The Man Who Wasn't All There David Handler (digital book reader .txt) 📖

her farm at the top of Joshua Town Road in Lyme, the bucolic Yankee Eden situated at the mouth of the Connecticut River on Long Island Sound, halfway between New York and Boston. She kept chickens there, had a duck pond, apple and pear orchards. I’d drive out for a few days and take in the splendor of late October in New England. The autumn leaves would be turning. The night air would be crisp and clean. I’d take long walks in the woods with Lulu. Put the vegetable garden to bed that I’d tended over the summer. Collect some baskets of apples and pears. Make a fire every night in the stone fireplace, sip Macallan, and think non-deep thoughts. It would be just what I needed.

At the copier shop around the corner I made a Xerox of the hundred new pages I’d written and messengered them to the Silver Fox for her feedback. She was an old-school agent who’d represented the likes of Steinbeck, Cheever and O’Hara and was the savviest reader in town. And then I packed. My Olympia went into its travel case. My manuscript and several notepads went into my Il Bisonte briefcase. My shaving kit went into Grandfather’s battered leather suitcase. I would need warmer clothes. The antique farmhouse was not exactly toasty. Some Viyella shirts. A six-ply shawl collar cashmere cardigan. My heavy barley tweed Norfolk jacket that I’d had made for me in London at Strickland & Sons. Also the Gore-Tex trail hikers that a little man on West 33rd Street had made for me many years back. I phoned old Mr MacGowan, Merilee’s neighbor out there, who fed the chickens and looked after the place, and told him Lulu and I would be coming out for a few days, which he was delighted to hear. Lastly, I wrestled Lulu into her Fair Isle wool vest. She’s susceptible to colds and snores like a lumberjack when she gets them. I know this because she likes to sleep on my head. After I’d locked up the apartment we rode the elevator down and strolled over to the garage on Columbus where Merilee kept the Jag. I stashed my bags, checked the oil and gassed her up. Lulu curled up on a blanket on her biscuit-colored leather seat, since the vintage British ragtop has little in the way of heat. Make that nothing in the way of heat.

We left mid-afternoon under threatening skies. By the time we’d reached New Haven on I-95 it was pouring rain and droplets were starting to leak in on us. The ragtop isn’t what I would call an impenetrable barrier. It was not only pouring but pitch black out when I got off the highway at Old Lyme and headed up Route 156 into the rolling hills of Lyme with my high beams on.

Joshua Town Road is narrow, twisting, hilly and there are no street lights out there. Not an easy drive in the best of conditions. In the dark of night with the rain pouring down on so many fallen leaves it was hard to even find the pavement. But I finally made it to the open gate at the end of the road and sped my way up the gravel drive that led to the darkened nine-room farmhouse that had been built in 1736 by Josiah Whitcomb, a prosperous shipping magnate. Merilee had installed motion-detector lights, which were a huge help as I pulled into the courtyard, where the chickens had retreated from their wire coop into the nice, dry barn. I parked as close to the front door as I could. Dashed to the front door, unlocked it and turned on a few lights. Lulu darted inside while I came back out for my Olympia, briefcase and suitcase.

Mr MacGowan, being a lifelong Yankee, had set the thermostat for the furnace at a thrifty, gelid fifty-five degrees. I jacked it way up to a hedonistic sixty-five and built a big fire in the parlor’s stone fireplace. Happily, he’d laid in a stack of dry seasoned hardwood and plenty of kindling. After the fire started crackling and popping I went into the huge farmhouse kitchen with its double work sink of scarred white porcelain and gallantly hideous yellow and red linoleum floor. I fed Lulu her 9Lives mackerel and checked out the refrigerator. Mr MacGowan had thoughtfully stocked it with a few essentials like fresh milk, orange juice, butter, cold cuts, a loaf of bread and a package of English muffins. Also a carton of a dozen eggs with a note taped to it: Just got laid. The man’s a savant when it comes to barnyard humor. I dug some thick-cut bacon out of the freezer and got several slices going in the Lodge cast iron skillet while I carried my suitcase into the master bedroom suite, which was not only freezing cold but had no covers on the bed. I built another fire in the fireplace in there, then made up the bed with flannel sheets, a Hudson Bay blanket and down comforter before I fed the fire in the living room, moved the bacon around in the skillet and unpacked my clothes.

By then Lulu was curled up contentedly on the parlor sofa in front of the fire and the bacon was ready. I removed it from the skillet, poured off the fat into an old coffee can, popped an English muffin in the toaster and cracked four of those fresh laid eggs into the skillet. Their yolks were an incredibly bright orange. When the English muffin was done I buttered it and put it on a plate with the bacon and eggs. Found a bottle of Bass ale, put some Erroll Garner on the stereo, joined Lulu on the sofa and devoured my dinner while the fire crackled and the rain poured down and the Little Elf had his way with Misty like no one ever has or ever will. When my plate was clean I fished