Festival of Fear Read Free

Very . . . well swept.’
    â€˜It is,’ he said, as if he were warning me to make sure that it stayed that way. He handed back my ID and drove off at the mandatory snail’s pace.
    Lyle’s Autos was actually run by a stocky man called Nils Guttormsen. He had a gray crew-cut and a permanently surprised face like a chipmunk going through the sound barrier backward. He charged me a mere sixty-five dollars for towing my car into his workshop, which was only slightly more than a quarter of everything I had in the world, and he estimated that he could put the engine back into it for less than $785, which was about $784 more than it was actually worth.
    â€˜How long will it take, Nils?’
    â€˜Well, John, you need it urgent?’
    â€˜Not really, Nils . . . I thought I might stick around town for a while. So – you know – why don’t you take your own sweet time?’
    â€˜OK, John. I have to get transmission parts from Bangor. I could have it ready, say Tuesday?’
    â€˜Good deal, Nils. Take longer if you want. Make it the Tuesday after next. Or even the Tuesday after that.’
    â€˜You’ll be wanting a car while I’m working on yours, John.’
    â€˜Will I, Nils? No, I don’t think so. I could use some exercise, believe me.’
    â€˜It’s entirely up to you, John. But I’ve got a couple of nifty Toyotas to rent if you change your mind. They look small but there’s plenty of room in them. Big enough to carry a sofa.’
    â€˜Thanks for the compliment, Nils.’
    I hefted my battered old suitcase to the Calais Motor Inn, changing hands every few yards all the way down Main Street. Fortunately the desk accepted my Visa impression without even the hint of hysterical laughter. The Calais Motor Inn was a plain, comfortable motel, with plaid carpets and a shiny bar with tinkly music where I did justice to three bottles of chilled Molson’s and a ham and Swiss-cheese triple-decker sandwich on rye with coleslaw and straw fried potatoes, and two helpings of cookie-crunch ice cream to keep my energy levels up.
    The waitress was a pretty, snubby-nose woman with cropped blonde hair and a kind of a Swedish look about her.
    â€˜Had enough?’ she asked me.
    â€˜Enough of what? Cookie-crunch ice cream or Calais in general?’
    â€˜My name’s Velma,’ she said.
    â€˜John,’ I replied, and bobbed up from my leatherette seat to shake her hand.
    â€˜Just passing through, John?’ she asked me.
    â€˜I don’t know, Velma . . . I was thinking of sticking around for a while. Where would somebody like me find themselves a job? And don’t say the circus.’
    â€˜Is that what you do, John?’ she asked me.
    â€˜What do you mean, Velma?’
    â€˜Make jokes about yourself before anybody gets them in?’
    â€˜Of course not. Didn’t you know that all fat guys have to be funny by federal statute? No, I’m a realist. I know what my relationship is with food and I’ve learned to live with it.’
    â€˜You’re a good-looking guy, John, you know that?’
    â€˜You can’t fool me, Velma. All fat people look the same. If fat people could run faster, they’d all be bank robbers, because nobody can tell them apart.’
    â€˜Well, John, if you want a job you can try the want ads in the local paper, The Quoddy Whirlpool .’
    â€˜The what?’
    â€˜The bay here is called the Passamaquoddy, and out by Eastport we’ve got the Old Sow Whirlpool, which is the biggest whirlpool in the Western hemisphere.’
    â€˜I see. Thanks for the warning.’
    â€˜You should take a drive around the Quoddy Loop . . . it’s beautiful. Fishing quays, lighthouses, lakes. Some good restaurants, too.’
    â€˜My car’s in the shop right now, Velma. Nothing too serious. Engine fell out.’
    â€˜You’re welcome to borrow mine, John.