Stephen King - The Blue Air Compressor

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THE BLUE AIR COMPRESSOR

The house was tall, with an incredible slope of shingled roof. As he walked up toward it from the shore road,

Gerald Nately thought it was almost a country in itself, geography in microcosm. The roof dipped and rose at

varying angles above the main building and two strangely-angled wings; a widow's walk skirted a mushroom-

shaped cupola which looked toward the sea; the porch, facing the dunes and lusterless September scrubgrass was

longer than a Pullman car and screened in. The high slope of roof made the house seem to beetle its brows and

loom above him. A Baptist grandfather of a house.

He went to the porch and after a moment of hesitation, through the screen door to the fanlighted one beyond.

There was only a wicker chair, a rusty porch swing, and an old discarded knitting basket to watch him go.

Spiders had spun silk in the shadowy upper corners. He knocked.

There was silence, inhabited silence. He was about to knock again when a chair someplace inside wheezed

deeply in its throat. It was a tired sound. Silence. Then the slow, dreadfully patient sound of old, overburdened

feet finding their way up the hall. Counterpoint of cane: Whock... whock... whock...

The floorboards creaked and whined. A shadow, huge and unformed in the pearled glass, bloomed on the

fanlight. Endless sound of fingers laboriously solving the riddle of chain, bolt, and hasp lock. The door opened.

"Hello," the nasal voice said flatly. "You're Mr. Nately. You've rented the cottage. My husband's cottage."

"Yes." Gerald said, his tongue swelling in his throat. "That's right. And you're-"

"Mrs. Leighton," the nasal voice said, pleased with either his quickness or her name, though neither was

remarkable. "I'm Mrs. Leighton."

* * *

this woman is so goddam fucking big and old she looks like oh jesus christ print dress she must be six-six and fat

my god Shes fat as a hog can't smell her white hair long white hair her legs those redwood trees ill that movie a

Lank she could be a tank she could kill me her voice is out of any context like a kazoo jesus if i laugh i can't

laugh can she be seventy god how does she walk and the cane her hands are bigger than my feet like a goddam

tank she could go through oak oak for christs sake.

* * *

"You write." She hadn't offered him in.

"That's about the size of it," he said, and laughed to cover his own sudden shrinking from that metaphor.

"Will you show me some after you get settled?" she asked. Her eyes seemed perpetually luminous and wistful.

They were not touched by the age that had run riot in the rest of her

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Stephen King - The Blue Air Compressor

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