel, still on the porch!
     
    Einar fixed the Saab, grousing all the way. Cristobel paid him then did what she said she would: sold the old car; sold it to Einar, gave him a good deal.
    Einar squinted sidewise and kept his mouth shut. He'd put one over.
    The Saab never ran again.
    Other things happened: In less than a week, Cristobel bought a two story wood frame house on Slaughterhouse Way at tax auction and moved in. A whim, like selling the car. She paid next to nothing for the house, but nobody bid against her.
    Her little house was down the way from the stock pens, and a half-block above Commonwealth. The river was across the street and down in the trees. And the place was a nice place. Every morning Cristobel sat on her stoop, sipped her tea – real tea – and watched old Ken inch past, heading to his booth at the Eats.
    Cristobel took.
    She got boxes by mail and freight, things came delivered by trucks from the east, west, from all over the damn place.
    Her short hair grew longer. It came in dark and wiggly, full of body; it spread down her neck and over her shoulders, spread like a thick soft cape, the Lightning Kiss stark against it. People looked, then looked twice. Something