The Man in the Window Read Online Free PDF

and that with such intensity the damage became permanent. And a dog with crossed eyes is a killer, anybody will tell you that, or at least dangerous, and at a minimum up to no good.”
    “Honestly, Atlas,” said Gracie, “he was unattractive, I’ll admit, but—”
    “But nothing,” Atlas countered. “He was the absolute worst, and you know it,
we
knew it, me and Louis, and Yank Spiller, and everybody else knew it, were helpless to do anything but eyeball that dog, while unbeknownst to us, Mrs. Meem was easing her way to the back of the store. All according to her plan. She’d get herself back there, then to make sure no one looked in her direction, she’d signal the dog with a dainty cough, and it would suddenly break away from the crowd that had formed around it and skitter down whatever aisle Mrs. Meem was not in. Of course we’d chase after it. When a dog runs like that, you are compelled to chase after it. But the dog was too fast, and there were too many of us in pursuit, knocking things off shelves and bumping into each other, to gain on it. The dog would suddenly skid to a halt and look over his shoulder and give us a smile. Louis always said he heard it laugh too, but I heard it as a growl, and so did the others. Grin, laugh, or growl, it stopped us in our tracks. Atwhich point, with a steely calm, the dog proceeded to lift its leg and release a mighty stream on my merchandise.”
    “Oh, Atlas, please, not this part. How many times…”
    Atlas grinned at her, pleased to go on. “You would swear, watching him as we all intently did, that he took aim before he fired. I once saw him, Gracie,” he said, nudging her with his bare foot when she tried to ignore him, “I once saw him place his flow
between
the claws of a rake and strike a roll of tar paper. And then there was the episode of the saturation of the cement bags. He soaked five of them, moving back and forth like a fireman working a stubborn blaze.”
    Atlas laughed, and so did Gracie. “Well,” he went on, “while this commotion was taking place, Mrs. Meem, alone and undetected in the other aisle, scooped up the contents of my store and stuffed them into her pocketbook. We never would have caught her except for the two cans of yellow high-gloss exterior paint. She was almost out the door, after one of these episodes, when Louis pointed to her pocketbook and said, ‘Mrs. Meem, you’re leaking.’ The paint can lid had opened, drizzling the evidence all over her flowered dress and my wood floor. She broke down, of course, and confessed and generally caused a scene too painful to contemplate. Louis was mortified for her and kept whispering to me to please let her go, which I was certainly going to do.
    “A week later she returned to the store, dog and all. It became Louis’s job, from that day on, to monitor Mrs. Meem and to account for everything she took. What did she steal? What didn’t she steal? Galvanized staples, wood glue, eye hooks, bailing twine, four feet of chain link, pieces of linoleum, a bicycle tire repair kit. Louis and I would go over the list and try to imagine that Mrs. Meem was building something large and complex, requiring odd and unrelated materials. By arrangement with Pastor Meem, I presented him a monthly bill, which he paid in full without comment.”
    “You’re a good and decent man, Atlas Malone,” said Gracie.
    “Hush, woman, you’re trying to distract me from my finale.”
    She sighed.
    “Well, as you may or may not know…”
    “Would it matter?” she said.
    “As you may or may not know,” Atlas repeated with emphasis, “the business with Mrs. Meem and her dog went on for three years until it came to an abrupt end one cold December morning. It had to do with an electric floor heater and the dog finally picking the wrong target. We chased the dog down the aisle like always, and then when we saw dog,
A,
lift its leg and aim at electric heater,
B,
we all let out a simultaneous gasp. I have to admit, in