She's Not There Read Online Free PDF

The song was “She’s Not There.”
    But it’s too late to say you’re sorry / How would I know, why should I
care? . . .
    It was odd that Mrs. Watson—or any of these women—would be listening to the Zombies, as they were all classical music fans.
    â€œWhy is Hilda listening to WFIL?” I asked, curious.
    â€œSssh,” said Gammie. “She thinks it’s classical.”
    The disc jockey, Jerry Blavat—“the Geator with the Heater”— broke in. Surf City was being evacuated. Everyone was encouraged to get in their cars and head for higher ground. The hurricane would arrive by nightfall.
    â€œWe have to leave here,” Aunt Nora said.
    â€œWhat?” said Gammie.
    â€œThey’re evacuating the island,” my aunt repeated.
    â€œOh, are you going to fall for that?” said Gammie. “Nora, you are like a scared
chicken
!”
    â€œThey say we’re in danger,” Aunt Nora said.
    â€œOh, shut
up,
Nora,” said Gammie. Outside, the wind howled against the windowpanes.
    â€œWhoop? Whoop? Whoop?” said Mrs. Watson, and adjusted her hearing aids, which suddenly blasted with feedback. She looked as though she’d just received an electric shock.
    My grandmother shouted to her deaf friend. “Nora says we should LEAVE. Like SCARED CHICKENS.”
    â€œWe aren’t leaving?” Aunt Nora said, disappointed.
    â€œCluck cluck cluck,” said Gammie.
    I just stood there, looking at my grandmother. I liked her enormous gaudy earrings and wondered how old I’d have to be before my parents would allow me to get my ears pierced. Then I remembered. I wasn’t going to be thinking that way anymore.
    â€œWhat’s with you?” said Gammie.
    â€œNothing,” I said, and went to my room.
    I had brought with me to the seashore a magic kit I had been given for my birthday. I sat cross-legged on the wooden floor and messed with it. There were all sorts of tricks to learn. There was the disappearing egg. Card tricks. A set of sponges that traveled through plastic cups.
    I sat there for an hour or so trying to get the disappearing egg to disappear. It seemed easy enough. You put the egg in the holder, then you covered it with the lid, said a few magic words, and lifted the top. With the proper amount of pressure, the egg would adhere to the ovoid lid and become hidden in its depths.
    But I couldn’t get the egg to cooperate. I broke the first one I tried and had to go out to the kitchen and get the carton of eggs out of the refrigerator, as well as paper towels to clean up the mess. I had to move stealthily in order not to be seen by Gammie, who, if she saw me stealing eggs, would insist that I come over and sit on her lap, where she would pinch my cheek and announce that I was “Gammie’s little apple.”
    I struggled with the disappearing egg for a long time. The problem was that the egg wouldn’t stick to the lid; it kept falling out and smashing on the floor, calling the credence of its disappearance into question. I tried lining the lid of the chamber with adhesive tape in order to make it stick, but this didn’t work, either.
    For a while I wondered if the problem was my magic words. I’d been using “Abracadabra.” The instruction manual invited the apprentice sorcerer to make up her own magic words, so I tried the trick with a variety of alternatives as well: “Presto change-o.” “Voilà.”
    And so on. I even tried being imperious with it: I COMMAND YOU TO DISAPPEAR.
    But it didn’t disappear.
    By ten o’clock that night, the wind was screaming outside. Rain hammered against the window. I lay on my back in bed. Gammie had forgotten dinner, which was fine with me, since when she did remember it would unquestionably be a big potful of chicken à la king. She loved to make chicken à la king, made it every time she baby-sat me. Since her full name was