The Traveller Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: John Katzenbach
as she had in the last moments of sleep. Wake up! Save yourself! But she could not.
The lady in the flower store had eyed Detective Barren oddly and finally asked, ‘Is there some special occasion or event that these would be for?’ Detective Barren had hesitated before replying, and the lady had continued, blithely, ‘I mean, if these are for a co-worker or secretary, then I might recommend one of these floral arrangements. Are they for a shut-in or an invalid? A bouquet like this would look nice. Someone in the hospital perhaps? We find that hospital patients love to receive small plants you see, they enjoy watching the plants root and grow …’
‘They’re for my lover,’ said Detective Barren.
‘Oh,’ said the woman, slightly taken aback.
‘Is there something wrong?’
‘No, it’s just unusual. Usually, you see, it’s the men who come in for flowers, roses generally, for their, uh, companions. This is a change.’ She laughed. ‘Some things never change in the world no matter how modern we get. Men buy flowers for their women friends and wives. Not the other way around. They come into the store and stand rather self-consciously in front of the refrigerated display, staring for all the world at the flowers as if hoping there would be a sign, a something, that said: Buy me for your wife. Or girlfriend. And not young men, either. Young men today don’t seem to understand the value of proper flowers. Sometimes I think we have grown too I don’t know scientific. I mean, I expect they’ll want to send computer-written Valentine’s cards soon enough. But it’s always men, dear, not women. No, I don’t believe I’ve ever had a woman come in and …’
Detective Barren looked at the woman, who stopped speaking in mid-sentence, hesitated, then continued.
‘Oh, dear,’ said the woman. ‘I’m making rather a fool of myself, aren’t I?’
‘A little,’ Detective Barren replied.
‘Oh, dear,’ the woman said again.
‘It’s all right,’ Detective Barren said.
‘You’re kind,’ said the woman. The detective watched as she brushed a strand of gray hair off her forehead and composed herself. ‘I’ll try again,’ said the woman. ‘How may I help you?’
‘I’d like to buy some flowers,’ said Detective Barren.
‘For someone special?’
‘Of course.’
‘Ah, let me suggest roses. They are perhaps the least original selection, but the most trustworthy. And always loved, which, of course, is what we are buying flowers for.’
‘I think that would be nice,’ said Detective Barren.
‘A dozen?’
‘Excellent.’
‘I have red, white, and pink?’ This was a question. The detective thought for a moment.
‘Red and white, I think.’
‘Excellent. And some Baby’s Breath to set them off, I would imagine.’
‘They look lovely.’
‘Thank you.’
Detective Barren paid and the woman handed her the box. ‘I get a little crazy,’ said the woman.
‘I beg your pardon?’ replied the detective.
‘You see, I end up spending most of the day talking to the flowers and plants. Sometimes I forget how to talk with people. I’m sure your, uh, friend will enjoy those.’
‘My lover,’ said the detective.
She clutched the flower box under her arm and tried to remember how many years had passed since she’d been to John Barren’s grave.
The early September air had not even the slightest intimation of fall. Instead it hung heavy with residual summer heat, liar’s blue sky broken with a few huge white clouds; a day for lazing about in August memories, ignoring the January inevitability of the Delaware Valley, with its snow, cold wind off the river, ice, and frequent visitations of what
the natives called slush storms, an unfortunate mingling of ice, sleet, snow, and rain together in an impenetrable, chilling, slippery impossibility. One of those storms, thought Detective Barren with a small smile. She had been caught outside, battery dead, boots soaked. When she
The lady in the flower store had eyed Detective Barren oddly and finally asked, ‘Is there some special occasion or event that these would be for?’ Detective Barren had hesitated before replying, and the lady had continued, blithely, ‘I mean, if these are for a co-worker or secretary, then I might recommend one of these floral arrangements. Are they for a shut-in or an invalid? A bouquet like this would look nice. Someone in the hospital perhaps? We find that hospital patients love to receive small plants you see, they enjoy watching the plants root and grow …’
‘They’re for my lover,’ said Detective Barren.
‘Oh,’ said the woman, slightly taken aback.
‘Is there something wrong?’
‘No, it’s just unusual. Usually, you see, it’s the men who come in for flowers, roses generally, for their, uh, companions. This is a change.’ She laughed. ‘Some things never change in the world no matter how modern we get. Men buy flowers for their women friends and wives. Not the other way around. They come into the store and stand rather self-consciously in front of the refrigerated display, staring for all the world at the flowers as if hoping there would be a sign, a something, that said: Buy me for your wife. Or girlfriend. And not young men, either. Young men today don’t seem to understand the value of proper flowers. Sometimes I think we have grown too I don’t know scientific. I mean, I expect they’ll want to send computer-written Valentine’s cards soon enough. But it’s always men, dear, not women. No, I don’t believe I’ve ever had a woman come in and …’
Detective Barren looked at the woman, who stopped speaking in mid-sentence, hesitated, then continued.
‘Oh, dear,’ said the woman. ‘I’m making rather a fool of myself, aren’t I?’
‘A little,’ Detective Barren replied.
‘Oh, dear,’ the woman said again.
‘It’s all right,’ Detective Barren said.
‘You’re kind,’ said the woman. The detective watched as she brushed a strand of gray hair off her forehead and composed herself. ‘I’ll try again,’ said the woman. ‘How may I help you?’
‘I’d like to buy some flowers,’ said Detective Barren.
‘For someone special?’
‘Of course.’
‘Ah, let me suggest roses. They are perhaps the least original selection, but the most trustworthy. And always loved, which, of course, is what we are buying flowers for.’
‘I think that would be nice,’ said Detective Barren.
‘A dozen?’
‘Excellent.’
‘I have red, white, and pink?’ This was a question. The detective thought for a moment.
‘Red and white, I think.’
‘Excellent. And some Baby’s Breath to set them off, I would imagine.’
‘They look lovely.’
‘Thank you.’
Detective Barren paid and the woman handed her the box. ‘I get a little crazy,’ said the woman.
‘I beg your pardon?’ replied the detective.
‘You see, I end up spending most of the day talking to the flowers and plants. Sometimes I forget how to talk with people. I’m sure your, uh, friend will enjoy those.’
‘My lover,’ said the detective.
She clutched the flower box under her arm and tried to remember how many years had passed since she’d been to John Barren’s grave.
The early September air had not even the slightest intimation of fall. Instead it hung heavy with residual summer heat, liar’s blue sky broken with a few huge white clouds; a day for lazing about in August memories, ignoring the January inevitability of the Delaware Valley, with its snow, cold wind off the river, ice, and frequent visitations of what
the natives called slush storms, an unfortunate mingling of ice, sleet, snow, and rain together in an impenetrable, chilling, slippery impossibility. One of those storms, thought Detective Barren with a small smile. She had been caught outside, battery dead, boots soaked. When she