Peckerwood Read Online Free PDF

instantly with the first touch of sun and the ringing in his ears could’ve been bullfrogs, beer or blitzkrieg.
    When he turned over she was sleeping, curled around her own knees, backside to him. Terry sat up careful not to wake her or further stir the hornets newly nested in his head. He found his pants bunched around his ankles and pulled them up past his knees and over the great general stickiness further north.
    Careful as he was, the scrape of the belt buckle on the floor of the truck woke the girl who turned over and looked into his face, not horrified, or angry, but - and it could have been the effects of sleep, alcohol or embarrassment - red faced.
    “Breakfast,” she said.
    “Thinking so.”
    He reached down to help her up and they climbed into the cab and rolled the windows down. The radio low and the breeze created by motion considerably soothed the ruckus inside Terry’s skull.
    At a station break, Terry flipped the radio off. “Why haven’t I seen you around before?”
    “I don’t really live here anymore. Been away at school three years now and I don’t come back for breaks except this one.”
    “I don’t blame you. Why come back for this one?”
    She shrugged. “Seemed about time. I’m graduating soon and then moving away. Kinda wanted to see this place one more time.”
    “You grew up here?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Me too.” Terry pulled in to the Come Back Again diner and the girl snorted. “What?” said Terry, “Thought you wanted breakfast.”
    “I do. Just haven’t seen this place in a long time. My dad used to bring me here when I was a kid. Etta Sanderson still run the show?”
    “Think so.”
    She opened the door and hopped out. “Well let’s go say ‘hey.’”
    The diner wasn’t quite bustling, but it would be soon. He grabbed a booth while she went to the bathroom. Terry fished a cigarette out of his pocket and lit up. His lips were dry and his tongue felt like sandpaper when he tried to wet them, but he got the nail secured and lit. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the nicotine shiver that slid slowly from his brain. When it reached his fingertips, he opened them and found the menu. He sensed the waitress approach and turned over his coffee cup.
    She filled it and turned over the other cup without asking. Then she said, “You know what you want?”
    “Always changing.”
    “I’ll give you just a minute.” She started to walk away, but turned back and, like an afterthought, asked, “Was that Eileen Mondale came in with you?”
    Terry looked up at her. “Huh?”
    The waitress, a weathered old gal with a reservoir of sex she kept full, smiled, but looked concerned. “The girl you came in with. Looked like one of the Mondale girls, but I haven’t seen her for years.” A tingle completely separate from the cigarette began to stir in him. “Is that her? Is that the sheriff’s daughter?”
    Terry smiled when he saw the girl emerge from the bathroom, face splashed and scrubbed. He studied her closely and thought there was something familiar around her eyes. It was a cold thing he’d seen before. In her father. His mouth parted into a grin so wide it threatened to split his poor lips. “I surely do hope so.”
     
    CHOWDER
     
    Chowder pulled into the gravel lot of the Come Back Again diner and shut his door quietly. It was closing in on eight in the morning and the place was bustling. Etta Sanderson pointed him toward an empty booth not yet bussed.
    “Yes, ma’am.” Chowder muttered, but he liked the old broad. A few heads turned as he ambled down the narrow walk way and he got a couple quick nods that turned away again as soon as he met their gaze before turning to fall gingerly into the booth then twisting and bringing his legs underneath the table.
    A few seconds later, Etta was clearing the mess from the previous diners and pouring coffee at the same time. “Want me to leave the paper, Chowder?”
    “Hell no.”
    “Know what you want?”
    “Just some