Peter Benchley by The Deep

Author:The Deep [Deep, The]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2012-05-29T19:36:24+00:00

VIII

When the taxi had departed, leaving the Sanderses and their luggage outside Treece’s house, Gail said, “You think we’ll sleep in the kitchen?”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s the only room in the house we’ve ever seen.

He’s never even let us in the front door.”

The screen door flew open, and the dog bounded down the path toward them. She stood inside the gate, wagging her tail and whining.

Treece appeared in the doorway. “It’s okay, Charlotte.” The dog backed away a few feet and sat down. “Need any help?”

“We can manage.” Sanders opened the gate, hefted the two large suitcases, and, with Gail following him, walked along the path to the door. Gail had an air tank slung over each shoulder.

“You have meat on you,” Treece told her. “Those aren’t light.”

He held the screen door for them and ushered them into the house. The doorway opened onto a narrow hall. The floor was bare-wide, polished cedar boards. An old Spanish map of Bermuda, the parchment cracked and yellow-brown, hung in a frame on the wall. Beneath the map was a mahogany case with glass doors, full of antique bottles, musket balls, silver coins, and shoe buckles.

“In there,” Treece said, pointing to a door at the end of the hall. “Here, give me those bottles.

Are they empty or full?”

“Empty,” Gail said.

“I’ll set “em out by the compressor.”

Sanders said, “You have your own compressor?”

“Sure. Can’t dash into Hamilton every time I need a tank of breeze.”

David and Gail went into the bedroom. It was small, nearly filled by a chest of drawers and an oversize double bed. The bed was at least seven feet square, and obviously handmade: cedar boards pegged together and rubbed with an oil that gave them a deep, rich shine.

“This is his room,” Gail whispered.

“Looks like it. What do you think that was?” Sanders pointed to a spot on the wall above the bed.

A painting or photograph had hung there until recently: a rectangle of

clean white was clearly visible against the aged white of the wall. They heard Treece’s footsteps in the hall. Sanders dropped their suitcases on the bed.

“We can’t take your room,” Gail said to Treece, who stood in the doorway. “Where will you sleep?”

“In there,” Treece said, cocking his head toward the living room. “I made a couch big enough for monsters like me.”

“B…”

“It’s better I sleep there. I’m a fitful sleeper. Besides, I was told I snore like a grizzly bear.” He led them toward the kitchen.

As they passed through the living room, Gail decided that a woman had lived in the house and had decorated it, though how recently she couldn’t tell. Most of the decor reflected Treece: gimbaled lanterns from a ship, brass shell casings, old weapons, maps, and stacks of books. But there were feminine touches, such as a needlepoint rug and a gay, flower-pattern fabric on the couch and chairs.

The paintings on the walls were mostly sea scenes.

There were two empty spots, from which pictures had been removed.

In the kitchen, Treece said, “I might’s well show you where things are.

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