The Second Coming Read Online Free PDF Page A

she wondered.
    Suddenly she gave a start and shuddered, then frowned as if she had remembered something.
    She was sitting on a bench in the sun between The Wee Shoppe: Chockful of British Isle Authentics and The Happy Hiker Trail Gear and Camping Equipment. Next to The Wee Shoppe was a Gulf station with a clean restroom. There she had changed clothes, washed her face, and found a dirty plastic wallet-size Gulf calendar for 1979. How old was it? What year was it now? Across the street was a barbershop with two chairs, a man barber and a woman barber. Next to the barbershop was the Twin Cinema, an old frame movie theater cut in two. A movable sign on the sidewalk displayed posters of movies. The posters were old and tattered.
    Her own clothes she had purchased earlier in the day from less expensive stores down the hill: new jeans stiff and blue, a gray Orion man’s work shirt size 14½ neck and 30-inch sleeves, a camouflage war-surplus jacket, thick white cotton tube socks, short lightweight moccasin-toed boots. Her feet felt good in the socks and boots.
    Her clothes had cost $49.23. For $4.98 she had also purchased from an army-surplus store an Italian NATO knapsack which was made of khaki and was nothing like the iridescent nylon backpacks but small and lightweight, just big enough to hold the smallest sleeping bag she could find plus a few other items such as a Boy Scout knife, a Scripto pencil, a pocket notebook, a comb, a can of neat’s-foot oil, a box of candles, and a small bag of food. Although there was a wine-and-cheese shop and a natural-food store down the street, she had gone to the supermarket and bought a wedge of American cheese and a small loaf of rye bread.
    The pleasant encased feeling of the socks and boots on her feet made her think of something. This is the first time I have worn a shoe or a boot or anything but bedroom slippers in—how long? Three years, I think.
    Many of the young people on the sidewalk wore T-shirts stamped with the names and crests of universities: Stanford, Ohio State, Tulane. Some of them seemed too young to be in college. Some too old. It was hard to tell. Were they fifteen or twenty-five? She felt like an old person to whom all young people look the same age.
    As the jacket warmed in the sun, it gave off a pleasant smell of dry goods and gun oil. Perhaps it was the can of neat’s-foot oil, which she had unscrewed and taken a sniff of. From the deep pockets of the jacket she removed several articles and lined them up on the bench beside her: the can of neat’s-foot oil, five candles, the spiral notebook, her wallet, the calendar, her driver’s license, and a map (Picturesque Walks around Linwood). She looked at the calendar and the date of the expiration of her driver’s license. She made a calculation. Her driver’s license had expired at least three years ago, no doubt longer.
    She gazed at the photograph on the license. She read the name. Earlier in the Gulf rest room she had looked from the photograph to the mirror then back to the photograph. The hair was shorter and darker in the photograph, the face in the mirror was thinner, but it was the same person.
    She uttered her name aloud. At first it sounded strange. Then she recognized it as her name. Then it sounded strange again but strange in a different way, the way an ordinary word repeated aloud sounds strange. Her voice sounded rusty and unused. She wasn’t sure she could talk.
    A youth wearing a Michigan State T-shirt sat down on the bench next to her display of articles. He looked good-natured and dumb. She decided to practice on him.
    â€œMichigan State,” she said. It came out not quite as a question and not quite as a statement. “You—?” This sounded more like a question.
    â€œOh no. Linwood High. I play for the Wolves.”
    â€œThe Wolves. Oh yes.” She noticed the banner. “Yes, but is that permitted?”
    â€œIs what