All the Bells on Earth by James P Blaylock

Author:James P Blaylock [Blaylock, James P]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction, General, Fiction
ISBN: 9780441002474
Google: lItKPgAACAAJ
Amazon: B008RBVCGK
Barnesnoble: B008RBVCGK
Goodreads: 421028
Publisher: Ace
Published: 1995-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

34

ON THE WALK in front of the Sprouse Reitz store on Chapman Avenue stood several dozen Christmas trees nailed onto the crossed sections of bisected two-by-fours. A scattering of over-the-hill trees had been piled off to one side, and a boy in a T-shirt was just then dragging two of them around the side of the building toward a big trash bin, leaving a wide trail of fallen needles on the wet asphalt behind him. Walt parked the Suburban near the trash bins and rolled down the window. “Throwing them out?” he asked.

An idea had come to him, an inspiration; why shouldn’t he take a few trees home, for the kids—maybe set up some kind of Black Forest under the avocado tree?

“They’re not really any good,” the boy said. His T-shirt had a picture of a trout on it, along with the words, “Fish worship, is it wrong?”

An eccentric, Walt thought, immediately liking him. He was right about the trees, too; they were pretty clearly shot—not dried out, but mangled, with lots of broken limbs and twigs.

“What will you sell them for?” Walt asked.

“They’re not really for sale. They just came in, but most of them are broken up like this because they fell off the truck or something. The supplier is going to refund our money for the wrecked ones. So … I don’t know.”

“So you’re throwing them away?”

He nodded toward the trash bin. “They compost them.”

“Well, I’ll take a few off your hands,” Walt said. “Say, ten bucks? I’ll compost the heck out of them later.”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to sell them….”

“You’re not really selling them, are you? I need a few for a sort of…. theatrical production, for my niece and nephew. It’s hard to explain. I want to make a … a Christmas forest, I guess, in the backyard, around this garden shed, which would be the woodcutter’s cottage.”

The boy nodded, as if finally Walt was making sense. “How many do you want?” he asked.

“Let’s see … we can load a few on the rack here and then shove a couple more inside the truck. Whatever I can fit.” He dug his wallet out of his back pocket then and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. “Just drag a few more around here. If there’s any trouble I’ll say I was digging them out of the bin, and that you tried to stop me but I wouldn’t listen.”

He handed the money to the boy, who dropped the two trees he’d been holding onto, took the bill, and stuffed it into his pocket. Walt got out of the Suburban, picked up a tree, and lifted it onto the rack, swiveling the two parts of the wooden base together. He loaded the second tree back-to-front with the first, then took a roll of twine from the back of the truck and tied the trees down, yanking them flat so that he could fit more on top. Finally he opened the tailgate and crammed two more inside. Even tied

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