Zod Wallop Read Online Free PDF Page B

with a narrowing of eye and a stiffening of her square jaw, but she had said nothing.
    Harry had managed to clean up before she came. He had taken the photos of Amy down but then, defiantly and at the last minute, he had put them back up—minus the bathing suit picture (his courage had failed there). Helen hadn’t said anything about the pictures, although she had seen them, of course. She didn’t miss much.
    In the morning, Harry had driven her into town and they had eaten breakfast at Kenny’s Kitchen. Helen had enjoyed the experience immensely, but Harry had found her enjoyment annoying, containing, as it did, a lot of civilized eyebrow raising and commentary. “I’ve heard of grits,” she had said, playing with her food. “I shouldn’t be surprised if they are a great aid to digestion.”
    Back at the cabin, the phone had cried, and Harry had answered it, recognized the voice of Raymond Story on the other end, and hung up immediately.
    “Who was that?” Helen had asked.
    “That was Raymond Story,” Harry said. “He is a young man who suffers from schizophrenia, but before you offer any sympathy, let me add that he is an extremely irritating and offensive human being, mentally ill or not. Dr. Moore told me that it is not uncommon for schizophrenics to create elaborate scenarios, and unfortunately Story’s scenario includes me. In a way, dear Helen, you are responsible. I met Story while at Harwood. He sees, in the drowning of my daughter and in his own near drowning when he was a child, some sort of bond. It’s unpleasantly weird, and has to do with Zod Wallop which he seems incapable of regarding as fiction. Anyway, let’s not talk about it.”
    Helen frowned. “Is he dangerous?”
    “Oh, he’s completely harmless. He’s just a nuisance.” Harry frowned. “A very resourceful nuisance. I have no idea how he managed to get my phone number.”
 
     
    To escape another telephone call, Harry had decided to take Helen fishing. Ostensibly, that is what they were now doing, although when Helen’s bobber suddenly submerged in the middle of her lengthy discussion of film contracts, she reacted by throwing the fishing rod overboard.
    The next half hour was spent in rowing after the bobber, which occasionally surfaced. Harry finally snatched the bobber out of the water along with a three-inch bluegill. The fish was released, and, by reeling the line hand over hand, the fishing rod, filmed with black muck, was retrieved.
    “So this is fishing,” Helen said.
    Harry glared at her. “No, this is not fishing. And no, Zod Wallop is not for sale to Hollywood. I’ll tell you something, Helen. I regret publishing Zod Wallop . That book’s a zombie. Or at least it’s a lie. I shouldn’t have done it.”
    “It’s a beautiful book,” Helen said.
    “And that’s the lie.” Harry said. “I had no business turning it into a beautiful book.”
    Helen took her sunglasses off and studied Harry.
    “Harry,” she said, “I know that Amy’s death shattered your life. I know that. I’ve never had children, so I won’t try to imagine the extent of your loss. I was married to the same man for forty-two years, and when Abe died, I didn’t know how I was going to go on. You remember how it was. I’d call you up, and I couldn’t remember why I’d called.”
    Harry nodded. Abe Kurtis had been a bright-eyed, stocky little man who had worshiped his wife and when he died of a heart attack, suddenly and with no prior history, Helen had been devastated.
    Helen said, “I kept on going to the office. I had this feeling that my clients, their lives, their well-being, shouldn’t have to suffer in this tragedy. I was going to protect them. So work, I guess, is what got me through that time. It helped me avoid self-pity.”
    “Well—” Harry began.
    Helen reached out and touched his knee, silencing him. “You’ve written seven children’s books, every one of them better than the last. Zod Wallop is some sort of gift