The Fog Read Online Free PDF Page A

the guests, and you might fall.”
    It was Christina’s opinion that there was no way to get down a staircase except by running. And she had never fallen in her life.
    Mrs. Shevvington showed them the formal living room. It too was Oriental in flavor, with shiny lacquered furniture and pearl inlaid flowers.
    Christina was beginning to have sympathy for the bride who had hurled herself off the cliff. Who could be comfortable in rooms full of black-and-gold peacocks?
    “For guests,” said Mrs. Shevvington.
    She showed them a library. Walls of shelves, but very few books. Big leather chairs and a bare desk. “For guests,” said Mrs. Shevvington.
    “But we’re guests, too,” Christina said.
    Mrs. Shevvington led them into the kitchen, which was enormous. It must have been remodeled in the 1950s, because it had rows of white metal cabinets with curved edges. The countertops were green marbleized Formica with stainless steel rims. Near the sink tiny steel cabinets with little doors opened to reveal rolls of waxed paper and aluminum foil, waiting to be torn off. A very large table with a white surface and wooden legs as thick as thighs sat in the middle of the room.
    Christina thought it was the ugliest kitchen she had ever seen in her life.
    The Atlantic Ocean pounded outside. But even when Christina stood at the sink and drew up on her tiptoes to look out, she could not see the water.
    Off the kitchen was a small, dark room, filled with old sagging furniture, the kind people left in beach houses rented out by the week. It had a small black-and-white television and a worn stack of last year’s magazines. “You children will be using this room,” said Mrs. Shevvington.
    Christina waited for the others to object. She had spoken up several times; it was their turn — they were older.
    But Anya merely stood with the poster of the sea in her hand as if she were glued to it. Michael was staring at his shoelaces. Benj was playing with his Swiss army knife.
    Well, all right, if they wanted to be toads and get run over by a truck like Mrs. Shevvington, they could stay silent. Christina had never made a habit of staying silent. She had yelled at summer residents who dropped soda cans on the rocks and summer artists who abandoned paint tubes among the wildflowers. She had yelled at summer yachters who had the nerve to tie up at her father’s slip, so that when he came into the harbor he had no place for his own boat on his own island.
    Christina was more than capable of yelling at anyone.
    She turned to yell at Mrs. Shevvington.
    Mrs. Shevvington’s eyes moved inside her flat head. The eyes seemed to separate from her face, like movable eyes in an oil painting. “Yes, Christina?” she said very softly. She inclined her head toward Christina, like a guillotine in slow motion.
    Christina looked at Michael and Benj and Anya for support. Surely this was not how mainland people normally treated island boarders.
    Mrs. Shevvington smiled at Christina. Her horrid little teeth were like kernels of corn on a shriveled ear.
    The poster of the sea fell out of Anya’s hand.
    “Our parents — ” Christina began, leaning over to pick up the poster. But she got no further.
    Mr. Shevvington entered the room.
    Christina recognized him from the orientation of the previous July. How handsome he was! What fine features he had — not squashed and rubbery like his wife’s, but sharp and defined. He wore a suit, which to Christina was very unusual. Nobody on the island ever wore one. The suit was soft gray, with the narrowest, most subtle pinstripes and in the breast pocket a dramatic red paisley silk handkerchief. Christina longed to touch the handkerchief. It was city fabric, city style.
    She saw her parents suddenly as hicks, who would never own any handkerchief except Kleenex.
    Christina looked into Mr. Shevvington’s eyes. They were soft and gray, as welcome as spring rain.
    “Children. What a pleasure. We’ve been getting ready for you